"Yes, it's all right, Master Winthorpe," said Farmer Tallington; "but
what will the folks say?"
"Say! What have they got to do with it?" cried Squire Winthorpe. "You
boys don't make so much noise. I can't hear myself speak."
"Do you hear, Tom, howd thy row, or I'll send thee home," said the
farmer; "recollect where you be."
"Yes, father," said, the lad.
"It wasn't Tom; it was me," said Dick quietly.
"Then hold your tongue, sir," cried the squire. "Now look here, Master
Tallington. If a big drain is cut right through the low fen, it will
carry off all the water; and where now there's nothing but peat, we can
get acres and acres of good dry land that will graze beasts or grow
corn."
"Yes, that's fine enough, squire," said Tom's father; "but what will the
fen-men say?"
"I don't care what they say," cried the squire hotly. "There are about
fifty of us, and we're going to do it. Will you join?"
"Hum!" said Tom Tallington's father, taking his long clay-pipe from his
lips and scratching his head with the end. "What about the money?"
"You'll have to be answerable for a hundred pounds, and it means your
own farm worth twice as much, and perhaps a score of acres of good land
for yourself."
"But it can't be good land, squire. There be twenty foot right down o'
black peat, and nowt under that but clay."
"I tell you that when the water's out of it, James Tallington, all that
will be good valuable land. Now, then, will you join the adventurers?"
"Look here, squire, we've known each other twenty year, and I ask thee
as a man, will it be all right?"
"And I tell you, man, that I'm putting all I've got into it. If it were
not right, I wouldn't ask you to join."
"Nay, that you wouldn't, squire," said Farmer Tallington, taking a good
draught from his ale. "I'm saaving a few pounds for that young dog, and
I believe in you. I'll be two hundred, and that means--"
"Twice as much land," said the squire, holding out his hand. "Spoken
like a man, Master Tallington; and if the draining fails, which it can't
do, I'll pay you two hundred myself."
"Nay, thou weant," said Farmer Tallington stoutly. "Nay, squire, I'll
tak' my risk of it, and if it turns out bad, Tom will have to tak' his
chance like his father before him. I had no two hundred or five hundred
pounds to start me."
"Nor I," said the squire.
"May we talk now, father?" said Dick.
"Yes, if you like."
"Then," cried Dick, "I wish you wouldn't do it. Why, it'll spoil all
the fishing and the 'coy, and we shall get no ice for our pattens, and
there'll be no water for the punt, and no wild swans or geese or duck,
and no peat to cut or reeds to slash. Oh, I say, father, don't drain
the fen."
"Why, you ignorant young cub," cried the squire, "do you suppose you are
always to be running over the ice in pattens, and fishing and shooting?"
"Well, no, not always," said Dick, "but--"
"But--get out with your buts, sir. Won't it be better to have solid
land about us instead of marsh, and beef and mutton instead of birds,
and wheat instead of fish?"
"No, I don't think so, father."
"Well, then, sir, I do," said the squire. "I suppose you wouldn't like
the ague driven away?"
"I don't mind, father," said Dick laughing. "I never get it."
"No, but others do, and pains in their joints, and rheumatics. I say,
Tallington, when they get as old as we are, eh?"
"Yes, they'll find out the difference, squire; but do you know, that's
how all the fen-men'll talk."
"Let 'em," said the squire; "we've got leave from the king's magistrates
to do it; and as for the fen-men, because they want to live like frogs
all their lives, is that any reason why honest men shouldn't live like
honest men should. There, fill up your pipe again; and as for the
fen-men, I'll talk to them."
There was a bonny fire in the great open fireplace, for winter was fast
coming on, and the wind that had been rushing across the fen-land and
making the reeds rustle, now howled round the great ivy-clad chimney of
the Hall, and made the flame and smoke eddy in the wide opening, and
threaten every now and then to rush out into the low-ceiled homely room,
whose well-polished oak furniture reflected the light.
The two lads sat listening to the talk of their elders, and after a time
took up the work that had been lying beside them--to wit, some netting;
but before Dick had formed many meshes he stopped to replenish the fire,
taking some awkward-looking pieces of split root which were as red as
mahogany, and placing them upon the top, where they began to blaze with
a brilliant light which told tales of how they were the roots of
turpentine-filled pines, which had been growing in the ancient forest
that existed before the fen; and then taking from a basket half a dozen
dark thick squares of dried peat and placing them round the flaming
embers to keep up the heat.
"I say, Tom," said Dick in a low voice, "I don't think I should care to
live here if the fen was drained."
"No," replied Tom in the same tone, "it would be a miserable place."
"Now, Tom, lad, home!" said the farmer, getting up. "Good-night,
squire!"
"Nay, I won't say good-night yet," cried the squire. "Hats and sticks,
Dick, and we'll walk part of the way home with them."
As they left the glowing room with its cosy fire, and opened the hall
door to gaze out upon the night, the wind swept over the house and
plunged into the clump of pines, which nourished and waved upon the
Toft, as if it would root them up. The house was built upon a rounded
knoll by the side of the embanked winding river, which ran sluggishly
along the edge of the fen; and as the party looked out over the garden
and across the fen upon that November night, they seemed to be ashore in
the midst of a sea of desolation, which spread beneath the night sky
away and away into the gloom.
