_Jack’s Misfortune_
The children were obliged to walk quickly in order to keep pace with
their guide, who trotted along rapidly, never troubling to glance round
to see if they were coming. Once they had left the clearing and the
queer little house behind them, and plunged into the wood, they found
it quite dark; and darker still as they got farther in. Strange crackly
noises could be heard from time to time behind the bushes and trees,
which suggested all sorts of things to you if you happened to be a
little girl or boy with a fairly active imagination.
Of course, there was always Old Nancy’s gift—the matches—if the
darkness grew unbearable. Both Jack and Molly remembered the matches,
but they did not feel quite sure whether this was the proper time
to use them, as they were afraid of offending their guide if they
suggested that his lantern did not give enough light.
They trotted along in silence for a time, until a particularly loud
crack behind a bush close by startled Molly and made her feel that she
could not bear the silence any longer.
“Don’t you find it very lonely here—living by yourself in the wood?”
she asked the hurrying figure in front of her.
“Eh?” asked Mr Papingay.
It was such a relief to talk that Molly gladly repeated her question.
“Not a bit of it,” replied the old man, without slackening his pace or
turning round. “Why should I? I have plenty of visitors—and Percy to
take care of me.”
“Yes, but aren’t you afraid of—robbers—or anything?” asked Molly.
“Robbers!” the old man chuckled. “I should like to see the robber that
could get past Percy. Besides, what is there to steal? That’s the best
of a house like mine, you see. No one can take things from me. I get
all the use and pleasure I want out of the things I paint—then when I
want new things I paint the old ones out and paint fresh ones in their
place. And they can’t be stolen—they’re of no use to any one else, you
see. As for the Pumpkin’s spies,” he continued in a loud voice, that
made Jack and Molly shudder in case he were overheard. “I’m not afraid
of them—they never touch me....”
Molly gave a little scream, as something swept past her head, brushing
her forehead as it did so.
“It’s only a bat, Molly. Don’t be a silly,” said Jack in a shaky voice.
“There’s heaps of them about—and owls,” said Mr Papingay, continuing
his rapid walk without a moment’s pause. As if to confirm his words
there came a mournful “Hoo, hoo, hoo,” from the depths of the wood. The
children gripped each other’s arms tightly, and hastened on.
Another minute, and a patch of light appeared in the distance, and the
children saw that it was the end of the wood.
“There,” said the old man as they came out from the trees at last, “you
can find your way now, can’t you? I must get back—Percy doesn’t like
me to stay out very late. That is the farmhouse, over there; straight
across this field, over the stile and the wooden bridge across the
river, and a few minutes’ walk up the hill, on the other side. You
can see where I mean, can’t you?” And he pointed the farm out to the
children. “You can mention my name to them—Farmer Rose knows me well.
Now if you will take this,” he said, passing the plant-pot containing
his precious leaf into Molly’s keeping. “And take care of it. I shall
see you both again shortly, I hope. Good-bye. Good-bye.”
“Thank you so much for bringing us this short cut out of the wood,”
said Molly. “It was awfully kind of you.”
“Rather,” said Jack. Then, relieved at being safely out of the wood, he
added generously, “I say—your lantern’s a marvel!”
The old man nodded and beamed delightedly. Then, waving his hand, he
stepped back into the wood, his painted lantern swinging at his side,
and disappeared.
As soon as Mr Papingay had gone, Jack and Molly stopped and looked
around them. They were in the open country once more, but a more hilly
country than that on the other side of the wood, for they had passed
right through the wood and come out at the opposite end.
The wood led straight out into a field, across which a narrow footpath
straggled to a stile set in the middle of green hedges. On the other
side of the stile was a path, and a little white wooden bridge across
the river, and on the farther side of the river were hills and the
farm-house. The red roofs and whitewashed walls of several cottages and
other farm-houses could be seen here and there.
Evening was closing in rapidly, and while they had been in the wood
dark clouds had drifted up and were now gathering threateningly
overhead.
“It’s too dark to do any more searching to-night,” said Jack. “I
suppose we’d better make straight for the farm; and come back and
search all round here in the morning.”
“I suppose that would be best,” said Molly. “I don’t feel at all
satisfied about the Orange Wood, do you, Jack? I think we must come
back and search that too—to-morrow. It doesn’t look a very big wood.”
As the children turned to look back at the wood, the first spots of
rain began to come down, so they hastened along the path toward the
stile.
“I wonder if Mr Papingay really has searched it thoroughly,” said
Molly. “He seems such a funny old man—I don’t know what to think.”
“I do,” laughed Jack. “Mr Papingay’s much too slap-dash to search it
carefully. No, Moll, I’m afraid we’ve got to do it to-morrow. It won’t
be so bad in daylight. My word! How the rain is coming down. We’re in
for a storm, I should think.”
They hurried on, climbed the stile, but when they got on to the bridge
Molly stopped for a moment.
“I say, Jack,” she called, and Jack stopped too. “I’m going to throw
this plant-pot in the river—it’s too heavy to take all the way with
us, and I don’t like to put it down in the field in case Mr Papingay
comes along and finds it.” She pulled the leaf out of the pot, folded
it up, and pushed it into her satchel, then threw the pot into the
swiftly flowing river.
“What are you keeping the leaf for?” cried Jack. He had to raise his
voice to be heard through the rising gale.
“Oh, I couldn’t throw that away,” said Molly. “And besides, it may come
in useful,” she added as she ran along beside Jack up the hill. “You
never know.”
“Won’t old Timothy feel sold when he hears what his Black Leaf really
was!” chuckled Jack.
