POLLY’S DELIVERER.
“Max,” said Dr. Brenton from the hall door, “can you take a case for
me this afternoon?” The Doctor’s eyes twinkled as he spoke, for his
son’s professional aid furnished him with plenty of opportunity for
the harmless jesting enjoyed by both. “Of course, I mean if your own
private practice permits.”
“Thank you,” replied Max gravely; “I believe I’ve nothing serious
on. My distinguished services are entirely at your disposal. Is it
toothache or measles? I’m great at measles.”
“I’m sorry I can’t give you a turn with your speciality. It’s just a
broken arm. But there was some chance of fever; and the boy’s mother is
such a fool she can’t even take his temperature, or I might have told
her to send me word how he did--”
“Pardon me, but who’s the boy?”
“Oh! why, young Brown, at Appleton Farm.”
Max whistled. “Hallo! that’s a six-mile trot.”
“Yes, and I don’t know how you’re to get there. I can’t spare the trap,
for I’ve to go twice as far in the other direction.”
“Never mind ways and means,” said Max cheerily. “As Appleton isn’t out
of our planet, I suppose I can reach it somehow.”
“Wait a bit, though, my boy,” said the Doctor, stepping out on to the
gravel path and laying his hand on Max’s shoulder. “This is Wednesday,
and I don’t want to spoil any little plan for your friends’ holiday
afternoon. Was there a spree in view?”
“Nothing you need bother about, Dad,” replied Max, raising his bright
face. “I was just going over to Rowdon with this pansy-root for
Frances. I forgot to grub up the thing in the morning, so I’m getting
it now.”
“You always enjoy a few hours at Rowdon,” said the Doctor regretfully.
“Perhaps, after all, I might get back in time to tackle Appleton
myself.”
“No, you mightn’t. You’ll be tired enough as it is, after being out
half last night. Don’t you worry, Dad, I’ll see to Brown.”
“It won’t matter how late you visit him. You could have a game first,
lad. Rowdon is not much off the road to Appleton. Suppose you went
there first?”
“Good idea! If Austin’s in trim, I dare say he’ll go on with me.
Frances too, maybe. Off you go, Dad, and don’t fidget about Brown. I’ll
settle him and his temperature.”
So off the Doctor went, as easy in his mind as his young son’s care
could make him. And Max dug up his root, wrapped it neatly in brown
paper, and made ready for the tramp to Rowdon.
Austin was “in trim” and volunteered his company to Appleton. Frances
and her mother had arranged to give the afternoon to the Altruist
work-basket; but they invited Max to come back to tea at the cottage,
and to play a game at cricket on the Common afterwards. The boys did
their walk in good time, found Brown’s temperature normal and his arm
doing well, and then strolled homeward at a leisurely pace.
“How are things going in the village?” inquired Austin, as they neared
Rowdon, and topics of more personal interest had been pretty well
exhausted. “Has your father got old Fenn to do anything for Lumber’s
Yard?”
“Fenn! Not he. But the folks themselves are looking up. Carlyon has
been hammering away at them a long time, as you know, and most of
them are a shade more respectable in consequence. At least, they are
beginning to show some disgust with that beast Baker, which is a sign
of a return to decency.”
“Has Baker been doing anything fresh lately?”
“Anything fresh in the way of brutality is hardly within Mr. Joe
Baker’s power. He’s an out-and-out right-down waster, and I told him so
yesterday for the fiftieth time.”
“What was he doing?”
“Mauling that tiny mite Polly. Fortunately Harry the Giant heard the
child yell, and went to her help just as I got there. I couldn’t help
treating Baker to a few home truths, and I wish you’d seen his scowls
and heard the pleasant things he promised me.”
“Beast! But I say, Max, don’t put yourself in his way in a lonely lane
on a dark night. He doesn’t love you.”
Max’s expressive “Ugh!” closed the subject.
The tea-table, presided over by Mrs. Morland, was surrounded that
evening by a lively little company. Austin and Max gave a mirthful
version of their encounter with Mrs. Brown, concerning the beef-tea
they had ventured to criticise; and quiet Jim, whose sense of humour
was undergoing cultivation, chuckled over the boys’ small witticisms.
