A Merry Man's Magazine
In the mind of the Captain of Foxenby there lingered pleasantly the
riddles he had heard at the Robin Hood concert. Some of them would, he
thought, make a bright addition to the fun columns of _The Rooke's
House Rag_, but it was necessary first to get the author's permission
to print them.
While crossing the yard with Roger he caught sight of Robin Arkness,
and gripped that mercurial youngster by the arm.
"Say, kid, you're a dandy riddle-maker. It'll be decent of you if
you'll let me put a few of those Foxenby conundrums in the next number
of _The Rag_."
Robin coloured, took off his cap, and nervously ran his fingers through
his yellow hair.
"They weren't my riddles, Forge," he stammered. "I got 'em from--from
somewhere."
"Not from a book," said Forge. "They were slap-bang up-to-date stuff,
poking excellent fun at us. Really, now, you don't mind if I publish a
few of them, do you?"
There was an awkward silence. Robin cast two or three quick glances at
Roger, who frowned back at him and shook his head. In this action he
was detected by Dick, who looked from one to the other in dawning
comprehension.
"Now I smell a rat!" he exclaimed. "Roger, you sly old fox, how many
of those riddles did you write?"
Robin and Roger saw this time that the cat was too far out of the bag
to be replaced. Both giggled rather foolishly, while the Captain
laughed at them.
"Cut away, Robin," said Roger. "Keep everything squat still. Better
to leave them guessing."
Robin pelted away willingly, glad to be relieved of the secret which he
and the prefect had shared. The riddles had been so much talked about,
and he had been so closely questioned concerning them, that the sudden
fame thrust upon him had become embarrassing.
Still, he had enjoyed the sensation for a time, and an idea struck him
now which thrilled him suddenly with excitement.
"Why," said Robin to himself, "shouldn't the Merry Men have a jolly old
magazine all to themselves? Not a big printed thing, of course, like
the _Foxonian_ or the _Rag_. Just pocket-size, so that a fellow could
slip it inside his Latin grammar and read it in school hours."
No grass ever had the chance to grow long under Robin's feet. At once
he called a meeting of the Merry Men in the quietest corner of Rooke's
House, and put his proposal before them with infectious enthusiasm.
"Champion!" Little John voted the idea.
"It's a winner, Robin!" said David of Doncaster.
"I'll write a serial for it," said Allan a Dale.
"I'll draw some coloured butterflies," said the Miller.
"Put me down for some pictures of wild animals," said the Tinker. "I
live in Regent's Park, outside the Zoo."
"Don't be bashful," observed Dave. "Say _inside_ it, Tinker."
Several other Merry Men promised contributions, varying from ghost
stories to verses on skylarks and redbreasts. Almost all were full of
zeal, and Robin glowed with proud anticipation as he saw, in
imagination, his new magazine packed with gems of literature and art.
"What'll you call it, Robin?" asked Little John.
"Why, the _Merry Men's Magazine_, of course," answered Robin. They all
agreed that no title could be better.
"How much will you charge for it?" somebody asked.
Ah, that was an important question! It was nearing the middle of the
term, and the coins still remaining in some of the Merry Men's pockets
were feeling a draught.
"Nixie," said Robin. "There'll be no subscription."
"Oh, come off it, Robin! Printing's dear and paper's dear."
"I can cadge some paper," said Robin. "And printing will cost nothing.
We'll print it ourselves."
"I say, this sounds exciting!" said Little John. "With one of those
rubber printing-presses, eh, Robin? I love messing about with those."
"I don't," said Dave. "It's all right making up the lines, but what
about putting the type back in its place afterwards? That gets skipped."
"Don't worry," said Robin. "When I said 'print', I meant pen-print.
The magazine will consist of thirty-six small sheets of paper,
pocket-size. Each Merry Man will write or draw his contribution on a
sheet of the paper, and hand it back to me within two days. I'll then
fasten the sheets together and pass the 'Mag' from boy to boy in the
Form. No reader will be allowed to keep it longer than a day.
Otherwise, it wouldn't go the rounds before the term-end."
Though some of them may have felt that this was not a very practical
scheme they withheld their criticism, accepted sheets of unruled paper
from Robin, and went to seek inspiration in the most secluded spot
available.
A day or so later contributions started rolling in, and Robin began to
realise how much more trouble than joy there is in the life of an
editor.
Allan a Dale's serial gave him a topping send-off. It was called "King
of the Road", and concerned a highwayman whose adventures had those of
Dick Turpin beaten to a frazzle. This gentleman, proudly calling
himself "Helter-skelter Hal", chivied a coachful of fat politicians
over a cliff, made a king stand on his head in a snowdrift, held up
three stage-coaches simultaneously with two pistols, rescued a maiden
in distress by hauling her through a carriage-window and riding with
her across a tree that bridged a raging torrent, and then attacked
single-handed, and put to flight, a score or more armed footpads who
were robbing the Governor of the Bank of England. Not such a bad
series of incidents for a first instalment!
