THE DUG-OUT IN THE GARDEN
After making all the allowance I could for Gran'pa's novel home-coming,
I was under the impression that once those new glands were safely
embedded in him his progress from old age to youth would be a slow
and rhythmic movement, like the gradual and normal recovery from an
illness. But, alas, I was mistaken. There was no doubt about Gran'pa's
progress, but instead of being steady and even, it followed a wild
zigzag course, interspersed with sudden outbreaks of half-delirious
childishness. To-day, he was sensible and quiet and dignified.
To-morrow, he was silly and noisy and skittish. He had apparently
either developed a dual character or was suffering from a grave lack of
self-control.
The only reasonable explanation I can give of these phenomena is that
Gran'pa had been dozing and dreaming in the peaceful backwaters of life
until he had grown extremely stiff and awkward. Now that he was at last
awakening, he was metaphorically pinching himself, stretching, kicking
out, getting rid of that objectionable "pins-and-needles" sensation,
and giving vent to little whoops of joy at finding the grim nightmare
of impending death was untrue. In this half-sleeping, half-waking
state, his perspective naturally was distorted, and he did many things
which were shamefully undignified and childish. The experiment with the
motor scooter was certainly the most dramatic of all these "outbreaks,"
for it was the least expected, and had found me totally unprepared.
As the days passed, however, I grew more accustomed to his freaks, and
came to regard them as the natural result of adding another "young"
member to the family. Some men would undoubtedly have called in a
mental specialist when Gran'pa attached half a walnut shell to the
kitten's tail and spent the whole morning watching the poor little
creature waltzing and somersaulting round the dining-room floor. But
I preferred to adopt the more Christian-like attitude of viewing the
incident merely as a good-humored, boyish lark. After all, it didn't
hurt the cat and it certainly amused Gran'pa and kept him out of
further mischief--so what harm was there?
But when he began inciting Molly, who was already quite enough of a
handful, I found it necessary to be very firm with him.
Without wishing to give the impression that I'm a kill-joy where
youngsters are concerned, I must admit that I believe in a certain
amount of juvenile restraint, even in these days of enlightenment and
free education.
The case in point--which is only one of many dozens which occurred in
the six months succeeding the operation--was actually due to my own
thoughtlessness, and I record it in detail to show that one cannot be
too careful when dealing with the young.
Ever since Molly was eight years old, I had celebrated her birthday by
taking her to see that hardy old stage annual "Peter Pan." This year,
I thought that it would be a gracious act to include Gran'pa in the
ceremony, more particularly as he had just paid me that initial five
thousand dollars, due under Clause 3 (_a_) of our written agreement.
So the three of us journeyed up to town early, had dinner, and then
went to the theatre to see Barrie's wonderful version of Eternal Youth.
As Gran'pa had not been to a theatre since he was sixty-five--that is
over thirty years previously--it was not surprising to find him deeply
moved by the opening scene in the nursery. When Mrs. Darling sang
her three offspring to sleep in their little cots, I noticed Gran'pa
sentimentally blinking his eyes.
Presently, Peter Pan entered and Gran'pa sat up and became very
restless. He craned his neck upwards and forwards and sideways to
improve his view of the stage; he twitched, he made little excited
grunts of merriment, he giggled when Peter let Tinker-bell out of the
drawer, and he roared when the boys began taking lessons in the art of
flying.
As the play proceeded so Gran'pa's excitement grew, until people in
front commenced turning around and glowering at us.
"Restrain yourself, Gran'pa!" I whispered, nudging him in the ribs.
"Do what, George?" he asked, without even taking his eyes off the stage.
"Keep quiet and don't fidget so much."
"But it's so _exciting_!"
He quietened down for a little while, but completely lost his head
when the underground scene came on. The first appearance of the
pirates and the wolves had been trying enough to his feeble powers of
self-restraint, but they were nothing to those thrilling moments, when
the pirates vanquished the Indians and captured the children, and the
green-faced Captain Hook poisoned Peter's medicine.
When the curtain dropped on that scene, Gran'pa was in a terrible state
of excitement.
"Come and have a brandy," I whispered.
"Thanks, George! I think I will."
I led him to the bar and there he steadied his nerves and I quenched my
thirst.
After that, he was much better and managed, without collapsing, to get
through the ghastly nightmare of the Doodle-Doo Quest on the Pirate
Ship. But there were moments when Molly and I were compelled to hold
him down in his seat.
"Disgraceful!" I heard someone growl behind us.
