The siding was on such soil as recalled South Devon; flanking the
name-board there were a few pepper-trees with dry, fern-like
foliage, and bunches of red berries just then, the month being
March. Alfred Home drew up before that name-board in scorching
sunshine, wiped his face, and looked at his watch. Was he in
time?
He had heard nothing of the train yet, and it was not to be seen
approaching. His watch told him that it had been due for ten
minutes now. Surely it could not have gone! No, there it was. Its
whistle sounded, and soon it came winding through the sparse
woodlands. He gave a sigh of relief, and squatted down to wait
for it. Soon it drew up at Pepper-tree Siding.
He climbed on to a third-class carriage, which carried natives
and colored people, also one European in lonely majesty. This
last stood smoking a cigarette in an amber or mock-amber
mouthpiece. He was a boy not long out of his teens, a boy with a
dazzling complexion if, indeed, he were not a girl in a boy's
grey suit. He introduced himself, as he ushered his fellow-traveler
into a compartment. 'I'm the only one here,' he said. 'I've been
alone since Mafeking. I'm George Donald, and I'm just out from
Derry.' Home accepted the cigarette that was offered him.
Then he wiped his face again a dark, fiercely-burnt face. He
was a man over forty; he looked more than his age, or as if he
had had very hard times. 'Going far?' he asked. 'Not much further
now,' the boy said cheerfully. 'My station's fifty miles beyond
Gwelo. I'm about sick of it. I traveled second class on the boat.
But they never sent any money for expenses, so I've had to pig it
on this train.' Home smiled. 'Ever been out before?' he asked.
Donald shook his head. Then he indulged in many confidences. 'I'm
going to be partner in a trading concern,' he said. 'Soldana's is
the name of the place.' He went on to describe the voyage out,
with free criticisms of the food and of fellow-passengers. They
had had a concert or two on board, and he had recited at the
second-class concert last week. 'What did you recite?' Home asked
him. 'Oh, I gave them "Sir Galahad." I had to grind it up, with
lots more of Tennyson, for an exam. You know it?' Home nodded.
His lips moved. 'How ever does it go?' he said a moment after. 'I
only remember tags of lines here and there "And star-like mingles
with the stars." That's authentic, isn't it?' The boy repeated
the stanza whence those words came. 'Would you like any more?' he
asked. Home grinned. 'May as well have it through, if it's all
the same to you,' he said. So the boy began at the beginning, and
continued, and made an end, Home watching him all the while. His
eyes had satire in them as he watched, but they had also
admiration. Two or three hours after, they drew up at another
siding, and Home got together his belongings. He handed them to a
Bechuana boy who stood waiting for them outside on the step. Then
he settled himself down again, for the engine was waiting to take
water. He wrote a few words on a half-sheet and handed it to
Donald. 'That's my address,' he said. 'Do write or look me up at
my store, if I can be of any use at any time.' The reciter of
'Sir Galahad' shook his hand warmly, promising that he would do
so. Then Home scrambled out into the noontide heat. Soon the slow
train woke up again, and lumbered on.
It was much more than three years after when Donald came to
Home's store. He looked fagged and weary as he came up the
wagon-road, having done his thirty miles that day. He had a knapsack
on his back, but that was not heavy. Home was sitting on a case
under his verandah. The sun had just set, and he had closed the
store for the day, just before the traveler showed in sight. Now
that he drew near, he knew him at once. 'Hullo! I've often
thought about you,' was his greeting. 'But what have you been
doing with yourself?' The boy's face he looked boyish still,
though no longer girlish was worn. He was very pale, and had blue
marks under his eyes. 'I've had a hell of a time,' he muttered.
'Well, come and have some skoff,' Home said. 'After that you can
tell me about it all.' The boy ate but languidly, though he
emptied cup after cup. He said hardly anything; he looked down on
his luck. The zest was gone out of his talk, as the rose-pink out
of his cheeks, since they last met.
Home tried to say something cheerful. 'Do you know, if you'd come
this day week I don't think you'd have found me here. I've sold
this store. I'm meaning to go home, and to settle down there.'
The boy congratulated him rather listlessly. Then he spoke with a
sparkle of his old keenness. 'I wish I were going home,' he said.
'Why don't you?'
'I haven't a shilling,' the boy said; 'only minus shillings, only
debts.' Home tried to say something pleasant about luck turning,
but it came out flatly. After supper the boy told a story, but he
did not seem to tell it candidly by any manner of means. The
partnership he had gone to had been dissolved a year ago. He had
been trading, backed up by a Jew, this last cold weather. He had
had horrible luck; his store had been burnt down in August. It
was November now. He had been knocking about in a certain town
for a month or two. Then he had taken to the road. Some people
had been kind to him as he came along; others hadn't.
