BUTTERFLY
"I SAY, pater."
"Eh?" ejaculated Peter Barcroft without looking up from his work,
which happened to be revising a proof.
"I saw Betty Deringhame last night. I forgot to tell you," began
Billy as a "preliminary canter" to the recital of his raid-night
adventure.
"More fool you," grumbled his parent.
"I beg your pardon----" began the flight-sub, rather taken aback not
by his sire's brusqueness, for Barcroft Senior when engaged in the
non-creative work of proof-reading was like a bear with a sore head,
but by the off-hand manner in which he had received the announcement
of the girl's name.
"Look here!" exclaimed Peter, throwing down his pen and incidentally
bespattering with ink the long, narrow sheet of printed matter. "Why
on earth you want me to preach you a homily on the evils of
betting----"
"Betting?" interrupted Billy. "I said nothing about betting. What I
said was: 'I--saw--Betty--Deringhame--last--night.'"
Peter swung round in his revolving chair, and raised his eyebrows in
mild surprise.
"Did you?" he asked. "My mistake, but why did you murmur that most
interesting news into my deaf ear? What's she doing in this part?"
Billy duly reported the state of affairs.
"Jolly hard lines on the girl and her mother, too," was his parent's
verdict. "Of course women of all classes are making munitions now,
and all praise to them for doing it. I am not referring to that, but
to the fact that Mrs. Deringhame has had a come-down in life. Did
you ever hear how it occurred?"
"No," replied the young officer. "You see, I really didn't like to
ask Betty, and she's too jolly brave to whine over her troubles."
"Sit down and fill your pipe," continued Barcroft Senior. "No
matches? Hang it, there were three or four boxes on my desk this
morning. Here, never mind, use a spill."
Billy laid a restraining hand upon his father's arm.
"Don't use your precious proofs, pater," he observed.
"Bless my soul! You were only just in time, my boy. Another second
and that printed stuff would have been mingling in the form of smoke
with the Lancashire atmosphere. Ah, yes; we were discussing the
Deringhames. The same old tale, Billy: an inexperienced woman and a
rascally lawyer. Not that all lawyers are rascals, you understand,
but the profession contains a high percentage of rogues who, but for
their knowledge of the law and of how far to go without overstepping
the lawyer made laws of the land, would be doing time. This chap was
a cute one. He persuaded Mrs. Deringhame to invest most of her
capital in certain concerns of which he was a sort of sleeping
partner. In five years he had literally done her out of a cool 6,000
pounds; and then, pretending to set matters right, he prevailed upon
her to mortgage her house at Alderdene. Nominally he was her agent;
in reality he was agent for the mortgagee, who was himself. You see
the move?"
"Then, when war broke out, he drew in the mortgage, bringing an
excuse that tightness of money necessitated the step. Mrs.
Deringhame was unable at short notice to meet the demand. In vain
she pleaded for time. Her last remnant of capital vanished into the
rogue's clutches."
"The rotter!" ejaculated Billy indignantly. "And what is the
bounder's name. Do you happen to know?"
"Yes," replied Mr. Barcroft. "Let me see--yes I have it: Antonius
Grabb, of the firm of Grabb and Gott, of Ely Place."
"By Jupiter!" muttered Billy.
Mr. Barcroft raised his eyebrows enquiringly, but his son made no
further audible comment. He had made the unpleasing discovery that
the man who had wronged Betty and her mother was Bobby Kirkwood's
uncle, and when, in the natural course of events the aforementioned
uncle died, the A.P., should he be still surviving, would benefit
considerably under the will of Antonius Grabb.
"By the bye," said Peter abruptly changing the subject. "Seen
anything of Entwistle?"
"Met him coming from the bath-room half an hour ago; he was limping
a good deal," replied Billy. "I don't suppose it will be long before
he's down."