"Absurd, bringing a doddering old chap of that age!" whispered another.
In spite of the low, angry murmurs of the audience in our immediate
vicinity, we contrived, however, to sit through the whole play without
causing a riot, and when we eventually left the theatre, I explained to
Gran'pa exactly what I thought of him.
"I couldn't--help it!" he said listlessly, as if every drop of his
energy had gone.
"But it's so pitifully weak and selfish, behaving as you did," I
remonstrated. "Think how it annoyed the other members of the audience."
He tried to answer but could not.
Then his legs gave way, and he suddenly sat down on the pavement and
began crying hysterically.
I called a taxi, gathered him up, and hustled him into it, where he sat
twitching in the corner like a man with Saint Vitus' dance.
Although I don't pretend to understand very much about medical science,
I do know that thyroid gland secretion has a remarkably stimulating
effect on the mental faculties. With too little of it, one is dull
and lifeless; with too much of it, one is active and highly strung.
Could it be that Alfred's glands were too vigorous, and that what was
normally good for monkey was abnormally bad for man? It was a very
discomfiting thought, and I grew so alarmed at Gran'pa's condition that
I decided to get him a bromide draught. It would, at any rate, afford
temporary relief.
So we drew up at the nearest chemist's shop, where I bought Gran'pa a
soothing powder.
"Stick your tongue out," I ordered, when I returned to the taxi.
He protested at first, but soon gave way, and I carefully tipped the
white pacifier into the centre of the scoop-shaped receptacle which he
was holding out in readiness.
"Now swill it down with this," I said, handing him a glass of water.
Again he obeyed.
Then he settled back in his corner and fell sound asleep.
"This is cheerful!" I thought. "How on earth are we going to get him
into the train at Waterloo?"
I considered the matter for a moment, and finally came to the
conclusion that we should have to taxi home.
Much to Molly's delight, I broke the news to the reluctant driver, and
away we sped at last.
When we got back, Nanny and I put Gran'pa to bed, gave him a glass of
hot milk and hoped for the best.
The following morning he came down to breakfast, looking more
aggressively energetic than ever.
"You're very full of beans," I said.
He braced his shoulders.
"Yes," he replied. "It must have been that powder, George!"
"That was a _soothing_ powder, man!" I exclaimed. "Not a tonic."
"You don't say so!"
"I certainly bought it as such!"
He looked into the fire for a moment or so, in mild contemplation. Then
he turned to me again.
"That was a wonderful play, George. D'you know any more like it?"
"No! It's unique. Even if it were not, I wouldn't take you to another
of the same kind."
"Why not?"
"Can't you remember?"
"I recollect being very interested in it."
"Is that all?" I gasped.
He paused.
"I was dreaming a good deal last night," he confessed, sheepishly.
"What sort of dreams?"
"Oh! Nightmare and things. . . . That fellow Captain Hook was after me.
So were those wolves."
His eyes were shining and his cheeks glowing. There was no doubt that
"Peter Pan" had left a very vivid impression on him.
"Would you like me to send for Dr. Croft?" I asked.
"No! Certainly not! Don't _you_ ever get . . . roused, George?"
"Yes! I did last night!"
"Wonderful play!" he murmured, entirely missing my point.
"Wonderful . . . !"
That was the refrain throughout breakfast. Both Molly and he excitedly
went over nearly every detail of the piece. Wolves, Indians, Pirates,
Underground Houses, Mermaids, Fairies--all these provided far more
sustenance than mere marmalade and toast and bacon. Indeed, for the
next week or so "Peter Pan" was the chief topic of conversation between
the juvenile and rejuvenated members of the household. It became an
obsession with them.
I couldn't understand it, because no play, however wonderful, could
possibly produce such an effect by itself. Was there any other
influence at work on Molly and Gran'pa? I concluded that there was,
for presently they began whispering together, nudging one another, and
occasionally making furtive signs during meal-times.
"What are you both up to?" I asked one day. "Why do you keep winking at
your grandfather, Molly?"
"It's . . . only in fun, Daddy."
"Quite so! But what is the fun?"
"Don't bully her, George!" butted in Gran'pa.
"Is this _my_ child, or yours?" I demanded.
The old sinner's eyes twinkled.
"I'm remotely responsible," he said.
"You're directly responsible for some other underhand work that is
going on. Since you two have joined forces, Molly's behavior has become
the last word in 'Frightfulness.' That's bad enough in all conscience,
after the years of good example I've set her, but what really hurts is
the fact that she neglects me, too. I might easily be a stranger in my
own house!"