Max’s long walk had not robbed cricket of attraction. As soon as tea
had been cleared away, the youngsters dragged Jim off to the Common;
and even Mrs. Morland was cajoled into coming with them to look on and
keep the score.
But it was a really tired-out lad who, when dusk was deepening into
darkness, bade Frances and Austin good-bye on the further side of the
Common. Max would not let his friends come further, for he meant to
cover a good part of the remaining distance at a swinging trot, which
might, he hoped, compel his aching legs to do their duty. And for a
time they did it nobly; but presently fatigue compelled the boy to slow
down to a steady walk, which made reflection easier. Max’s thoughts
were usually good company, and on this particular evening he had
abundant food for them.
Max Brenton was nearing his fifteenth birthday, and his busy, capable
life held promise of early maturity. Though still a very boyish boy,
he had in his many quiet hours developed a power of concentration and
resolute temper, which inclined him to wider schemes of activity than
boyhood often learns to contemplate. It was only the strength and depth
of his affections--in which alone Max was child-like--that rendered
it possible for him to look forward without impatience to a career
consecrated to the service of Woodend.
Max would have preferred a broader outlook and a brisker scene for his
energies. But he knew that a partnership with his son was Dr. Brenton’s
wildest dream of future happiness and prosperity, and Max could not
imagine himself bringing defeat to his father’s plan. How often had
they talked it over together! and how gaily had Max anticipated his
triumphant return to his little country home with the honours of the
schools bound thick about his brows! By that time Dad would want
someone to do the night-work, and share the responsibility of difficult
cases; and who should help him, who ever had helped him, but Max?
The boy smiled as, moving rapidly through the evening darkness, he
reminded himself afresh of all these things. Then the smile faded,
and a quick sigh expressed the lurking regret of his growing years.
For a while his thoughts soared to all conceivable heights of medical
distinction; and he wondered whether, had his path not been inexorably
prepared for him, he might have climbed to better purpose some other
way.
Max’s thoughts still dwelt lingeringly on the opportunities present-day
conditions afford to the specialist in any profession, as he drew
within sight of the straggling cottages of Woodend village. The first
of all was a neat little one-storeyed tenement, where dwelt poor Mrs.
Baker’s aged father and mother. Of late the couple had often tried
to shelter Bell and her little ones during outbreaks of Joe Baker’s
drunken fury; and more than once the fugitives had been pursued to
their place of refuge by their persecutor. Max recalled these facts
while his eyes caught through the trees the glimmer of lights below him
in the valley; and by a natural sequence of thought, he remembered also
his morning encounter with Joe.
“He was in one of his worst moods,” meditated the boy; “and if the
‘Jolly Dog’ has seen any more of him since, I expect his wife will
be in danger to-night. I declare, I’ve half a mind to look in on her
father and give him a word of warning. He might fetch the children,
anyhow.”
Max looked again at the light in old Baring’s distant window, and
decided to carry out his plan. A little further on he turned into the
lane where, many months ago, Austin Morland’s galloping pony had caught
up “brother Jim”. The overhanging trees behind tall wooden palings
added to the natural darkness of the hour and place; and it was not
till his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom that he detected a tiny
figure stumbling towards him up the path. When the child came close,
Max saw that it was little five-year-old Polly Baker.
“Hallo!” sang out Max; “you again, small kid! What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Mas’r Max! Mas’r Max!” The child flung herself at the lad, and
clung to him desperately. “He’s after me, Father is! Don’t let him have
me! Please don’t, Mas’r Max!”
The boy lifted the little child in his arms, and tried to soothe her.
He felt that her frail body was palpitating with the terror which had
already made her baby face wizened and old. A mighty wrath surged into
Max’s heart. Polly’s trembling fingers tugging weakly at his jacket
called all his manliest instincts into vigour.
He easily made out the child’s broken words of explanation. Baker had
been turned away from the “Jolly Dog” as being dangerous to its other
frequenters, and in malicious rage had lurched home and set about
beating wife and children indiscriminately. Neighbours had come to the
rescue, and had seen that Bell was safely housed with a friend, while
her children were sent under escort to their grandfather Baring. For a
time Baker had remained indoors, nursing his wrongs; then, not daring
to interfere with Bell, since Harry the Giant was mounting guard over
her, he had set out in the dark to wreak his fury on the Barings and
their helpless charges.
