“As if we were dogs,” said Bevis indignantly.
“Just as if,” said Mark. “It’s hateful. And after coming home from the
island to tell them.”
“All that trouble.”
“I could have brought you some stuff to eat,” said Mark, “and we could
have stopped there all night, quite jolly.”
“Hateful!”
They were in the blue-painted summer-house the next day talking over the
conduct of the authorities, whose manner was distant in the extreme.
The governor was very angry. They thought it unjust after winning such
a mighty victory, and actually coming home on purpose to save alarm.
“I do not like it at all,” said Bevis.
“Let’s go back to the island,” said Mark eagerly.
“They would come and look there for us the first thing,” said Bevis.
“I’ve a great mind to walk to Southampton, and see the ships. It’s only
sixty miles.”
“Well, come on,” said Mark, quite ready, “The road goes over the hills
by Jack’s. O! I know!”
“What is it?” for Mark had jumped up.
“Jack’s got a rifle,” said Mark. “He’ll let us shoot. Let’s go and
stop with Jack.”
“First-rate,” said Bevis. “But how do you know he has a rifle? There
wasn’t one when I was there last--you mean the long gun.”
“No, I don’t; he’s got a rifle. I know, because he told Frances. He
tells Frances everything. Stupids always tell girls everything.
Somebody wanted to sell it, and he bought it.”
“Are you quite sure?” said Bevis, getting up.
“Quite.”
“What sort is it?”
“A deer rifle.”
“Come on.”
Off they started without another word, and walked a mile in a great
hurry, when they recollected that if they did not appear in the evening
there would be a hunt for them.
“Just as if we were babies,” said Mark.
“Such rubbish,” said Bevis. “But we won’t have any more such stuff and
nonsense. Let’s find Charlie, and send him back with a message.”
They found him, and sent him home with a piece of paper, on with Bevis
wrote, “We are gone to Jack’s, and we shall not be home to-night.” It
was quite an hour’s walk to Jack’s, whose house was in a narrow valley
between two hills. Jack was away in the fields, but when he returned he
showed them the rifle, a small, old-fashioned muzzle-loader, and they
spent a long time handling it, and examining the smallest detail.
“Let’s have a shot,” said Bevis.
“Yes,” said Mark. “Now do, Jack.” They begged and teased and worried
him, till he almost yielded. He thought perhaps Bevis’s governor would
not like shooting, but on the other hand he knew Frances was fond of
Bevis, and Mark was her brother, with whom, for various reasons, he
wished to keep especially friendly. At last he said they would go and
try and shoot a young rabbit, and took down his double-barrel.
They did not take any dogs, meaning to stalk the rabbits and shoot them
sitting, as neither Mark nor Bevis could kill anything moving. Jack
went down to some little enclosed meadows at the foot of the Downs where
the rabbits came out as the sun began to sink. Every now and then he
made them wait while he crept forward and peered through gaps or over
gates.
Presently he came quietly back from a gap by a hollow willow, and giving
Bevis the gun (which he had hitherto carried himself, being very anxious
lest an accident should happen), whispered to him that there were three
young rabbits out in the grass.
“Aim at the shoulder,” said Jack, thinking Bevis might miss the head.
“And be sure you don’t pull both triggers at once, and--I say--” But
Bevis had started. Bevis stepped as noiselessly as a squirrel, and
glancing carefully round the willow saw the rabbits’ ears pricked up in
the grass. They had heard or seen him, but being so young were not much
frightened, and soon resumed feeding.
He lifted the gun, which was somewhat heavy, having been converted from
a muzzle-loader, and old guns were made heavier than is the custom now.
One of the rabbits moving turned his back to him, so that he could not
see the shoulder; the other was behind a bunch of grass; but in a minute
the third moved, and Bevis aimed at him. The barrels would not at first
keep quite steady, the sight, just as he had got it on the rabbit,
jumped aside or drooped, so that he had to try twice before he was
satisfied.