Molly was at my side in a second, with her arms round my neck and a
glowing little cheek pressed against mine.
"_Daddy!_ I don't neglect you! I only play with Gran'pa more than I
used to."
"You never play with me," I growled.
"Oo--oo--oo! . . . I did last night!"
"Merely out of pity. You didn't want to."
"Only because I was tired, Daddy. . . ."
"There you are! Why are you so tired nowadays? You didn't used to be.
It's because you waste all your energy larking with Gran'pa, while I'm
slaving at the office all day. Then there is nothing left for me in the
evenings."
I caught her glancing fearfully in the old man's direction, and knew at
once that they actually _were_ up to something.
"Gran'pa," I said. "What is this terrible secret which is eating into
my daughter's life and destroying our happy home?"
"Don't be absurd, George!"
"Very well! I shall find out sooner or later. . . ."
Both Molly and her confederate grew very quiet at this threat of
ultimate discovery.
I looked at Gran'pa sternly.
"Is it," I asked, "anything to do with that wonderful project, about
which you have confided in Molly, but not in me?"
"You silly old Daddy! Of course it isn't!" cried Molly.
"Nothing whatever to do with it, George!" corroborated Gran'pa.
Molly pushed her fingers pensively through my hair. She was evidently
wavering.
"Shall I tell him?" she pleaded at last to her abettor.
"It's not fair to worry her like this, George!" he exclaimed.
"All right! Don't bother! The day has evidently come when even my own
child turns against me."
Molly was now on the verge of confession but at the fifty-ninth minute
of the eleventh hour, Gran'pa overcame her. He deliberately placed the
forefinger of his right hand in his mouth, took it out again and made
the sign of a cross on his beard! Molly watched him, like a rabbit
hypnotized by a snake.
"I can't, Daddy!" she murmured, clutching spasmodically at my hair.
"It's wicked to break a promise. . . ."
And that is precisely where the matter stood for the next two days. My
curiosity pulled one way and Molly's honor the other. I think the two
forces were about equally matched. Luck, however, eventually gave my
side the advantage--and the dread secret was suddenly out in all its
startling nakedness.
One evening, instead of returning home about six, as I had expected,
I came back a couple of hours earlier. It was a cold, wet, miserable
winter's day, and I naturally concluded that Molly and Gran'pa would be
amusing themselves in front of a roaring fire. Imagine my surprise when
Nanny said that they were in the tool-house outside--"making something."
I hurried out to see what mischief was afoot; but there was no sign of
them anywhere.
"That's funny," I said to Nanny. "They're not there. Are you certain?"
"Quite!" she answered, a little wearily. "They've been out since two
o'clock."
I went to the tool-house again, and even looked under and into things.
Still no trace!
"They must be indoors!" I said.
Nanny looked at me wildly. The last few weeks had told on her, and I
regret to say that she was not the woman she had been.
"They went out at two," she reiterated, slowly and firmly. "And they've
not come back into _this_ house again, or I should have seen them."
"But--they must be somewhere!" I exclaimed, growing alarmed.
"I'm sure they're old enough to look after themselves. I've got plenty
to do without . . ."
"Come, come, Nanny! Don't lose your temper!"
"Lose my temper!" she cried, suddenly bursting the dams which had been
holding back the accumulated floods of weeks of storm and tempest. "If
you'd had to put up with half what I have, you'd pack up your things
and go this very minute."
"But why didn't you tell me of this before?"
She snorted.
"Tch! You are just as bad yourself! It's wicked, that's what I call
it! The Almighty never intended us to live as long as your grandfather
hopes to--and it's going against His laws to start cutting up all those
poor little defenceless monkeys. It's disgusting. . . . To think of
that old man capering about with those nasty little animal glands in
him!"
It was the first time I had ever seen dear old Nanny really lose her
temper. I was simply spellbound.
"Nanny . . ." I began.
"Don't you 'Nanny' me! I've had enough of it. There hasn't been a
moment's peace since the day your grandfather first put foot here.
He's a Godless old man and ought to know better at his time of life.
I won't stay in this house after to-night. No! not if you offered me a
fortune!"
"You don't mean . . ."
She flamed out again.
"Not for a _fortune_!"
She suddenly rushed from the kitchen, upstairs, and into her own room.
I heard the door crash to with nerve-shattering emphasis. Then a deadly
silence enveloped the house.
"Good Lord!" I gasped.
For a full minute I stood quite still, paralyzed and helpless.
