PURSUED.
At ten o'clock Sam harnessed up again, and shortly before noon our
travellers left the waterway by which they had travelled hitherto, and
passed out to the right through a cut, less than a quarter of a mile
long, where a rising lock took them into the Stratford-on-Avon Canal.
Said Sam as he worked the lock, the two children standing beside and
watching--
"Now see here, when you meet your clever friend Bill, you put him two
questions from me. First, why, when the boat's through, am I goin' to
draw the water off an' leave the lock empty?"
Before Tilda could answer, Arthur Miles exclaimed--
"I know! It's because we 're going uphill, and at the other locks, when
we were going downhill, the water emptied itself."
"Right, so far as you go," nodded Sam. "But why should a lock be left
empty?"
The boy thought for a moment.
"Because you don't want the water to waste, and top gates hold it better
than lower ones."
"Why do the top gates hold it better?"
"Because they shut _with_ the water, and the water holds them fast; and
because they are smaller than the bottom gates, and don't leak so much."
"That's very cleverly noticed," said Sam. "Now you keep your eyes alive
while we work this one, an' tell me what you see."
They watched the operation carefully.
"Well?" he asked as, having passed the _Success to Commerce_ through, he
went back to open the lower paddles--or slats, as he called them.
"I saw nothing," the boy confessed disappointedly, "except that you
seemed to use more water than at the others."
"Well, and that's just it. But why?"
"It has something to do, of course, with going up-hill instead of
down . . . And--and I've got the reason somewhere inside my head, but I
can't catch hold of it."
"I'll put it another way. This boat's mod'rate well laden, an' she
takes more water lockin' up than if she was empty; but if she was empty,
she'd take more water lockin' down. That's a fac'; an' if you can give
me a reason for it you'll be doin' me a kindness. For I never could
find one, an' I've lain awake at nights puzzlin' it over."
"I bet Bill would know," said Tilda.
Sam eyed her.
"I'd give somethin'" he said, "to be sure this Bill, as you make such a
gawd of, is a real person--or whether, bein' born different to the rest
of yer sex, you've 'ad to invent 'im."
Many locks encumber the descending levels of the Stratford-on-Avon
Canal, and they kept Sam busy. In the intervals the boat glided deeper
and deeper into a green pastoral country, parcelled out with hedgerows
and lines of elms, behind which here and there lay a village half
hidden--a grey tower and a few red-tiled roofs visible between the
trees. Cattle dotted the near pastures, till away behind the trees--for
summer had passed into late September--the children heard now and again
the guns of partridge shooters cracking from fields of stubble. But no
human folk frequented the banks of the canal, which wound its way past
scented meadows edged with willow-herb, late meadow-sweet, yellow tansy
and purple loosestrife, this last showing a blood-red stalk as its bloom
died away. Out beyond, green arrowheads floated on the water; the
Success to Commerce ploughed through beds of them, and they rose from
under her keel and spread themselves again in her wake. Very little
traffic passed over these waters. In all the way to Preston Bagot our
travellers met but three boats. One, at Lowsonford Lock, had a pair of
donkeys ("animals" Sam called them) to haul it; the other two, they met,
coming up light by Fiwood Green. "Hold in!" "Hold out!" called the
steersmen as the boats met. Sam held wide, and by shouts instructed Mr.
Mortimer how to cross the towropes; and Mr. Mortimer put on an extremely
knowledgeable air, but obeyed him with so signal a clumsiness that the
bargees desired to know where the _Success to Commerce_ had shipped her
new mate.
The question, though put with good humour, appeared to disturb Sam, who
for the rest of the way steered in silence. There are three locks at
Preston Bagot, and at the first Mr. Mortimer took occasion to apologise
for his performance, adding that practice made perfect.
"I wonder, now," said Sam delicately, "if you could practise leavin' off
that fur collar? A little unhandiness'll pass off, an' no account
taken; but with a furred overcoat 'tis different, an' I ought to
a-mentioned it before. We don't want the children tracked, do we?
An' unfort'nitly you're not one to pass in a crowd."
"You pay me a compliment," Mr. Mortimer answered. "Speaking, however,
as man to man, let me say that I would gladly waive whatever show my
overcoat may contribute to the--er--total effect to which you refer.
But"--here he unbuttoned the front of his garment--"I leave it to you to
judge if, without it, I shall attract less attention. _Laudatur_, my
dear Smiles, _et alget. Paupertas, dura paupertas_--I might, perhaps,
satisfy the curious gazer by producing the--er--pawntickets for the
missing articles. But it would hardly--eh, I put it to you?"
