THE SHORTEST CUT.
BILL the Kicker had his own reasons for wanting sixpence.
A few days since, being very hard up for a pocket-knife, he had watched
an opportunity to abstract the necessary amount from his mother's
rent-money; and he was anxious to replace it before the theft was
discovered.
This rent-money was the proceeds of his mother's exertions with her
mangle, and was always dropped into an old tea-pot occupying a place of
honour on the mantel-shelf—each amount put in or taken out being duly
entered in red pencil on a square of card, which also had its quarters
in this Britannia-metal safe.
Now it always fell to Bill's lot to carry the mangling home out of
school hours; and it seemed to him, when he got the idea of taking the
sixpence, that it was nothing but fair he should have something for his
pains.
"If other people don't pay you, why, you must pay yourself," reasoned
Bill. "That's square enough."
When he came to see the red pencil entries on the card, he was somewhat
shaken as to the safety of this policy, however "fair and square" it
might be. It was not even as if he had been one of many brothers.
The coin would certainly be missed; and upon whom but himself should
suspicion fall?
It occurred to him to make the experiment of rubbing out one of the
entries. He had no eraser, but he was pretty ready with expedients.
Quick as lightning, one finger went to his mouth, and thence to the
tidily kept account; but such a horrible smear was the result, that his
hair almost stood on end. It was impossible but that his mother would
see that the card had been tampered with; if, in addition, she found
the money sixpence short, the mischief would be out, and he would be
"in for it."
Exactly what that might mean was not clear to Bill. All he knew was
that his father had given him the strap on one occasion, and that
he did not desire a repetition of the experience. It was already
Thursday. Under ordinary circumstances, the sixpence would have had to
be replaced before Monday. But since Farmer Bluff had been laid up,
the rents had been running; so that, unless the Squire suddenly took
it into his head to send some one round, there would be no particular
hurry.
Bill, however, was shrewd enough to believe in being on the safe side.
Accordingly, he had left no stone unturned to put himself in a position
to restore the stolen sixpence. The scheme about the hornets' nest
having fallen through, he had even hunted up and down outside the shop
fronts in the street, in hopes of picking up change dropped by some
careless housewife when out marketing. But, fortunately for the good of
thieves, they do not often receive such encouragement in their crooked
ways; and Bill's researches proved fruitless.
He was still puzzling his brains after a way out of the difficulty,
when Dick's curiosity about geese furnished the very idea he wanted.
Bill had robbed the hens' nests before this, as well as the orchard.
What was to prevent him from getting a goose's egg?
To be sure, geese were not very nice to have to do with.
Jenny Greenlow, carrying her father's dinner along the riverbank to the
Infirmary, where he was at work upon the roof, had been attacked by one
and knocked down; and there the child had lain until her father, badly
in want of his meal and perplexed at her delay, went along to meet her,
and found her half dead with fright, whilst the goose was still feeding
on the contents of the basket. But the goose was probably attracted by
the smell of the basket's contents; and then Jenny was only a girl!
What goose of any sense would dream of molesting a boy! Bill went to
work at once to plan the details of the adventure, delighted with the
scheme.
Due consideration suggested morning, while the farm men were at
breakfast, as the most suitable time for carrying it into effect.
So far as he knew, none of them were in the habit of taking their
provisions with them. As they all lived in the row adjoining his
father's cottage, a mere stone's throw away, they found it pay better
to slip in and drink their coffee hot by their own fireside. A few
minutes after the stroke of eight, therefore, Bill might make pretty
sure that the coast would be clear.
The geese, too, having laid their eggs and been fed, would have
wandered away to their pastures. There was only one other thing to be
considered. The hole in the hedge through which he meant to creep was
behind the shed, but so soon as he crept round to the door, Blazer was
sure to catch sight of him; and if Elspeth were anywhere near at hand,
his noise was sure to bring her out. Out of this difficulty, however,
Bill saw positively no way. The only thing was to hope that Elspeth
would be busy waiting on her master just then, and to dare the rest.
"I've done worse things before now," said Bill to himself, by way of
encouragement.
Accordingly, next morning he was up with the sun, determined to get
quickly through his woodchopping, and the various other duties that
were expected of him. On ordinary occasions, Bill was given to being
rather slow.
