As he came near a butterfly rose from the raft, having stayed a moment
to see what this could be among the dandelions and buttercups, but Bevis
was too deeply occupied to notice it. The cord was of no use; the
rollers were of no use; the wheelbarrow occurred to him, but he could
not lift it on, besides it was too large, nor could he have moved it if
it would go on. Pan was not strong enough to help him haul, even if he
would submit to be harnessed, which was doubtful. The cart-horses were
all out at work, nor indeed had they been in the stable would he have
dared to touch them.
What he wanted to do was to launch his raft before any one saw or
guessed what he was about, so that it might be a surprise to them and a
triumph to him. Especially he was anxious to do it before Mark came; he
might come across the fields any minute, or along the road, and Bevis
wished to be afloat, so that Mark might admire his boat, and ask
permission to stop on board. Mark might appear directly; it was odd he
had not heard his whistle before. Full of this thought away went Bevis
back to the house, to ask Polly the dairymaid to help him; but she
hunted him out with the mop, being particularly busy that day with the
butter, and quite deaf to all his offers and promises. As he came out
he looked up the field, and remembered that John was stopping the gaps,
and was at work by himself that day; perhaps he would slip away and help
him.
He raced up the meadow and found the labourer, with his thick white
leather gloves and billhook, putting thorn bushes in the gaps, which no
one had made so much as Bevis himself.
“Come and help me,” said Bevis. Now John was willing enough to leave
his work and help Bevis do anything--for anything is sweeter than the
work you ought to do--besides which he knew he could get Bevis to bring
him out a huge mug of ale for it.
But he grinned and said nothing, and simply pointed through the hedge.
Bevis looked, and there was the Bailiff with his back against the great
oak, under which he once went to sleep. The Bailiff was older now, much
older, and though he was so stout and big he did not do much work with
his hands. He stood there, leaning his back against the oak, with his
hazel staff in his hand, watching the stone-pickers, who were gathering
up the bits of broken earthenware and rubbish from among the cowslips
out of the way of the scythe; watching, too, the plough yonder in the
arable field beyond; and with his eyes now and then on John. While
those grey eyes were about, work, you may be sure, was not slack. So
Bevis pouted, and picked up a stone, and threw it at the Bailiff, taking
good care, however, not to hit him. The stone fell in the hedge behind
the Bailiff, and made him start, as he could not think what creature it
could be, for rabbits and weasels and other animals and birds move as
silently as possible, and this made a sharp tap.
Bevis returned slowly down the meadow, and as he came near the house,
having now given up hope of getting the raft to the brook, he caught
sight of a cart-horse outside the stable. He ran and found the carter’s
lad, who had been sent home with the horse; the horse had been hauling
small pieces of timber out of the mowing-grass with a chain, and the lad
was just going to take off the harness.
“Stop,” said Bevis, “stop directly, and hitch the chain on my raft.”
The boy hesitated; he dared not disobey the carter, and he had been in
trouble for pleasing Bevis before.
“This instant,” said Bevis, stamping his foot; “I’m your master.”
“No; that you beant,” said the boy slowly, very particular as to facts;
“your feyther be my master.”
“You do it this minute,” said Bevis, hot in the face, “or I’ll _kill_
you; but if you’ll do it I’ll give you--sixpence.”
The boy still hesitated, but he grinned; then he looked round, then he
turned the horse’s head--unwilling, for the animal thought he was going
to the manger--and did as Bevis told him. Behind the strong cart-horse
the raft was nothing, it left a trail all across the grass right down to
the brook; Bevis led the way to the drinking-place, where the ground
sloped to the water. The boy once embarked in the business, worked with
a will--highly delighted himself with the idea--and he and Bevis
together pushed the raft into the stream.
“Now you hold the rope,” said Bevis, “while I get in,” and he put one
foot on the raft.
Just then there came a whistle, first a long low call, then a quaver,
then two short calls repeated.
“That’s Mark,” said Bevis, and in he hastened. “Push me off,” for one
edge of the raft touched the sandy shore.
“Holloa!” shouted Mark, racing down the meadow from the gateway; “stop a
minute! let me!--”
“Push,” said Bevis.