From the sea, four miles distant, came a low angry roar, which seemed to
rouse the wind to shout and shriek back defiance, as it plunged into the
pines again, and shook and worried them till it passed on with an angry
hiss.
"High-tide, and a big sea yonder," said the squire. "River must be full
up. Hope she won't come over and wash us away."
"Wesh me away, you mean," said Farmer Tallington. "You're all right up
on the Toft. 'Member the big flood, squire?"
"Ay, fifteen years ago, Tallington, when I came down to you in
Hickathrift's duck-punt, and we fetched you and Tom's mother out of the
top window."
"Ay, but it weer a bad time, and it's a good job we don't hev such
floods o' watter now."
"Ay 'tis," said the squire. "My word, but the sea must bite to-night.
Dick here wanted to be a sailor. Better be a farmer a night like this,
eh, Tallington?"
"Deal better at home," was the reply, as the door was closed behind
them, shutting out the warmth and light; and the little party went down
a path leading through the clump of firs which formed a landmark for
miles in the great level fen, and then down the slope on the far side,
and on to the rough road which ran past Farmer Tallington's little
homestead.
The two elder friends went on first, and the lads, who had been together
at Lincoln Grammar-School, hung behind.
To some people a walk of two miles through the fen in the stormy
darkness of the wintry night would have seemed fraught with danger, the
more so that it was along no high-road, but merely a rugged track made
by the horses and tumbrils in use at the Toft and at Tallington's Fen
farm, Grimsey, a track often quite impassable after heavy rains. There
was neither hedge nor ditch to act as guide, no hard white or drab road;
nothing but old usage and instinctive habit kept those who traversed the
way from going off it to right or left into the oozy fen with its black
soft peat, amber-coloured bog water, and patches of bog-moss, green in
summer, creamy white and pink in winter; while here and there amongst
the harder portions, where heath and broom and furze, whose roots were
matted with green and grey coral moss, found congenial soil, were long
holes full of deep clear water--some a few yards across, others long
zigzag channels like water-filled cracks in the earth, and others
forming lanes and ponds and lakes that were of sizes varying from a
quarter of a mile to two or three in circumference.
Woe betide the stranger who attempted the journey in the dark, the track
once missed there was death threatening him on every hand; while his
cries for help would have been unheard as he struggled in the deep black
mire, or swam for life in the clear water to find no hold at the side
but the whispering reeds, from which, with splashings and whistling of
wings, the wild-fowl would rise up, to speed quacking and shrieking
away.
But no thoughts of danger troubled the lads as they trudged on slowly
and moodily, the deep murmur of their elders' voices being heard from
the darkness far ahead.
"Wonder what old Dave said about his powder-flask?" said Tom, suddenly
breaking the silence.
"Don't know and don't care," said Dick gruffly.
There was a pause.
"I should like to have been there and heard Old Hicky," said Tom, again
breaking the silence.
"Yah! He'd only laugh," said Dick. "He likes a bit of fun as well as
we do."
"I should have liked to see the fire fly about."
"So should I, if he'd thought it was Jacob, and given him what he calls
a blob," said Dick; "but it wasn't half a bang."
"Well, I wish now we hadn't done it," said Tom.
"Why?"
"Because Dave will be so savage. Next time we go over to his place
he'll send us back, and then there'll be no more fun at the duck 'coy,
and no netting and shooting."
"Oh, I say, Tom, what a fellow you are! Now is Dave Gittan the man to
look sour at anybody who takes him half a pound of powder? Why, he'll
smile till his mouth's open and his eyes shut, and take us anywhere."
"Well, half a pound of powder will make a difference," said Tom
thoughtfully.
"I'll take him a pound," said Dick magnificently.
"How are you going to get it?"
"How am I going to get it!" said Dick. "Why, let Sam Farles bring it
from Spalding; and I tell you what, I won't give him the pound. I'll
give him half a pound, and you shall give him the other."
"Ah!" cried Tom eagerly; "and I tell you what, Dick--you know that old
lead?"
"What! that they dug up when they made the new cow-house?"
"Yes, give him a lump of that, and we'll help him melt it down some
night, and cast bullets and slugs."
"Seems so nasty. Father said it was part of an old lead coffin that one
of the monks was buried in."
"Well, what does that matter? It was hundreds of years ago. Dave
wouldn't know."
"And if he did he wouldn't mind," said Dick. "All right! we'll take him
the lead to-morrow."
"But you haven't got the powder."
"No, but Hicky goes to Ealand to-morrow, and he can take the money to
the carrier, and we can tell Dave we've sent for it, and he knows he can
believe us, and that'll be all right."
There was another pause, during which the wind shrieked, and far
overhead there came a confused gabbling noise, accompanied by the
whistling of wings, a strange eerie sound in the darkness that would
have startled a stranger. But the boys only stood still and listened.
"There they go, a regular flight!" said Dick. "If Dave hears them won't
he wish he'd got plenty of powder and lead!"
"Think the old monks'll mind?" said Tom.
"What! that flock of wild-geese going over?"