"If you're through too quick, you get more to do next day," was his
way of arguing; so he always took care to make his work last out, as a
country boy knows how.
But on this morning, he was particularly brisk. He had just finished,
and was counting on getting clean off, when he heard his mother's voice.
"Bill!—Oh!—Just done, are you? You've been spry. Here!" As Bill was
lounging off. "I just want you to come and help me through with this
mangling; and there 'll be time to run with Mrs. Wayling's before daddy
comes in to breakfast."
At the first mention of mangling, all Bill's sense of justice had risen
in rebellion; but an errand before breakfast fell in with his plans
beautifully.
His mother thought he had never come with such alacrity, and wondered
what magic it was that regulated the moods and caprices of boyhood.
"He's that slow and obstinate by times," she said to herself, as she
spread the folded linen ready; "and look at him this morning. Couldn't
be a better help if he was a girl, and grown-up!" She little thought.
"Mother," said the wily Bill presently, on coming to the end of
a batch. "Mother, I'm awful hungry; and it's a good step to Mrs.
Wayling's. Couldn't I have a bit o' summat afore I start out? They keep
you such a while up there; likely it'll be half over before I get in."
"To be sure you can," answered his mother, thoroughly pleased with his
cheerful industry. And forthwith going to the dresser, she cut and
spread a thick slice. "Have what you want afore you go," said she,
reckoning to get things cleared up and out of her way, ready for her
ironing by and by.
And Bill stood munching hungrily, as he waited to start, turning
afresh, and congratulating himself that now, come what might, his
breakfast was secure.
It was about half-past seven when he set out for Mrs. Wayling's with
the bundle on his head. It was a good distance. Mrs. Wayling was the
schoolmaster's wife, and lived up by the church. Bill usually took a
barrow; but this time he had his own reasons for wishing to be entirely
unencumbered so soon as ever he should have delivered his burden. A
barrow would not be handy at stiles, and he intended coming back by the
river and the fields, so as to avoid the chance of meeting his father.
Bill was warm by the time he arrived at the schoolhouse. He had got
over the ground pretty quickly, considering the weight of his burden,
and the church clock still wanted two minutes of the quarter. If only
they did not keep him waiting, he would be back at the farm at the very
right moment.
As luck would have it, the servant returned almost immediately, to say
that her mistress had no change, and would send the money round with
the next bundle of linen. And Bill, only too glad to be free, money
or no money, nodded and ran off towards the river as fast as his legs
would carry him.
It was a good deal farther that way, but Bill had now nothing but
himself to carry. In a very short time, he had reached the riverbank,
and was hurrying along the towing-path. The geese were already in the
field. He saw them marching towards the river in their pompous way,
with the old white gander at their head. There would be nothing to
fear from them; and, puffing and panting with hurry and excitement,
Bill scudded along until he reached the back of the orchard, when he
slackened pace and went tiptoe, stealing along behind the hedge towards
the hole through which he intended to creep.
It was not much of a gap, for it had grown-up a bit since last Bill had
squeezed through—which was when the apples were ripe. But gap or no
gap wasn't going to stand in his way just then. Bill got down into the
ditch, to wait until he should hear eight strike and the men tramp past
to breakfast. He had not long been there when the clock sounded out the
hour.
Bill took his hands out of his pockets, and laid hold of a stoutish
stem of whitethorn on either side, breaking or bending back the smaller
twigs, so as to clear his passage. Then he waited again. He could
plainly hear somebody moving about inside the hedge, and he began to
be terribly afraid that one of the men had made up his mind to spare
himself the trouble of going home to breakfast.
Bill let go the whitethorn stems in dismay.
"There's a go!" exclaimed he to himself. It seemed such a pity, too,
when everything was so splendidly arranged. But just then, he heard the
footsteps moving towards the door of the shed.
"Gone eight, mate?" asked a voice.
Blazer sprang to his feet and uttered a bark; but there was no other
answer.
"Blest if oi yeerd it strike!" exclaimed the voice. "But they be all
gone, sarting sure, and oi be left behoind. Oi reckon that 'ere clock
bean't much account. 'Twants a bigger clapper to t' bell."
And with these words, the door banged to, and the hobnails went
dragging across the yard. It was old Jaggers, the cowman, who was as
deaf as a post, and was always getting "left behind" if his mates
forgot to hail him when the breakfast hour arrived.