The boy shoved the raft off; it floated very well, but the moment it was
free of the ground and Bevis’s weight had to be entirely supported, the
water squirted in around the edges.
“You’ll be drownded,” said the carter’s lad.
“Pooh!” said Bevis.
“I shall jump in,” said Mark, making as if he were about to leap.
“If you do I’ll hit you,” said Bevis, doubling his fists; “I say!--”
For the water rushed in rapidly, and was already half an inch deep.
When he caulked his vessel, he stopped all the seams of the bottom, but
he had overlooked the chinks round the edges, between the narrow planks
that formed the gunwales or sides, and the bottom to which they were
fastened.
Bevis moved towards the driest side of the raft, but directly he stepped
there and depressed it with his weight the water rushed after him, and
he was deeper than over in it. It came even over his boots.
“Let I get in,” said the boy; “mine be water-tights.”
“Pull me back,” said Bevis.
Mark seized the rope, and he and the boy gave such a tug that Bevis,
thrown off his balance, must have fallen into the brook had he not
jumped ashore and escaped with one foot wet through to the ankle.
“Yaa--you!” they heard a rough voice growling, like a dog muttering a
bark in his throat, and instantly the carter’s lad felt a grip on the
back of his neck. It was the Bailiff who marched him up the meadow,
holding the boy by the neck with one hand and leading the cart-horse
with the other. Bevis and Mark were too full of the raft even to notice
that their assistant had been haled off.
First they pulled till they had got it ashore; then they tilted it up to
let the water run out; then they examined the chinks where it had come
in.
“Here’s my handkerchief,” said Mark; “put that in.”
The handkerchief, a very dirty one, was torn into shreds and forced into
the chinks. It was not enough, so Bevis tore up his; still there were
holes. Bevis roamed up and down the grass in his excitement, gazing
round for something to stop these leaks.
“I know,” said he suddenly, “moss will do. Come on.”
He made for a part of the meadow much overshadowed by trees, where the
moss threatened to overcome the grass altogether, so well did it
flourish in the coolness and moisture, for the dew never dried there
even at noonday. The Bailiff had it torn up by the harrow, but it was
no good, it would grow. Bevis always got moss from here to put in his
tin can for the worms when he went fishing. Mark was close behind him,
and together they soon had a quantity of moss. After they had filled
the chinks as they thought, they tried the boat again, Bevis insisting
on his right to get in first as it was his property. But it still
leaked, so they drew it out once more and again caulked the seams. To
make it quite tight Bevis determined to put some clay as well, to line
the chinks with it like putty. So they had to go home to the garden,
get the trowel out of the summer-house where Bevis kept such things, and
then dig a few lumps of clay out of the mound.
There was only one place where there was any clay accessible, they knew
the spot well--was there anything they did not know? Working up the
lumps of clay with their hands and the water so as to soften and render
it plastic, they carefully lined the chinks, and found when they
launched the raft that this time it floated well and did not admit a
single drop. For the third time, Bevis stepped on board, balancing
himself with a pole he had brought down from the garden, for he had
found before that it was difficult to stand upright on a small raft.
Mark pushed him off: Bevis kept one end of the pole touching the bottom,
and so managed very well. He guided the raft out of the drinking-place,
which was like a little pond beside the brook, and into the stream.
There the current took it, and all he had to do was to keep it from
grounding on the shallows, where the flags were rising out of the mud,
or striking against the steep banks where the cowslips overhung the
water. With his feet somewhat apart to stand the firmer, his brow
frowning (with resolution), and the pole tight in his hands--all grimed
with clay--Bevis floated slowly down the stream. The sun shone hot and
bright, and he had of course left his hat on the sward where it had
fallen off as he stooped to the caulking: the wind blew and lifted his
hair: his feet were wet. But he never noticed the heat, nor the wind,
nor his wet feet, nor his clayey hands. He had done it--he was quite
lost in his raft.