"I've a job for you, my boy," continued Peter. "They've just
telephoned through to say that Entwistle's car won't be able to
fetch him. My perambulating box of tricks and petrol is out of
action somewhere in the hills. So I want you to drive our guest in
the trap to Barborough. I'd go myself if it weren't for these
confounded proofs. That idiot of a comp, will persist in printing
'stem' for 'stern.' The drive will do you good--blow some of last
night's cobwebs away."
"Steady, pater," protested Billy with a hearty laugh. "I am no hand
at driving horseflesh. Give me something in the motor line and I'm
all there."
"You'll be all right with Butterfly," declared Barcroft Senior.
"She's the steadiest-footed quadruped that ever stepped it out in
shafts. A perfect gem, and the envy of the countryside."
He spoke with conviction, but the good character bestowed upon the
animal was based simply upon hearsay. "Butterfly" was a new
importation, having joined the establishment of Ladybird Fold only a
week previously, and during that period she had either rusticated in
the adjoining meadow or in her stable.
The flight-sub walked across the study to the open window. Without,
hill and dale were bathed in the autumnal sunlight, and, having
reviled the neighbourhood of Tarleigh in the darkness of the
previous night, Billy felt compelled to render ample reparation to
its charms as revealed by the light of day.
For miles there was a succession of hills and valleys, until the
vista was terminated by the frowning Pennines. The country was well
wooded, except for the grassy moorlands and bare yet picturesque
outlines of the pikes and fells. Here and there were signs of human
habitation in the form of well-built stone cottages, while in some
of the steeper valleys could be discerned the chimneys and roofs of
various mills and bleaching works. Nor did these lofty "stacks"
disfigure the landscape. They seemed to harmonise with nature. The
only blot in the vista was perhaps the line of electric cables with
which the Zeppelin's observation car had so nearly collided with
disastrous result on the previous night.
In the middle distance a haze of smoke through which a regular
forest of factory chimneys could be dimly discerned marked the
position of Barborough. Distance had lent not exactly enchantment
but a discreet contrast to the rural outlook, and while taking in
the panoramic effect with its attendant peacefulness Billy Barcroft
could hardly realise that eight hours previously a cowardly
night-raider had been hurling down her death-dealing missiles upon
this portion of Britannia's sea-girt domain.
"Right-o, pater!" he exclaimed. "I'll risk it."
He spoke feelingly. The perils of his profession he regarded with
equanimity. It was his choice, and he had no cause to regret it. But
the idea of driving a quadruped of sorts along those steep roads and
through the crowded streets of Barborough filled him with genuine
apprehension.
"Hang it!" he soliloquised. "There's no cut-out on a gee-gee. I know
how to stop an engine right enough, but a horse has a brain of its
own and can be jolly erratic when it wants to. What on earth
possessed the governor to go in for a quadruped when he has a
rattling good car?"
Just at that moment the harmony of the morning was interrupted by
the high-pitched voice of Mrs. Carter engaged in animated
conversation with Mrs. Sarah Crumpet, the D.T.--otherwise Domestic
Treasure--who "did" for Andrew Norton, Esquire.
Although the two ladies were at a side door that opened directly
into the scullery their voices could be heard with astounding
clearness.
"Eh! An' tha' found tha bed not slept upon?" she exclaimed. "Mr.
Norton may ha' been called away a-purpose."
"Nay, that 'e wur not, Jane," declared Mrs. Crumpet. "I'm a-tellin'
on ye, sitha'. Mr. Norton 'e meant to come back, for the whisky was
on th' table."
"Methinks he looks to my employer for his nightcap," remarked Mrs.
Carter with asperity.
"An' I was so overcome like," continued Sarah ignoring the
insinuation, "that I simply 'ad to 'ave a drop-the first time I ever
'ad a chance up yonder."
"'As 'e paid thee thy brass?" enquired the sympathetic Mrs. Carter.
"Ay, that 'e did, thanks be. But it seems most strange-like, this
business."
"I'll tell th' master," asserted Mrs. Carter as the other woman
walked away. "An' sitha', if you're feelin' out o' sorts again, Mrs.
Crumpet, now's your chance afore the bottle's locked up."