This, surely, was the beginning of the end. Without Nanny, life was
unthinkable--comfortless--void!
I gazed miserably at the wretched English winter outside, and it seemed
to symbolize all the grayness and coldness of the future. It also drew
my attention to the fact that Molly and Gran'pa had still to be found.
Where were they? Where could they be?
I put on my hat and coat and hurried down the garden in the pouring
rain.
"Molly!" I cried. "Where are you?"
The trees sighed and shook a deluge of tears on me.
"Confound the old fool!" I muttered, floundering through the mud and
filth which surrounded the fowl-pens.
Even the hens themselves withdrew from my wrath.
"Are you there?" I clamored, thrusting my hand through the low doorway.
The only answer was a scurrying on the part of the feathered folk. . . .
I stood up again and looked around the deserted and sodden garden. As I
did so, I saw a thin thread of blue smoke dismally ascending from the
midst of the raspberry canes.
"Ah!" I cried. "So that's where you are!"
In a second, I had bounded over the squelching celery bed and cabbage
patch and reached the tell-tale spot.
"Molly!" I shouted.
The sound of voices reached me from the bowels of the earth!
Puzzled and angry, I thrust aside the wet and clammy canes, stepped
forward--and suddenly found myself treading on air.
When I had recovered from the jolt and splash, it became apparent that
I was now at the bottom of a huge rectangular hole some four or five
feet in depth, and that the "floor" on which I stood, ankle deep in
mud, rose at a fairly steep angle to the normal level of the garden.
With my characteristic bad luck, I had plunged in at the "deep end."
Turning quickly round, I discovered what was obviously the entrance to
nothing more nor less than a crudely fashioned "dug-out" or underground
retreat, which was shut off from the outer world by an improvised door
of patchwork pieces of wood. From behind this, proceeded the faint
sound of human voices, apparently shouting some sort of primitive song:
"_Wah-wah! Wah-wah-woo!_"
I listened for a moment or two. Then I sniffed at the unmistakable odor
of grilled kippers--the kind of nauseating smell one usually associates
with gypsies' tents, caravans and cheap lodging-houses.
Here, at last was the explanation of all these weeks of secrecy and
furtiveness on the part of Molly and Gran'pa! This is what had happened
through taking them to see the underground scene in "Peter Pan." This
was how they showed their gratitude!
I thrust a hand between the soft muddy earth and the top of the "door,"
tugged, and down it came with a splash, followed by a gush of foul
smoke and kipper-laden air.
The "_Wah-wah-woo!_"-ing ceased, and an ominous silence reigned in its
place.
I waited for the poisonous fumes to clear a little, and then ducked my
head and peered into the dug-out. In the light of a couple of candles
and a blazing wood-fire, I caught sight of Molly, hastily removing a
kipper impaled on the end of a pointed stick, and Gran'pa thrusting a
half loaf of bread into his pocket.
"Come out!" I shouted.
Molly emerged, slowly and sheepishly. She was wet through, muddy,
black-faced and reeking with the mingled odors of damp earth, smoke,
and grilled fish. As she stood before me, she shivered in the cold and
driving rain.
I tried to convey to her some idea of my utter amazement and anger, but
realized that the English language was not intended for the expression
of such powerful emotions as mine were at that moment.
"Go into the house, immediately!" I cried at last. "You'll catch your
death of cold!"
"Daddy . . ." she began wheedlingly.
"Don't you touch me! I'm dirty enough already! . . . _Scoot!_"
She scooted; and I went in and hauled out Gran'pa who was behaving
like a sulky schoolboy. I was mad with him--mad at the dangerous
complications which might follow Molly's exposure to such weather.
"I daren't say what I think of you!" I flamed. "But I'll tell you my
opinion of myself. I was a fool ever to help you in this idiotic monkey
business. You may have been troublesome in the old days, but you were
at least harmless. Now, you've become not only a nuisance to the whole
household, but a menace as well. A thundering good hiding is what you
really deserve. . . ."
He shrank back into the cover of the dug-out and the rain pelted down
on me in torrents.
"Oh! Don't be afraid!" I said. "I wouldn't touch you for worlds. If
you wish, you can stay and 'pig' it in there for all eternity. I'm
certainly not going to ask you into _my_ house again."
I looked at his mud-stained beard, his grubby face, his dirty clothes,
and his filthy hands, and suddenly my anger gave way to a feeling of
disgust and repulsion.
Without another word, I turned, and strode quickly towards the house.