The rain was coming down heavily as they reached the front door of the
farm-house. They knocked, and rang at the bell—but no one answered,
and there was no sound within the house. They knocked again, then went
round and knocked at the back door. But still no one came, and they
began to fear that there was nobody at home. This proved to be the
case. The stables and outhouses were all locked up, although they could
hear a horse inside one of the buildings, and there were some fowls
in a hen-run in the yard. Evidently the people were only out for a
short time, so Jack and Molly decided to take shelter in the porch by
the front door for a while, until the storm was over, or Farmer Rose
returned.
“Oh, dear, what a dreadful night it’s going to be!” said Molly. “Are
you very wet, Jack?”
“Hardly a bit. It’s quite comfortable in this porch,” Jack replied, and
then she heard him chuckling. “I was just thinking of old Mr Papingay,”
he explained, and then he broke off with a sudden exclamation: “Oh,
bother!”
“What is it?” Molly asked.
“I clean forgot to look for Mr Waffer’s face! Why didn’t you remind
me?” said Jack.
“I forgot too,” answered Molly. “Never mind, we’ll look to-morrow if we
search the Orange Wood.”
“We mustn’t let Mr Papingay see us, though. What fun! It’ll be like
playing hide-and-seek,” said Jack. “Goodness, how the wind _is_
howling!”
They remained quiet for a time, huddled up in the porch. The storm was
growing still worse, and it was very dark now. Presently the silence in
the porch was broken by Jack exclaiming again: “Bother!”
“What is it now?” inquired Molly.
“Oh, I say, Moll—I’ve lost them—yes, I’ve lost my box of matches—Old
Nancy’s matches.”
A thorough search of Jack’s satchel and all his pockets proved that
this was unfortunately true.
“They must have fallen out—let me see now—I had them just before
we climbed the stile, I’m sure of that, because I put my hand in my
satchel to get one of those sweet squares and I remember feeling the
box.” Jack tried hard to think back. “I believe I must have dropped
them somewhere just by the bridge. Here, Molly, hold my satchel and
things a sec, will you, and I’ll just run down to the bridge and fetch
the box—yes, I’m sure now I heard something fall on the bridge. I
won’t be a couple of minutes. You wait here, Molly; I’ll be ever so
quick. No, it isn’t raining much.”
“Don’t go, Jack!” cried Molly. “Its so dark and wet, oh, Jack, don’t
go! I’ve still got my matches left—never mind yours now.”
But Jack was hardly listening. “It’s only just down the hill—won’t be
a minute—you wait here—I must get them, Molly—we may need them. It
isn’t so dark—I can see all right.”
“Wait, wait, Jack. Oh, I know—let me strike one of my matches and see
if it can find the other box for us.” Molly was fumbling in her satchel
quickly. But Jack hadn’t heard her, and had started off impetuously,
calling back, “Shall be back in a minute. Wait there, Moll.”
“I’m coming too,” called Molly, but the wind howled past and Jack did
not hear as he raced down the hill.
Fastening up Jack’s satchel and slipping it over her shoulders together
with her own satchel, and clasping her own box of matches firmly in her
hand, Molly set out after her brother, calling his name as she ran. It
was very silly of Jack to tear off like this, she thought, but she
was only anxious to get him back safely in the porch again out of the
darkness and the rain. She did not stop to light one of her matches
until she was about half-way down the hill. Then she stopped and struck
one. No ordinary match would have kept alight a second in such a storm,
but Old Nancy’s matches, as she already knew, were not ordinary. The
light gathered all on one side as usual, pointing straight down the
hill.
Molly had just time to see the figure of Jack running in front of
her—he had reached the bridge—when the match flame veered right round
and pointed up the hill.
Molly turned and looked, but there was nothing to be seen there. What
did it mean? She hastened on down the hill, and as her match went out,
she lit another one.
This time the light from the match showed her that Jack was on the
bridge and had crossed over to the footpath, and was bending down to
pick something up. So he had found his matches! But even as she saw
Jack, her eye caught sight of something coming from the direction of
the Orange Wood along the river bank, toward the bridge. Then the
flame from the match veered round and pointed up the hill. But not
before Molly had seen what it was that was creeping toward Jack on the
other side of the river.
It was the Grey Pumpkin. And Jack had not seen him.
And the match flame was pointing the way of escape, up the hill to
safety! Just as the flame had pointed out the way of escape in the
underground cellar.
But there was no thought of her own safety while Jack was in such
danger. Molly dashed forward, crying out: “Jack! Run! Quick! Come back!
Look behind you!” But the wind roared around her as if mocking her, and
Jack never heard.
As she ran she lit another match, and by its light saw that Jack was
standing upright and had turned—and seen the Pumpkin close behind
him. He went to run, but slipped and fell to his knees, and as he was
scrambling up again the Pumpkin reached him. Jack seemed to collapse
all in a heap on the ground, and then, there was no Jack—but in his
place another great Grey Pumpkin. Molly pulled up and stood motionless,
gazing with horrified eyes. Then her match went out. She lit another
mechanically, and as she did so she heard a terrific crash a few
yards ahead, and saw that the storm had broken down the wooden bridge;
it collapsed into the river and was caught up by the rapidly rushing
current and swirled away. If this hadn’t happened, Molly would have
been over the bridge in another second (forgetting in her despair that
she could do no good and would only get caught herself). But as it was,
she was brought to an abrupt standstill at the water’s edge, while on
the other side of the river two Grey Pumpkins rolled slowly away along
the path toward a group of tall dark trees....
And so it was that the farmer and his kindly wife, returning home about
half an hour later, found a little girl sitting in the porch by their
front door, crying as if her heart would break.