With this parting injunction the "help" of Ladybird Fold shut the
door and made her way to the study.
"Yes, I know," said Mr. Barcroft when the Little Liver Pill had duly
reported the absence of Mr. Norton. "He was here last night and left
in a hurry before I returned; I'll stroll across in the course of
the forenoon. Ah, good morning, Entwistle; how's that foot?"
"Better, thanks," replied his guest. "Gives me a bit of a twinge
when I set it to ground. Well, what's the morning's news?"
"Papers not in yet, not that I expect any enlightenment on the
subject of the raid in the Press report. There are all sorts of
rumours flying about, as is to be expected. But it will be all right
some day--when we tackle the business properly. These Zeps. will
come once too often. It's a mystery to me that they haven't summed
up the results and come to the conclusion that these haphazard raids
aren't worth the candle."
"Unless it is to divert the attention of the German people from the
Western Front," remarked Entwistle.
"Quite possible," agreed Peter. "Now to breakfast. I'm sorry your
car couldn't come to fetch you--not that I want to lose you exactly,
although I have a batch of proofs in hand," he added bluntly. "You
understand? Billy will drive you into Barborough."
"And what do you think of the measures taken to combat the Zeppelin
menace?" enquired Entwistle addressing himself to Billy. The
flight-sub shook his head.
"I'm afraid I cannot venture an opinion," he replied. "Both branches
of the Air Service are doing their level best--they cannot do more."
"You won't be able to draw Billy, Entwistle," added his parent with
a laugh. "Even I cannot get him to talk shop."
"Pity some military men I know aren't like him," said the vet.
"Nowadays it's either too much shop or too much official reticence.
The middle path seems to have been lost sight of. But any more of
the mystery of your friend Andrew Norton? I couldn't help hearing
your housekeeper holding forth just now."
"Can't understand it," replied Barcroft Senior. "Why Norton should
bolt out of my house and desert his own all night is a complete
puzzle. I can only put forward the theory that the Zep. raid made
him lose his mental balance--and he's a fellow with a steady head, I
fancy. If he doesn't put in an appearance before lunch time I feel
it is my duty to report the circumstances to that pillar of
intelligence the Tarleigh police sergeant."
"And possibly get yourself arrested on suspicion," chuckled
Entwistle. "Norton was last seen in this house, remember."
"It would be an experience that would afford practical knowledge as
far as my work is concerned," decided Peter. "Nothing like real life
to work into a plot, you know."
Breakfast over, Entwistle and the flight-sub went out into the
garden for the time-honoured matutinal pipe until it was time for
Peter's guest to take his departure.
"Come along, Billy," shouted his father. "Bear a hand at getting
Butterfly harnessed." The flight-sub was in mufti. His uniform had
been damaged beyond repair during his toil amidst the ruins of that
devastated street in Barborough. A scar across his cheek and several
livid weals on the back of his hands testified to his labours
amongst the burning debris.
Somewhat proudly Peter threw open the doors of the combined
coach-house and stable. Within was a small governess cart and a
sleek and obviously overfed donkey.
"Allow me to introduce you to Butterfly," he announced. "Warranted
to be quiet in harness and a thoroughly good trotter."
Billy said not a word. He had contemplated with considerable
misgivings the imposed task of driving a spirited mare through a
populous district; but those doubts were as naught compared with the
prospect of piloting a humble "moke" through traffic in a strange
town.
"Thank goodness I'm in mufti!" he soliloquised with a deep-drawn
sigh. "'The condemned man walked firmly to the scaffold' sort of
feeling. Well, here goes; no one is likely to know me in this show."
Putting the animal into the shafts was an evolution that required
the utmost tact on the part of Barcroft Senior and much nautical
skill on the part of his son. It was their first attempt in this
direction.
"Get her this way while I hold the shafts," exclaimed Peter. "Gee
up, old lady."
Butterfly obeyed and took up a position athwart the hawse of the
craft, as Billy expressed it.
"Round with her," continued Barcroft Senior. "I can't hold these
infernal shafts up all day."