"No-o-o! Our taking the lead."
"Oh! I say, Tom, you are a chap," cried his companion. "I know you
believe in ghosts."
"No, I don't," said Tom stoutly; "but I shouldn't like to live in your
old place all the same."
"What! because it's part of the old monastery?"
"Yes. The old fellows were all killed when the Danes came up the river
in their boats and burned the place."
"Well, father and I aren't Danes, and we didn't kill them. What stuff!"
"No, but it's not nice all the same to live in a place where lots of
people were murdered."
"Tchah! who cares! I don't. It's a capital old place, and you never
dig anywhere without finding something."
"Yes," said Tom solemnly, "something that isn't always nice."
"Well, you do sometimes," said Dick, "but not often. But I wouldn't
leave the old place for thousands of pounds. Why, where would you get
another like it with its old walls, and vaults, and cellars, and thick
walls, and the monks' fish-ponds, and all right up on a high toft with
the river on one side, and the fen for miles on the other. Look at the
fish."
"Yes; it's all capital," said Tom. "I like it ever so; but it is
precious monky."
"Well, so are you! Who cares about its being monky! The old monks were
jolly old chaps, I know."
"How do you know? Sh! what's that?"
"Fox. Listen."
There was a rush, a splash, a loud cackling noise, and then silence save
for the wind.
"He's got him," cried Tom. "I wish we had Hicky's Grip here; he'd make
him scuffle and run."
"Think it was a fox?" said Tom.
"Sure of it; and it was one of those old mallards he has got. Come on.
Why shouldn't the fox have duck for supper as well as other people?"
"Ah, why not?" said Tom. "But how do you know the monks were jolly old
chaps?"
"How do I know! why, weren't they fond of fishing, and didn't they make
my ponds? I say, let's have a try for the big pike to-morrow. I saw
him fly right out of the water day before yesterday, when it rained.
Oh, I say, it is a shame!"
"What's a shame?" said Tom.
"Why, to do all this draining. What's the good of it?"
"To make dry fields."
"But I don't want any more dry fields. Here have I been thinking for
years how nice it would be, when we'd done school to have all the run of
the fen, and do what we liked, netting, and fishing and shooting, and
helping Dave at the 'coy, and John Warren among the rabbits."
"And getting a hare sometimes with Hicky's Grip," put in, Tom.
"Yes; and now all the place is going to be spoiled. I say, are we going
right home with you?"
"I suppose so," said Tom. "There's the light. Old Boggy'll hear us
directly. I thought so. Here he comes."
There was a deep angry bark at a distance, and this sounded nearer, and
was followed by the rustling of feet, ending in a joyous whining and
panting as a great sheep-dog raced up to the boys, and began to leap and
fawn upon them, but only to stop suddenly, stand sniffing the air in the
direction of the old priory, and utter an uneasy whine.
"Hey, boy! what's the matter?" said Tom.
"He smells that fox," said Dick triumphantly. "I say, I wish we'd had
him with us. There! he's got wind of him. I wish it wasn't so dark,
and we'd go back and have a run."
"Have a run! have a swim, you mean," said Tom. "Why, that was in one of
the wettest places between here and your house. I say, how plainly you
can hear the sea!"
"Of course you can, when the wind blows off it," said Dick, as he
listened for a moment to the dull low rushing sound. "Your mother has
put two candles in the window."
"She always does when father's out. She's afraid he might get lost in
the bog."
"So did my mother once; but it made father cross, and he said, next time
he went out she was to tie a bit of thread to his arm, and hold the end,
and then he would be sure to get home all right. Why, there's a
jack-o'-lantern on the road."
"That isn't a jacky-lantern," replied Tom, looking steadfastly first at
the two lights shining out in the distance, and then at a dim kind of
star which seemed to be jerking up and down.
"Tell you it is," said Dick shortly.
"Tell you it isn't," cried Tom. "Jacky-lanterns are never lame. They
never hop up and down like that, but seem to glide here and there like a
honey-bee. It's our Joe come to meet us with the horn lantern. It's
his game leg makes it go up and down."
"Dick!" came from ahead.
"Yes, father," shouted the lad; and they ran on to where the squire and
Farmer Tallington were awaiting them.
"We'll say `good-night' now," said the squire. "Here, Dick, Farmer's
Joe is coming on with the lantern. Shall we let him light us home?"
"Why, we should have to see him home afterwards, father," said Dick
merrily.
"Right, my lad! Good-night, Tallington! You are in for your two
hundred, mind."
"Yes, and may it bring good luck to us!" said the fanner. "Good-night
to both of you!"
"Good-night!"
Dick supplemented his "good-night" with a pat on the head of the great
sheep-dog, which stood staring along the track, and snuffing the wind;
and then he and his father started homeward.
"I shall come over directly after breakfast, Dick," shouted Tom.
"All right!" replied Dick as he looked back, to see that the lantern had
now become stationary, and then it once more began to dance up and down,
while the two lights shone out like tiny stars a few hundred yards away.
"They've got the best of it, Dick," said the squire. "Why, we were
nearly there. Let's make haste or your mother will be uneasy. Phew!
the wind's getting high!"