So far, so good. The first jar came when Little John, trustiest of
Robin's comrades, brought in his contribution. This was a full-page
drawing of a football match, supposed to be the final tie for the
County Schools' Cup. Little John had written this title beneath it,
and he had put goal-posts at each end of the field. But for these
descriptive touches it might just as well have pictured a bull-fight,
or a cannibal dance round a missionary in a stew-pot.
"I say, old chap, this is a bit fierce," Robin commented, rather
blankly. "A wee bit out of perspective, isn't it? These trees, for
instance, look as if they were in the middle of the field."
"What trees?" asked Little John, wonderingly. "Those? Here, don't be
silly. Those are our forwards and St. Cuthbert's halves having a
wrestle for the ball."
"Oh, really," said Robin politely, "I beg your pardon. But why this
sheaf of corn behind the goal? Queer place for a wheatsheaf, isn't it?"
"Wheatsheaf be blowed!" cried Little John, indignantly. "Robin, you
ought to get some spectacles. That's Fluffy Jim in his paper costume."
"All serene," agreed Robin. "I'll put a cross over his head and write
his name underneath the picture, so's everybody will know. Passed for
publication. Next gentleman, please!"
The boy who was called Friar Tuck approached him and handed him a sheet
of verse.
"What's this?" asked Robin "'Musick in ye Forest'. Why the 'k' in
'music', Friar?"
"That's how they used to spell it in those days," said the Friar.
"But those days aren't these days," said Robin. "Here, get your heads
out of the light, you two, while I read the first verse."
Heedless of the self-conscious blushes of the embarrassed poet, he
commenced to read:--
"'In ye forest of Ancient Sherwood,
Where the deer so blithely skip,
There strode the doughty Robin Hood
With a horn upon his lip.'
Here, shiver my timbers, this is weird," commented Robin. "What's
Robin Hood want with a horn upon his lip? He's not a stag or a bull!
Even if he were either, horns grow on foreheads, don't they?"
"You haven't twigged it properly, Robin," explained the Friar. "Read
on, and you'll see what it means."
"Three blasts upon his horn he blew,
Each mounting high and higher,
Come forth, my Merry Men, quoth he,
And hear me strike the liar.'
I understand about the horn now, Friar. But who are you making the
liar?"
"Not me, I hope," put in Little John. "If so, I'll knock your head
off, you bounder."
Friar Tuck took a hasty peep at the manuscript. "Excuse me a moment,"
he said. "Did I write 'liar' instead of 'lyre'? Slip of the pen.
Alter it, Robin."
"No, I'll let it stand; it's funnier," said Robin. "Get your ears back
for the next spasm, friends:--
"'And withal Robin danced like fun,
And cried, Hey diddle, diddle,
While Little John his cornet blew
And David scraped his fiddle.'
Here, hold on a bit, Friar. Fiddles they may have had in Robin's
time--I'm not sure of it--but cornets weren't invented. Even if they
had been, Flenton couldn't play one."
"This is _that_ Little John, not this one," the Friar pleaded. "Cut
the cornet out, Robin, and make it what you like."
"Nay," said Robin, "this is your funeral, not mine. Here's the Tinker
with his picture. Hope the Royal Academy folk won't be jealous."
The Tinker's gait was almost a swagger. Whatever others might think of
his picture, the artist himself was evidently convinced of its dazzling
merits.
"Just dashed it off after lunch," he said airily. "Can do you a dozen
more like it, if you'll let me have the paper."
"Sorry, Tinker; must leave room for another genius or two," said Robin.
"By Jove, these are clinking cows. Could almost fancy I could hear
them 'moo'."
"Cows, carrots!" exclaimed the Tinker. "Chuck pulling my leg--no cows
there, Robin."
"What are they, then? Buffaloes?"
"Oh, stop kidding, Robin. You know very well those are flamingoes,
drawn to the life from the Zoo."
"Right!" said Robin. "We'll mark them with a capital 'F', and put
'Flamingoes' in a footnote. The others describe themselves. These
hippopotami, for instance----"
"Look here, Robin, you're trying to be smart," said the Tinker, in
aggrieved tones. "You must surely see those are laughing hyenas."
"Ah, to be sure," agreed Robin. "They're laughing at those sore-eyed
zebras in the corner. I see now."
"Oh, this is beyond a joke," growled the angry Tinker. "Can't tell
tigers from zebras! Here, let's point them all out to you before you
muddle them up any more."
"Later on, old chap," Robin told him, putting the picture in his
pocket-book. "Time's scarce now. Here's the Miller with his
butterflies. More R.A.'s than authors amongst the Merry Men,
evidently."
The Miller's butterflies washed out the rainbow in vivid colouring.
They were having a glorious feed in a wonderful garden, the only flaw
wherein was that daffodils, roses, hollyhocks and chrysanthemums were
all blooming simultaneously. Another minor detail was that some of the
butterflies seemed as big as crows, altogether dwarfing the flowers.
It was, indeed, a scene of tropical splendour!
"Bravo!" cried Robin, heaving a sigh of relief. "This'll do O.K."