Round the bend the brook floated him gently, past the willow where the
wood-pigeon built (he was afraid to come near his nest while they were
about), past the thick hawthorn bushes white with may-bloom, under which
the blackbirds love to stay in the hottest days in the cool shadow by
the water. Where there were streaks of white sand sifted by the stream
from the mud, he could see the bottom: under the high bank there was a
swirl as if the water wrestled with something under the surface: a
water-rat, which had watched him coming from a tiny terrace, dived with
a sound like a stone dropped quietly in: the stalks of flags grazed the
bottom of the raft, he could hear them as it drew on: a jack struck and
rushed wildly up and down till he found a way to slip by; the raft gave
a heave and shot swiftly forward where there had once been a bay and was
still a fall of two inches or so: a bush projected so much that he could
with difficulty hold the boughs aside and prevent the thorns from
scratching his face: a snag scraped the bottom of the boat and the jerk
nearly overthrew him--he did not mind that, he feared lest the old stump
had started a seam, but fortunately it had not done so.
Then there was a straight course, a broad and open reach, at which he
shouted with delight. The wind came behind and pushed his back like a
sail and the little silvery ripples ran before him, and dashed against
the shore, destroying themselves and their shadows under them at the
same time. The raft floated without piloting here, steadily on. Bevis
lifted his pole and waved his hand in triumph.
From the gateway the carter’s lad watched him; he had got away from the
angry Bailiff. From the garden ha-ha, near the rhubarb patch, Polly the
dairymaid watched him, gesticulating every now and then with her arms,
for she had been sent to call him to dinner. Mark, wild with envy and
admiration and desire to share the voyage, walked on the bank, begging
to come in, for Bevis to get out or let him join him, threatening to
leap aboard from the high bank where the current drifted the raft right
under him, pulling off his shoes and stockings to wade in and seize the
craft by main force; then, changing his mind, shouting to Bevis to mind
a boulder in the brook, and pointing out the place.
The raft swept with steady, easy motion down the straight broad reach;
Bevis did not need his pole, he stood without its help, all aglow with
joy.
The raft came to another bend, and Bevis with his pole guided it round,
and then, looking up, stamped his foot with vexation, for there was an
ancient, hollow willow right in front, so bowed down that its head
obstructed the fair way of the stream. He had quite hoped to get down
to the Peninsula, and to circumnavigate it, and even shoot the cataract
of the dam below, and go under the arch of the bridge, and away yet
farther. He was not fifty yards from the Peninsula, and Mark had run
there to meet him; but here was this awkward tree, and before he could
make up his mind what to do, bump the raft struck the willow, then it
swung slowly round and one side grounded on the bank, and he was at a
standstill.
He hit the willow with his pole, but that was of no use, and called to
Mark. Bevis pushed the willow with his pole, Mark pulled at a branch,
and together they could shake it, but they could not move it out of the
way; the stream was blocked as if a boom had been fastened across it.
The voyage was over.
While they consulted, Polly came down, having failed to make them hear
from the garden, and after she had shook them each by the shoulder
brought them to reason. Though she would have failed in that too had
not the willow been there, not for dinner or anything would Bevis have
abandoned his adventure, so bent was he always on the business he had in
hand.
But the willow was obstinate, they could not get past it, so reluctantly
he agreed to go home. First Polly had to fetch his hat, which was two
hundred yards away on the grass by the drinking-place; then Mark had to
put his shoes and stockings on, and take one off again because there was
a fragment of stone in it. Next, Bevis had to step into the raft
again--a difficult thing to do from the tree--in order to get the cord
fastened to the staple to tie it up, not that there was the least risk
of the raft floating away, still these things, as you know, ought to be
done quite properly.
After he had tied the cord or painter to a branch of the willow as
firmly as possible, at last he consented to come. But then catching
sight of the carter’s lad, he had first to give him his sixpence, and
also to tell him that if he dared go near the raft, even to look at it,
he would be put in the brook. Besides which he had to wash his hands,
and by the time Mark and he reached the table the rest had finished.
The people looked at them rather blackly, but they did not mind or
notice in the least, for their minds were full of projects to remove the
willow, about which they whispered to each other.
Pan raced beside them after dinner to the ha-ha wall, down which they
jumped one after the other into the meadow. The spaniel hesitated on
the brink, not that he feared the leap, which he had so often taken, but
reflection checked him. He watched them a little way as they ran for
the brook, then turned and walked very slowly back to the house; for he
knew that now dinner was over, if he waited till he was remembered, a
plateful would come out for him.
Volume One, Chapter III.