Putting his shoulders to the donkey's hind quarters Billy succeeded
in "slewing the boat's stern round."
"Easy astern!" he shouted in ringing nautical tones.
Surprised beyond measure, Butterfly turned her head to take stock of
this unusual type of groom, with the result that the flight-sub's
face received a good buffet from the animal's nose. Simultaneously
the brass trappings of the harness rasped Peter's hand.
"Confound it!" he roared, relaxing his grasp and allowing one shaft
to fall with a clatter upon the cobbles. "The brute's barked my
knuckles."
Then, reasoning that the damage afforded a sufficient excuse to
"knock off" his professional labours he held his peace on the nature
of his injuries.
"Warranted quiet in harness," quoted Billy as his parent cautiously
retrieved the shaft. "My word, pater, there's not much room between
the dock-gates. Think she'll take it?"
"Ought to," replied Barcroft Senior dubiously. "Now, have another
shot. I wish the brute had a reverse gear."
By dint of mingled coaxing and physical force Butterfly was backed
between the shafts. Then both men regarded the result of their
triumph with chastened looks.
"Strikes me we've missed this sling arrangement on the starboard
side," remarked Billy. "That leather thing ought to be round the
shaft. She'll have to forge ahead a bit."
"Right-o!" assented his parent. "Gee-up. Oh, dash it all! That's my
toe this time."
For Butterfly, in "forging ahead" had brought her hind hoof heavily
upon Peter's foot, which happened to be encased in a carpet slipper.
At length the evolutions arrived at a state that found the donkey in
the shafts. Father and son stood back to admire their handiwork and
to puzzle out the way to adjust the seemingly chaotic tangle of
harness.
"Why not ask Entwistle?" suggested the flight-sub. "He's a vet. He
ought to know how this gear is rove."
Mr. Barcroft shook his head. He did not like to admit defeat.
"Can't ask him to hobble out here with that sprained ankle of his,"
he said. "Unfortunately I'm not used to the job."
"So I should imagine, pater," added Billy pointedly. "Well, we've
got to get on with the business. I'll make sure that everything's
lashed up securely. That's the main point. If it isn't right it
can't be helped."
The task of harnessing completed Butterfly was led out of the
stable, an operation that nearly resulted in Peter being pinned
against the door-post by one of the wheels.
"She's perfectly docile now she's in the trap," he decided as the
donkey walked demurely round to the front of the house. "That's
right, Entwistle. Another hour will see you safely home. Good-bye,
don't forget to look me up at any time. Up you get, Billy."
"Thanks, I'm not having any at present," decided the flight-sub.
"I'll lead her down the narrow lane until we get to the high-road.
Now, then, my hearty; easy ahead once more."
Downhill the donkey walked sedately; Billy's confidence showed signs
of returning as he led the sure-footed animal along the
rough-surfaced track. Just as it joined the main road there was a
short, steep rise.
"Jump in," exclaimed Entwistle; "she'll take it all right."
"I'll give her a chance," demurred the flight-sub. "My weight will
make a difference. Now, then, old lady; show us what you can do."
Butterfly rose nobly to the occasion. So did the shafts, for the
animal walked away leaving the governess-cart in a state of most
unstable equilibrium. By dint of hanging on to one of the shafts
Billy saved his companion from being deposited upon the ground,
while Butterfly, having parted company with the trap, stopped and
surveyed the antics of the still oscillating conveyance.
"Never knew a reef-knot to slip like that before," exclaimed Billy,
regarding the trailing traces.
"It would be better if the traces were made fast in the orthodox
manner, I fancy," suggested Entwistle, alighting from the cart and
limping to the shafts. "There, that's the way--although it's not
done navy fashion."
Along the main road Butterfly showed no signs of "speed-form."
Downhill she walked slowly; uphill she plodded with even less haste,
and since it was all either up or down progress was far from swift.
"I'll have to have another shave when we get to Barborough,"
remarked Billy with an emphasis on the "when." "I scraped at eight
this morning, but at this rate I'll have cultivated a beard before
Butterfly lands us at your place."