“What a time he is,” whispered Mark, when Bevis pulled the trigger, and
they all ran forward. Jack jumped through the gap and picked up the
rabbit, which was kicking in the grass. Bevis rubbed his shoulder and
felt his collar-bone.
“Hurt?” said Jack, laughing. “Kicked? I was going to tell you only you
were in such a hurry. You should have held the stock tight to your
shoulder, then it would not kick. There, like this; now try.”
Bevis took the gun and pressed it firm to his bruised shoulder.
“Got it tight?” said Jack. “Aim at that thistle, and try again.”
“But he’ll frighten the rabbits, and it’s my turn,” said Mark.
“All gone in,” said Jack, “every one; you’ll have to wait till they come
out again. Shoot.”
Bevis shot, and the thistle was shattered. It scarcely hurt him at all,
it would not have done so in the least, only his shoulder was tender
now.
“It’s a very little rabbit,” said Mark.
“That it’s not,” said Bevis. “How dare you say so?”
“It looks little.”
“The size of a kitten,” said Jack. “As sweet as a chicken,” he added,
“when cooked, and as white. You shall have it to-morrow for dinner--
just the right size to be nice;” he saw that Bevis was rather inclined
to be doubtful, and wished to reassure him. Jack was a huge,
kind-hearted giant.
“Are you sure it will be nice?”
“The very thing,” said Jack, “if Mark can only shoot another just like
it; it wants two for a pudding.”
About half an hour afterwards Mark did shoot another, and then there was
a long discussion as to which was the biggest, which could not be
decided, for, in fact, being both about the same age, one could hardly
be distinguished from the other, except that Mark’s had a shot-hole in
the ear, and Bevis’s had not. On the way home a cloud of sparrows rose
out of some wheat and settled on the hedge, and Bevis had a shot at
these, bringing down three. Afterwards he missed a yellow-hammer that
sat singing happily on a gate.
He wanted the yellow-hammer because it had so fine a colour. The
yellow-hammer sang away while he aimed, repeating the same note, as he
perched all of a heap, a little lump of feathers on the top bar. The
instant the flash came the bird flew, and as is its habit in starting
drooped, and so was shielded by the top bar. The bar was scarred with
shot, and a dozen pellets were buried in it; but the yellow-hammer was
not hurt.
Mark was delighted that Bevis had missed. There was an elm near the
garden, and up in it Mark, on the look-out for anything, spied a young
thrush. He took steady aim, and down came the thrush. They were
disposed to debate as to who had shot, best, but Jack stopped it, and
brought out the quoits. After they had played some time, and it was
growing dusky, Ted entered the field.
“Halloa! Pompey,” said Mark. “Pompey!”
“Pompey,” said Jack, not understanding.
Ted walked straight up to Bevis.
“Where did you go,” said Bevis, “after I fell over?”
“But aren’t you angry?” said Ted.
“Angry--why?”
“Because I sent you over.”
“But you didn’t do it purposely.”
“No, _that_ I didn’t,” said Ted, with all his might.
From that moment they were better friends than they had ever been
before, though it was some time before Ted could really believe that
Bevis was not angry about it. In fact, the idea had never entered
Bevis’s mind. Ted stopped with them to supper, and everything was
explained to Jack, who was delighted with the battle, and could not hear
enough about it. But they did not press Ted as to what had become of
him, seeing how confused he was whenever the subject was approached.
Quite beside himself with terror and misery, poor Ted had pretended
illness and remained in his room, refusing to see any one, and dreading
every footstep and every knock at the door, lest it should be the
constable come to arrest him. Towards the afternoon Val, who had
already been down to Bevis’s house and found he was all right, strolled
up to see Pompey. Ted would not open the door even to him, and Val
taunted him for being such a coward all that time after the battle.
Still, Ted would not unlock it till Val happened to say that there was a
row about the war, and Bevis had gone up to Jack’s. Open came the door
directly.
“Where’s Bevis?” said Ted, grasping at Val’s arm.