'What do you owe?' Home asked him abruptly. 'Oh, a pound or two,'
he answered, coloring. 'It's more than that, isn't it?' Home said
gently. The boy denied its being more than that. Then all of a
sudden he owned up. 'One Jew, they were partners, said it was
twenty-five; the other said he'd take fifteen. It wasn't really
more than fifteen, honor bright.'
'So you owe him fifteen,' Home said. 'Do you mean to pay him?'
'Not unless I'm forced,' the boy said savagely. He spoke in quite
an open way now. 'I'd rather pay him out than pay him back, the .. .'
Home changed the subject.
Just before they went to bed he recalled their brief journey
together so long ago now. He reached a newish Tennyson down from
his candle-box bookshelf. 'Do you mind saying that piece over
again that piece you said in the train?' Home spoke shyly.
The boy flushed up before he answered. 'I've forgotten it,' he
said.
'Well, read it, then, won't you, please? I've got it here.' The
boy started to read the lines. He read rather badly that night,
so Home thought to himself. He stuck in one place. 'Here, you'd
better go on,' he said hoarsely. So Home finished the poem to the
last line of it:
Until I find the Holy Grail.
'Do you know?' he said, when he had ended, 'I owe you a debt.
You've got a big balance to draw on so far as I'm concerned. I
bucked up a bit, beginning from that day when we met in the
train. I'd been thinking of giving up whisky, and other things,
before that day. But you gave me what I wanted a start. "Now or
never," I said, having seen you coming out so fresh as you did
yes, and heard you recite. I won't describe you as you were then;
you may or may not remember what you were like. That bit in the
poem about riding in lonely places through the dark caught my
fancy. I used to think of you who had gone away in the train
northwards. I thought of you trading on the Mashonaland veld, and
passing unscathed and unafraid over it by night and day you that
had nothing to be ashamed of. Thinking so helped to buck me up.
I've done better since that train journey than I ever did before
out here. Now I'm doing quite well, else it wouldn't be likely
I'd be thinking of going home, as I am.'
The boy looked up at him wretchedly. 'It all went wrong nearly
from the first,' he said, 'so far as I was concerned.'
'Yet all the while you helped me,' Home said. 'So I owe you a
debt, and I mean to pay my debts, whatever you mean to do about
yours. Come on, now. Take this bed. I'm sleeping in the store.'
Thus it came about that in the morning Home, having slept upon
his resolve, brought out some money. He stacked it on the table
impressively. 'I'm glad I slept upon it,' he said. 'I thought
last night that I'd give you the money to go home this year. I'd
made up my mind almost to go next year instead of this.'
The boy's eyes lighted up. Gratitude looked out of them. Then
they changed. It seemed that gloomy Fear had taken Gratitude's
place at the double window. Donald stammered a bit; then he spoke
out. 'I'd like to lie to you, like I did last night; but I can't
somehow. No, I'm going to tell you utter' truth. I'd like you to
give me the money well enough in one way. But if you did I know
what I'd do. You don't know how gone-in I am. If I ever got as
far as Capetown I'd drink out what was left there, or I'd blow it
some way. But I'd never get so far as Capetown; I'll be honest
with you. Yet thanks all the same. You meant kindly.'
'That's all right,' Home said kindly enough. 'Thanks for being
straight. I thought over that first plan of mine last night. I
wasn't long in chucking it for a second.' The boy listened
languidly. 'I was going second,' Home went on; 'I was going
second if I'd gone alone. Now let's both go together! Supposing I
square the Jew for you probably you understated his account a bit
(I've allowed for that) I may have enough for two thirds and
something to spare. You won't mind my going too, and my keeping
the bag, will you?'
'Mind?' the other said. 'I shouldn't think I'd mind, seeing it's
a one-and-only sort of chance. But I don't see why you should
give it me.'
'It's only paying you something on account,' Home said.
'Remember, there'll be a credit balance still after the journey's
over, but you'll give me a little time to pay off that, won't
you?'
So they went together in the following week by a slow train, the
same sort of slow train as had carried them of old one that
stopped at Peppertree Siding.
'I'd like to refund you,' the boy said while they waited there.
He was beginning to get a little of his own back by then, Home
thought; Home was beginning to suffer him as an inseparable much
more gladly. 'I've written some things that might sell,' Donald
murmured; 'things I wrote when I was traveling in lonely places
among the hills, or in the bush-veld, or by the river that held
me up for three days.'
'What sort of things? "Sir Galahad" sort of things?' Home asked
with a twinkle.
The boy shuddered. 'No, just the other sort of things,' he
answered. 'Not seeing everything right because one feels right,
but seeing everything devilish because one feels devilish.'
'Hadn't you better, perhaps, burn the lot?' Home said. 'Don't
talk about a refund to me. Why, man, I tell you I owe you quite a
lot. Make yourself easy; you've a big credit balance to draw on.'