"No, it wouldn'," decided Sam. "But it's unfort'nit all the same, an'
in more ways'n one. You see, there's a nasty 'abit folks 'ave in these
parts. Anywheres between Warwick an' Birming'am a native can't 'ardly
pass a canal-boat without wantin' to arsk, ''Oo stole the rabbit-skin?'
I don't know why they arsk it; but when it 'appens, you've got to fight
the man--or elst _I_ must."
"I would suggest that, you being the younger man--"
"Well, I don't mind," said Sam. "On'y the p'int is I don't scarcely
never fight without attractin' notice. The last time 'twas five
shillin' an' costs or ten days. An' there's the children to be
considered."
During this debate Tilda and Arthur Miles had wandered ashore with
'Dolph, and the dog, by habit inquisitive, had headed at once for a
wooden storehouse that stood a little way back from the waterside--
a large building of two storeys, with a beam and pulley projecting from
the upper one, and heavy folding-doors below. One of these doors stood
open, and 'Dolph, dashing within, at once set up a frantic barking.
"Hullo!" Tilda stepped quickly in front of the boy to cover him.
"There's somebody inside."
The barking continued for almost half a minute, and then Godolphus
emerged, capering absurdly on his hind legs and revolving like a
dervish, flung up his head, yapped thrice in a kind of ecstasy, and
again plunged into the store.
"That's funny, too," mused Tilda. "I never knew 'im be'ave like that
'cept when he met with a friend. Arthur Miles, you stay where you
are--" She tiptoed forward and peered within. "Lord sake, come an'
look 'ere!" she called after a moment.
The boy followed, and stared past her shoulder into the gloom.
There, in the centre of the earthen floor, wrapped around with straw
bands, stood a wooden horse.
It was painted grey, with beautiful dapples, and nostrils of fierce
scarlet. It had a tail of real horse-hair and a golden mane, and on its
near shoulder a blue scroll with its name _Kitchener_ thereon in letters
of gold. Its legs were extended at a gallop.
"Gavel's!" said Tilda. "Gavel's, at ten to one an' no takers! . . . But
why? 'Ow?"
She turned on 'Dolph, scolding, commanding him to be quiet; and 'Dolph
subsided on his haunches and watched her, his stump tail jerking to and
fro beneath him like an unweighted pendulum. There was a label attached
to the straw bands. She turned it over and read: _James Gavel,
Proprietor, Imperial Steam Roundabouts, Henley-in-Arden. Deliver
Immediately_ . . . "An' me thinkin' Bill 'ad gone north to
Wolver'ampton!" she breathed.
Before the boy could ask her meaning they heard the rumble of wheels
outside; and Tilda, catching him by the arm, hurried him back to the
doors just as a two-horse wagon rolled down to the wharf, in charge of
an elderly driver--a sour-visaged man in a smock-frock, with a
weather-stained top hat on the back of his head, and in his hand a whip
adorned with rings of polished brass.
He pulled up, eyed the two children, and demanded to know what they
meant by trespassing in the store.
"We were admirin' the 'orse," answered Tilda.
"An' likewise truantin' from school," the wagoner suggested. "But
that's the way of it in England nowadays; the likes o' me payin' rates
to eddicate the likes o' you. An' that's your Conservative Government
. . . Eddication!" he went on after a pause. "What's Eddication?
Did either o' you ever 'ear tell of Joseph Arch?"
"Can't say we 'ave."
"He was born no farther away than Barford--Barford-on-Avon. But I
s'pose your schoolmaster's too busy teachin' you the pianner."
Tilda digested the somewhat close reasoning for a moment, and answered--
"It's fair sickenin', the amount o' time spent on the pianner. Between
you an' me, that's partly why we cut an' run. You mustn' think we 'ate
school--if on'y they'd teach us what's useful. 'Oo's Joseph Arch?"
"He was born at Barford," said the wagoner; "an' at Barford he lives."
"'E must be a remarkable man," said Tilda, "an' I'm sorry I don't know
more of 'im. But I know Gavel."
"Gavel?"
"'Im as the 'orse belongs to; an' Bill. Gavel's a remarkable man too in
'is way; though not a patch on Bill. Bill tells me Gavel can get drunk
twice any day; separate drunk, that is."
"Liberal or Conservative?"
"Well," hesitated Tilda, playing for safety, "I dunno as he 'd tell,
under a pint; but mos' likely it depends on the time o' day."
"I arsked," said the wagoner, "because he's hired by the Primrose Feet;
an' if he's the kind o' man to sell 'is princerples, I don't so much
mind 'ow bad the news I breaks to him."
"What news?"
The man searched in his pocket, and drew forth a greasy post card.
"He sent word to me there was six painted 'osses comin' by canal from
Burning'am, to be delivered at the Wharf this mornin'; an' would I fetch
'em along to the Feet Ground, Henley-in-Arden, without delay?"