“At Jack’s.”
“Not killed?”
“Killed--no. How could he be killed?”
As soon as he understood that Bevis was really alive, not even hurt, Ted
started off, to Val’s amazement, and never stopped till he entered the
field where they were picking up the quoits as it grew too dark to play
well. So Caesar and Pompey sat down to supper very lovingly, and talked
over Pharsalia. Big Jack made them tell him the story over and over
again, and wished he could have taken part in the combat. Like Mark,
too, he envied Bevis’s real shipwreck. Now seeing Jack so interested
they made use of his good-humour, and coaxed him till at last he
promised to let them shoot with the rifle on the morrow in the evening,
after he had finished in the fields.
All next day they rambled about the place, now in the garden, then in
the orchard, then in the rick-yard or the stables, back again into the
house, and up into the lumber-room at the top to see if they could find
anything; down into the larder, where Jack’s dear old mother did her
best to surfeit them with cakes and wines, and all the good things she
could think of, for they reminded her of Jack when he was a boy and, in
a sense, manageable. As for Jack’s old father, who was very old, he sat
by himself in the parlour almost all day long, being too grim for
anybody to approach.
He sat with his high hat on, aslant on his head, and when he wanted
anything knocked the table or the floor as chance directed with a thick
stick. When he walked out, every one slipped aside and avoided him,
hiding behind the ricks, and Jack’s pointer slunk into his house,
drooping his tail.
In the orchard Bevis and Mark squailed at the pears with short sticks.
If they hit one it was bruised that side by the blow; then as it fell it
had another good bump; but it is well-known that such thumping only
makes pears more juicy. Tired of this they walked down by the
mill-pool, in which there were a few small trout, Jack’s especial pets.
The water was so clear that they could see the bottom of the pool for
some distance; it looked very different to that of the New Sea below in
the valley.
“We ought to have some of this water in our water-barrel when we go on
our voyage,” said Bevis. “It’s clearer than the Nile.”
“The water-barrel must be got ashore somehow when we have the
shipwreck,” said Mark, “or perhaps we shall not have any to drink.”
They were rather inclined to have a swim in the pool, but did not know
how Jack would like it, as he was so jealous of his trout, and angry if
they were disturbed. They would have had a swim though all the same, if
the miller had not been looking over the hatch of his door. There he
stood white and floury, blinking his eyes, and watching them.
“How anybody can be so stupid as to stand stock still, and stare, stare,
stare, I can’t think,” said Mark, quite loud enough for the miller to
hear. He did not smile nor stir; he did not even understand that he was
meant; so sidelong a speech was beyond his comprehension. It would have
needed very severe abuse indeed, hurled straight at his head, to have
made him so much as lift his hand to dust the flour from his sleeve--the
first thing he did when he began to feel a little.
Next they went indoors and had a look at the guns and rifle on the rack,
which they dared not touch. Hearing the quick clatter of hoofs they ran
out, and saw a labourer riding a pony bare back. He had been sent out
to a village two miles away for some domestic requirement, and carried a
parcel under his arm, while his heels but just escaped scraping the
ground. The pony came up as sharp as he could, knowing his stable.
But no sooner was the labourer off, than Bevis was up, and forced him to
go round the pasture below the house. When Bevis wearied, Mark mounted,
and so by turns they rode the pony round and round the field, making him
leap a broad furrow, and gallop his hardest. By-and-by, as Bevis got
off and Mark had put his hand on before he sprang up, the pony gave a
snort and bolted, throwing up his heels as he flew for his stable.
Such an experience was new to him, and he was some time before he quite
understood; so soon as he did, and found out into what hands he had
fallen, the pony made use of the first opportunity. They followed, but
he showed his heels so viciously they thought it best to let him alone;
so hurling the sticks with which they had thrashed him round the field
at his head, they turned away. After dinner they took to another game.