His coming had sent Polly and the other little ones into paroxysms of
terror, and they had flown for shelter out to the friendly night. Baker
was drunk enough to be dangerous, without having in the least lost
control over his senses. Little Polly, whose baby fist had sometimes
been raised in defence of her mother, was always his favourite victim;
and the child now gasped in Max’s ear her certainty that her father
had seen and followed her. If he had been sure she was right, Max
would have turned instantly, and have run back up the lane to some
trusty villager’s dwelling; but before he could persuade himself to
this course, events proved Polly’s fear to be justified. Round the
corner into the lane came Baker, running at full speed, with sufficient
certainty of gait to assure Max that he would have no helpless drunkard
to deal with.
Even then, Max knew that he could escape, without Polly. Max was fleet
of foot; but the clinging grasp of the childish fingers and the weight
of the little quivering body were enough to give the advantage to
Baker in an uphill race. Max had but a minute for reflection, and he
determined to try to dodge Baker, slip past him, and make a dash for
the village. Running downhill, he thought he might outstrip the enemy,
should he give chase; and there would be the chance of meeting help in
the more frequented road.
Max had hardly resolved on the attempt, when he knew it had failed.
Baker made a cunning feint of speeding by, then flung himself to one
side and fairly pinned Max against the palings. In a twinkling the boy
had twisted himself free, and set down his burden with a whispered “Run
for it, Polly! Run back to the village, fast!”
Max’s fear was all for the baby girl, and his one thought now was to
gain time for her escape. Therefore he made no attempt to secure his
own, but threw all his strength into the effort to hold back Polly’s
father, who, with threats which chilled Max’s blood, addressed thickly
to the flying child, was trying to hurl himself after her. The strong
young arms of Polly’s defender were not so easily shaken off; and as
the little flickering feet carried their owner round the corner and out
of sight, Baker turned his attention to revenge.
Max’s vigour was already nearly spent, and his danger had been obvious
to him from the beginning of the unequal struggle. Baker’s hatred of
“the young Doc”, first called into active existence on the night when
the boy’s manœuvres had successfully combated his own brutal designs,
had increased continually ever since. It was Max’s interference, and
Max’s personal popularity, which had made the denizens of Lumber’s Yard
band themselves into a sort of bodyguard to protect Baker’s ill-used
wife and children. It was Max who had again and again assailed the
drunkard and bully with words of biting contempt. It was Max who had
that very morning boldly threatened to obtain legal redress for Bell
and her little ones should their cruel tyrant persecute them once more.
Now the man had the boy in his power. Max could not do much in
self-defence. He tried to hit out, but Baker, seizing his arms, flung
him back against the fence, and, pinning him there with one hand,
struck at him furiously with the other. Even then Max’s thoughts were
with the escaping child, and he clung desperately to the arm which
held him during the few moments of blinding pain before he dropped.
Baker was not made of the stuff which spares a fallen foe. His heavy
nailed boots did a ruffian’s work on the prostrate body of Max Brenton.
* * * * *
Little Polly fled as for dear life along the village road. She passed
her grandfather’s house, which had proved so poor a shelter; she gave
no heed to bystanders at cottage-gates; she did not dare to pause even
when a friendly voice addressed her. Deep in her baby heart was a fear,
not for herself alone; and she flew on and on, her fluttering breath
panting between her white lips, her scared eyes gleaming with terror
above her colourless cheeks. Her way soon led her by large houses set
far back in their beautiful gardens, and at the gate of one of these a
boy stood waiting for a comrade.
“Hallo, Polly! What’s the scare, youngster? Stop, and let’s hear.”
Every Altruist was Polly’s friend, and knew the story of her wretched
home. So now at last the child ventured to check her headlong pace, and
to give voice to her baby fears. This lad, she knew, was Guy Gordon--he
who could make cunning use of the strange silver flute, he whose
pockets kept stores of sweets for tiny, crimson-frocked girls. Guy
was the friend of Polly’s young deities--Max and Austin, Frances and
Florry. To him the child now turned with a despairing cry.
“Mas’r Max! Oh, it’s Mas’r Max!”