"The first mile," commented Entwistle, pointing to a milestone.
"Twenty minutes fifteen seconds. Some record that."
A short distance beyond Blackberry Cross the donkey's manoeuvres
began to cause Billy additional alarm. Without any apparent reason
Butterfly would describe a semi-circle, keeping her eyes fixed upon
something in the road.
"Starboard, you blighter!" roared the amateur driver, tugging at one
of the reins. "You'll have us in the ditch in half a shake."
"Peculiar--very," remarked the vet.
"A very peculiar craft in all respects," added Billy. "She's not
used to this style of yoke-line. Steady, you swab! You're swinging
to port again."
"I've twigged it," announced, Entwistle. "She's jibbing at those
manholes. They seem to irritate her. We'll have to be jolly careful
when we get to the tram-lines or she'll try conclusions with a car.
I tell you what: while you are in Barborough----"
"If we ever get there," muttered Billy.
"You ought to get that brute shod. She may do better on the metallic
roads."
Two hours later Butterfly and party were in the thickest part of the
traffic. To the flight-sub it was a sort of nightmare. Tram after
tram had to be stopped to enable the erratic animal to pass, while a
crowd of urchins (practically all the unwashed of Barborough, Billy
thought) tailed on to the "Dead March in Saul" procession and
contributed rounds of applause as Barcroft steered the donkey
through the traffic mostly by means of his shoulders directed
against the animal's ribs.
"Come in," said Entwistle as the party finally drew up outside the
vet's house. "Put your steed in the stable and stop and have lunch."
"Thanks all the same," said Billy. "I must be getting back, or it
will be dark before I see Ladybird Fold again."
The two men said good-bye, and Barcroft, leading the animal, set off
on the return journey.
"I'll leave the moke at a blacksmith's, and while the thing's being
shod I may as well call and see Betty," he decided, and proceeded to
put his plan into execution by enquiring of one of the attendant
throng--he suffered their presence with equanimity by this
time--where a shoesmith was to be found.
"Fine animal, sir," remarked the smith. "Best I've seen for a long
time. Won't hurry, eh? Well, p'raps 'tes not being shod. How long
will it take? Say half an hour."
Billy deliberated. It was not much use going to "Mill View" if he
had to be back in thirty minutes. On the other hand he could easily
put up the animal at Two Elms and save time on the return journey.
Besides, curiosity prompted him to watch the forthcoming operation.
The smith was a powerfully-built fellow from his waist upwards. His
chest was of enormous depth, his breast and arm muscles stood out
like the gnarled trunk of a tree. But his lower limbs were so thin
that they seemed incapable of supporting the bulky "upperworks."
Butterfly submitted graciously to the initial stages of the
operation, but when it came to shoeing the off-side fore-foot she
exhibited signs of obstinacy.
"I'll have to throw her, sir," declared the smith. "Stand aside a
bit."
Bending he gripped the donkey's legs and applied his huge bulk to
her ribs. Like a felled ox Butterfly fell.
"Keep 'er 'ead down, sir," cautioned the smith. "I won't be long."
At length the last shoe was nailed on and filed smooth. Billy had
had about enough of it, for the pungent smell of the forge was far
from pleasant. But not so Butterfly. Apparently smarting under the
indignity she refused to rise.
The smith applied a leather strap, but unavailingly. He gripped her
head and tried to lever it up. The donkey lashed out, narrowly
missing Billy's shins.
"Dunno as 'ow I seed such a brute afore," said the smith, scratching
his head. "Look 'ere, sir; do you 'old her tail and pull, and I'll
tackle her 'ead. Now, up you come."
Butterfly did. With a series of frantic kicks she regained her feet,
sent the astonished smith flying in one direction and Billy in
another.
For some seconds the flight-sub was too dazed to take any active
interest in the sequence of events, but when at length he picked him
self up and ran to the smithy door, Butterfly's heels were just
visible as at a good fifteen miles an hour she disappeared round the
corner of the street.