This was sliding down the steep down just behind the house, on a short
piece of broad plank with a ridge in front. The way is to lie down with
the chest on the plank head first, trailing the toes behind, legs
extended as rudders to keep the course straight. A push with the feet
starts the board, and the pace increasing, you presently travel at a
furious velocity. Nothing can be nicer. They worked at it for hours.
The old gentleman came out into the garden and watched them, no doubt
remembering when he used to do it himself; but as for the performers,
all they thought about him was that they would like to squail a stick at
his high and ancient hat aslant on his head.
Presently they rambled into a nut copse over the hill. The nuts were
not ripe, and there was nothing much to be done there, but it was a
copse, and copses are always pleasant to search about in. Mark returned
to the sliding, Bevis sat down on the summit, and at first looked on,
but after a while he became lost in his dreamy mood.
Far away the blue-tinted valley went out to the horizon, and the sun was
suspended over it like a lamp hung from the ceiling, as it seemed no
higher than the hill on which he sat. Underneath was the house, and
round the tiled gables the swallows were busy going to and fro their
nests. The dovecot and the great barn, the red apples in the orchard,
the mill-pool and the grey mill, he could almost put his hand out on
them.
Beyond these came the meads, and then the trees closed together like
troops at the bugle call, making a limitless forest, and in this was a
narrow bright gleam, like a crooked reaping-hook thrown down. It was
the New Sea. After which there was no definition, surface only, fainter
and fainter to the place where the white clouds went through the door of
distance and disappeared. He did not see these, and only just knew that
the wheat at his back rustled as the light wind came over. It was the
vast aerial space, and the golden circle of the sun. He did not think,
he felt, and listened to it.
Mark shouted presently that Jack was coming home; so he ran down, and
they went to meet him. Jack put up the target after tea. It was a
square of rusty sheet-iron, on which he drew a circle with chalk six
inches in diameter, and outside that another about two feet. This he
placed against the steep hill--the very best of butts--keeping it
upright with two stakes, which he drove in the sward. He measured a
hundred yards by stepping, and put three flints in a row to mark the
spot. The rifle was loaded and the bullet rammed home with the iron
ramrod, which had a round smooth handle at the end, so that you might
force the lead into the grooves.
Jack fired, and missed; fired again, and missed; shot a third time after
longer aim, and still there was no ringing sound and no jagged hole in
the sheet-iron. Bevis tried, and Mark tried, and Jack again, but they
could not hit it. More powder was used, and then less powder; the
bullet was jammed home hard by knocking the ramrod with a fragment of
post (the first thing that came handy), and then it was only just pushed
down to the powder. All in vain. The noise of the reports had now
brought together a number of labourers and cottage boys, who sat on the
summit of the hill in a row.
They fired standing up, kneeling down, lying at full length. A chair
was fetched, and the barrel was placed on the rung at the back as a
rest, but not a single hole was made in the target. Mark wanted to go
nearer and try at fifty yards, but Jack would not; the rifle was made to
kill deer at a hundred yards, and at a hundred yards he intended to use
it. He was getting very angry, for he prided himself on his shooting,
and was in fact a good shot with the double-barrel; but this little
rifle--a mere toy--defied him; he could not manage it. They fired
between thirty and forty shots, till every bullet they had ready cast
was gone.
The earth was scored by the target, cut up in front of it, ploughed to
the right and left, drilled over it high up, but the broad sheet-iron
was untouched.
Jack threatened to pitch the rifle into the mill-pool, and so disgusted
was he that very likely he would have done it had not Bevis and Mark
begged him earnestly not to do so. He put it up on the rack, and went
off, and they did not see him till supper-time. He was as much out of
temper as it was possible for him to be.
When they went to their bedroom that night, Bevis and Mark talked it
over, and fully agreed that if they only had the rifle all to themselves
they could do it.
“I’m sure we could,” said Bevis.
“Of course we could,” said Mark. “There’s only something you have to
find out.”
“As easy as nothing,” said Bevis.
Volume Two, Chapter VI.