“No, it’s Mas’r Guy!” laughed the boy good-naturedly. “What’s up,
Trots?”
“Save him, p’ease save Mas’r Max! Father’s got him in the dark lane far
away. Father’ll kill Mas’r Max!”
“Polly! What!--what do you mean, child? Your father, and Max! Where?”
Guy knew, like the rest of his small world, the hatred felt by Baker
for the Doctor’s son; and while the boy tried to assure himself that
there was no use in heeding incoherent babble from a mere baby like
Polly, a horrible dread swept across his mind.
“Father’s got him! Oh, Father’s got Mas’r Max! Father hates Mas’r Max
’cos he won’t let him beat Mummy and me! Father’ll kill Mas’r Max away
in the dark lane, ’cos--’cos Mas’r Max held Father to let Polly run!”
“It can’t be true! Polly, are you certain you mean just what you say?
Oh, what’s the use of asking her! I’ll do something on the chance--”
Guy thought a moment, then, picking up the child, ran at his best speed
up the road to Dr. Brenton’s house, now close at hand.
“Me was comin’ here!” sobbed Polly, as Guy pelted in at the gate; “me
was comin’ to tell Dokker! Polly love Dokker and Mas’r Max. Polly not
let Mas’r Max be killed dead!”
“You poor little brave thing!” muttered Guy, choking back a sob
himself. “If anything has happened to Max, what will the Doctor do? He
is in, I know. I saw him go home just half an hour ago. Where’s the
bell? Ugh! how my hand shakes! I’m no better than this baby.”
The Doctor was in, heard Guy’s story, and keeping over his voice and
face a control which amazed his boy-visitor, questioned Polly so
quietly and gently that he drew from her an account clear enough as to
time and place, and connected enough as to fact, to convince himself
and Guy that the little one told the truth. Then he called Janet,
handed Polly into her care, and caught up his hat and a thick stick.
Dr. Brenton and Guy ran down the road, side by side, at a level, steady
trot. Guy kept respectful and sympathetic silence. He, like Polly,
loved the good Doctor and Max.
Suddenly Guy drew from his pocket a whistle, on which he blew a loud
and shrill blast.
“It’s the Altruists’ whistle, sir,” he explained briefly. “Of course we
won’t wait, but if there are any of ‘Ours’ about, they’ll turn up and
help.”
“Thanks, lad,” said the Doctor. “We’ll pray as we go that Max has
escaped from that scoundrel.”
“He wouldn’t try,” said Guy simply, “while Polly was about.”
“You’re right,” said the Doctor, and they sped on.
Guy’s whistle roused the echoes. Down the garden-paths and the shadowy
drives of the larger dwellings of Woodend rushed a half-score of
Altruists, responsive to the well-known signal, and eager to know what
had brought it forth. For this particular whistle was never used save
when opportunity offered for the Society’s members to justify their
motto, “Help Others”. The running boys soon caught up the Doctor and
Guy, and heard from the latter, in his breathless undertones, what
the signal had meant. The lads felt themselves in sufficient force to
deliver Max from any danger; and as the village road was now empty
of all save stragglers hieing homeward, they attracted no particular
attention.
“There’s Harry the Giant!” exclaimed Frank Temple, who ran beside Guy
just in the Doctor’s wake. “He might be of use--I’ll bring him.”
The name of Max sufficed for Harry, who attached himself willingly to
the little group of boys. Then in silence they followed the Doctor
out of the village, along the uphill country road, and so into the
long, dark lane, which Polly’s description had enabled Dr. Brenton to
identify. Half-way up the lane they came upon Max, lying, as Baker had
left him, in the deep shadow of the trees.
All the lads waited silently while the father knelt down to examine his
son.
“I think he is alive, Guy,” said Dr. Brenton presently, while he turned
to his young allies a white and agonized face; “if he is, that’s the
most I can say--and I’m not sure yet. Come, you all cared for him; you
shall help me to carry him home.”
The boys pressed forward, but Harry, stepping quickly in front of them,
stooped and raised Max carefully in his mighty arms.
“By your leave, gen’lemen,” said the big, good-hearted fellow, “there’s
none but me as shall carry Master Max.”
And after that there was for Polly’s deliverer a long and dreamless
night.