The earlier contributors, with the exception of Allan a Dale, shot a
jealous glance at the Miller, grudging him Robin's praise. All
unconsciously their leader had deeply wounded their pride.
Too anxiously occupied with his editorial duties to notice the clouds
that were gathering, Robin turned next to David of Doncaster, whose
contribution proved rather a shocker. It was called "Celebrated
Executions--written and illustrated by David Storm."
"I say, Dave, what a hang-dog ruffian you are!" Robin exclaimed, trying
to hide his dismay under a laugh. "This makes milk-and-water of the
Chamber of Horrors. Charles the First, Anne Boleyn, Sir Walter
Raleigh, Lady Jane Grey--heads flying about like tennis balls. As for
the hangings, they're positively gruesome. Charles Peace, Palmer the
Poisoner, Neil Cream, Mrs. Dyer, and nine or ten more of 'em on the
gallows--I shan't sleep to-night if I look at this much longer."
"Won't you put it in, then, Robin?" asked Dave anxiously.
"Oh, rather, Dave!" Robin said. "It shall face the Tinker's frisky
Zoo. That'll be a foil for it. Any other gentleman obliging with a
contribution before the tea-bell rings?"
There was a slight pause, and then another Merry Man, known to the band
as The Tanner, timidly handed in a written attempt.
"Oh, a short story," Robin commented. "That's a change from verse and
pictures, anyhow."
He took it nearer to the lamp and commenced to read aloud. It ran as
follows:--
"'She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her
little bird--a poor slight thing the pressure or a finger would
have crushed--was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart
of its child-mistress was mute and motionless for ever.'
"Why," said Robin, breaking off at this point, "it sounds like
something I've read before somewhere."
"I should jolly well think it does," Dave interjected indignantly. "My
sister recited that at the Parsonage party last Christmas. It's the
'Death of Little Nell', from Dickens' _Old Curiosity Shop_."
"You young beggar, you've prigged it!" Robin accused him.
The shamefaced copyist tried to brave it out.
"Well, what if I did?" he asked defiantly. "You only gave us two days'
grace, and I got three separate headaches trying to do something funny."
"You should have just sent in your photograph and saved yourself the
trouble," said Dave.
Robin pocketed the contribution rather dejectedly, and was relieved
when the clanging of the tea-bell saved him from further criticism.
"Meet me round the bonfire in the Forest to-morrow afternoon, my men,"
he said. "There'll be the usual quantity of venison pasties to give
the magazine a start."
On a sharp and invigorating afternoon, when the crackling bonfire was a
sheer delight, they feasted right jovially on the contents of Robin's
pack. It was a far finer spread than ever he had given them before,
and he was the soul of good temper throughout. Finally, when all were
satisfied, he drew from his pocket a sewn-up copy of the magazine.
"List ye, my Merry Men. Right earnestly have ye striven to fill to
overflowing the pages of our first number. Yet, by my troth, now that
it is done and put together, it likes me not. It is a dud, a frost, a
fizzle, a wash-out."
There was a chorus of disappointed cries.
"Why, Robin, what's amiss with it?" asked Little John, in consternation.
"Amiss with it?" echoed Robin. "Look here at the title-page. What
saith it? _The Merry Men's Magazine_. What's bound to be expected of
a 'mag.' with a name like that? Fun and frolic from first page to
last. I turn to page 23. What do I find? An article on famous
executions. A bright and cheerful subject! Page 24 introduces us to
'The Deathbed in the Shop'. Page 27 tells us how a party of old Foxes
walked into a sandbank and never were seen again. Page 31 contains
'Curious Graveyard Epitaphs'----"
"They were funny ones," put in the compiler of them, protestingly.
"Funny as a boiling lobster," retorted Robin. "How about this one?
"'The poor boy here was starved at school,
One meal a day was this school's rule.'
Very funny, I don't think--being starved to death. Then what price
this one:
"'Here lies the body of young Jim Sawner,
Of him his mother is a mourner.
To you youths let this be a warner--
Grim Death lies waiting round the corner.'
That's the sort of stuff undertakers sit up all night reading," said
Robin, "but Foxes would drop big ink-blots on it. Then, to finish up,
page 34 is a picture called 'Early Christian Martyrs thrown to the
Lions'. Fancy them coming early-doors for that! I admit it's a good
picture--but where's the merriment come in?"
"You're pretty down on all of us, Robin," said Little John ruefully.
"No, chaps," replied Robin, seriously. "I don't want us to make fools
of ourselves, that's all. I was an ass to start this magazine. If it
passed round Foxenby we'd be the laughing-stock of the place. Poke the
fire up, Dave--that's the ticket. A lovely blaze. Here's a bit more
fuel to keep it going."
With that he suddenly cast the magazine into the heart of the flames,
while the others gasped with amazement at the sacrifice.
Thus perished the first and last number of the _Merry Men's Magazine_,
and neither the editor of the Foxonian nor the co-editors of _Rooke's
House Rag_ ever knew how near they had come to the sudden eclipse of
their greatness.