The coast was clear at last. Bill laid hands anew on the whitethorn
stems. But at that very moment, a dull thud, thud, in his other ear
made him stop short. It was a sound of approaching footsteps on
the worn grass of the footway. Some one was coming along from the
river-side. Would interruptions never cease? Bill gave a guilty look
round. It would not do to be seen in the ditch.
A yard or two to the right was a large bramble bush, which had sprung
up on the field and straggled over to the hedge, catching hold of the
whitethorn with its thorny arms, and interlacing with the blackberry
brambles in a thick tangle. Under this shelter, he crept to hide.
Thud, thud came the steps, nearer and nearer. A few minutes more and he
would be able to come out. But just as the passer-by reached the very
spot where Bill crouched in hiding, the footsteps suddenly ceased.
Bill was puzzled. Who could it be? And why had he stopped exactly
there? Bill was shrewd enough to know that if he could not see, neither
could he be seen; but it was too bad to be obliged to stop there whilst
the moments of that precious half-hour were running to waste.
At length, impatience got the better of prudence, and he determined
to get a peep, at the risk of being discovered. With this intent, he
commenced creeping by inches towards the limit of his shelter. But a
boy's eyes cannot be in two places at once. In his anxiety to keep
a watch on the bank, he entirely forgot the necessity of looking to
his feet. At the very moment when he caught sight of a well-blacked
boot, down slipped his foot into a deep hole, and poor, luckless Bill
suddenly found himself measuring his length at the bottom of the ditch.
"Hullo!" exclaimed a voice from above. "What's up?"
Bill was not hurt; but he lay quiet, still hoping to escape discovery.
The owner of the voice, however, to whom the boot also belonged, was
not likely to be so easily satisfied.
"What's up?" repeated he, facing about, and seeing to his infinite
astonishment a somewhat unkempt figure sprawling at the bottom of the
ditch.
Finding concealment impossible, Bill scrambled to his feet with a
sheepish grin.
"What are you after?" asked the stranger.
He was dressed in a suit of dark-coloured tweed, and had under his arm
what looked like a bundle of deal sticks and a flat, square package
buckled up in a shiny black case. Bill's rapid survey satisfied him
that he did not belong to the neighbourhood, and that it was therefore
safe to tell as many lies as ingenuity could invent.
"Rats," answered he promptly. "Got a hole here; and they steals the
eggs."
"Ah!" observed the gentleman. "And you get so much a head for them, eh?"
Bill nodded.
The gentleman turned on his heel, laughing to himself at the idea that
any rat should be so unwary as to come out of his hole when somebody
was by to knock him on the head. A minute later, he had forgotten the
whole thing, and relapsed into his former attitude, looking away across
the fields to the right. He was an artist, and had come down by rail to
make the best of the mild spring day; for there was an open view of the
church from that point before the leaves were thick.
Bill, not knowing all this, stood at the bottom of the ditch staring at
his back, and wondering what spirit of contrariness could possess him
that he must choose that very spot to loiter on. He was just thinking
whether it would be safe to leave him out of the question altogether,
and proceed to the business of getting through the hedge, when the
gentleman faced about again.
"Hullo!" said he, unrolling the bundle of sticks under his arm as he
spoke, and nodding towards the farm. "You don't work there?"
Bill shook his head. "My father does though," answered he.
"You couldn't borrow a chair for me, I suppose," said the gentleman.
"They know you, I daresay."
Bill stared for a minute or two, then suddenly broke into a grin.
"Dessay I could," said he.
"Well, look sharp!" returned the gentleman. "And I'll give you a
copper."
To his infinite astonishment, Bill had no sooner received the order,
than he advanced a few steps along the ditch, turned his face to the
hedge, and seizing firm hold of the two whitethorn sterns, commenced
drawing himself through the gap.
"He knows how to take an order," said the artist to himself. "That's
what I call going the shortest cut."
Meanwhile, Bill's mental comment was, "My! If he ha'n't nearly done
me!" And he made like a shot for the door of the shed, casting a rapid
glance towards Blazer's kennel, to see if he were on the watch. For
once, however, Blazer was otherwise occupied, and Bill gained the shed
unobserved.
[Illustration]