"Henley-in-Arden!" exclaimed a voice behind the children; whereat Tilda
turned about with a start. It was the voice of Mr. Mortimer, who had
strolled across from the lock bank, and stood conning the wagon and
team. "Henley-in-Arden? O Helicon! If you'll excuse the remark, sir.
OParnassus!"
"Maybe I might," said the wagoner guardedly, "if I understood its
bearin's."
"Name redolent of Shakespeare! Of Rosalind and Touchstone, Jaques and
Amiens, sheepcrooks and venison feasts, and ballads pinned to oaks!
What shall he have who killed the deer, Mr.--?"
"'Olly," said the wagoner.
"I beg your pardon?"
"'Olly--James 'Olly and Son, Carters an' 'Auliers."
"Is it possible? . . . better and better! Sing heigho! the Holly, this
life is most jolly. I trust you find it so, Mr. Holly?"
"If you want to know," Mr. Holly answered sourly, "I don't."
"You pain and astonish me, Mr. Holly. The penalty of Adam, the season's
difference"--Mr. Mortimer turned up his furred collar--"surely, sir, you
will allow no worse to afflict you? You, a dweller on the confines of
Henley-in-Arden, within measurable distance, as I gathered?"
"Mile an' a 'arf."
"No more? O Phoebus and the Nine!"
"There _was_," said Mr. Holly, "to 'a been six. An' by consequence here
I be with a pair of 'osses an' the big wagon. Best go home-along, I
reckon, an' fetch out the cart," he grumbled, with a jerk of his thumb
indicating a red-tiled building on the hillside, half a mile away.
"Not so." Mr. Mortimer tapped his brow. "An idea occurs to me--if you
will spare me a moment to consult with my--er--partner. A Primrose
Fete, you said? I am no politician, Mr. Holly, but I understand the
Primrose League exists--primarily--or ultimately--to save our world-wide
empire. And how shall an empire stand without its Shakespeare?
Our tent and appliances will just load your wagon. As the younger Dumas
observed, 'Give me two boards, two trestles, three actors'--but the
great Aeschylus did with two--'two actors,' let us say--'and a
passion'--provided your terms are not prohibitive . . . Hi, Smiles!
Approach, Smiles, and be introduced to Thespis. His charge is three
shillings. At the price of three shillings behold, Smiles, the golden
age returned! Comedy carted home through leafy ways shall trill her
woodnotes--her native woodnotes wild--in Henley-in-Arden!"
The wagon had been packed and had departed, Mrs. Mortimer perched high
on a pile of tent cloths, and Mr. Mortimer waving farewells from the
tail-board.
The two children, left with instructions to keep near the boat and in
hiding, had made a nest for themselves among the stalks of loosestrife,
and sat watching the canal for sign of a moorhen or a water-rat.
The afternoon was bright and very still, with a dazzle on the water and
a faint touch of autumn in the air--the afterglow of summer soon to pass
into grey chills and gusts of rain. For many minutes neither had
spoken.
"Look!" said Tilda, pointing to a distant ripple drawn straight across
the surface. "There goes a rat, and I've won!"
The boy said--
"A boat takes up room in the water, doesn't it?"
"0' course it does. But what's that got to do with rats?"
"Nothing. I was thinking of Sam's puzzle, and I've guessed it. A boat
going downwards through a lock would want a lock full, all but the water
it pushes out from the room it takes up. Wouldn't it?"
"I s'pose so," said Tilda doubtfully.
"But a boat going up will want a lock full, and that water too. And
that's why an empty boat going downhill takes more water than a loaded
one, and less going up."
To Tilda the puzzle remained a puzzle. "It _sounds_ all right," she
allowed. "But what makes you so clever about boats?"
"I've _got_ to know about them. Else how shall we ever find the
Island?"
She thought for half a minute.
"You're sure about that Island?" she asked, a trifle anxiously.
Arthur Miles turned to her with a confident smile.
"Of course I'm sure."
"Well, we'll arsk about it when we get to Stratford-on-Avon."
She was about to say more, but checked herself at sight of a barge
coming down the canal--slowly, and as yet so far away that the tramp of
the tow-horse's hoofs on the path was scarcely audible. She laid a hand
on 'Dolph's collar and pressed him down in the long grass, commanding
him to be quiet, whilst she and the boy wriggled away towards an alder
bush that stood a furlong back from the bank.
Stretched at length behind the bush, she had, between the fork of its
stem, a clear view of the approaching boat. Its well coverings were
loose, and by the upper lock gate the steersman laid it close along
shore and put out a gang-plank. His mate, after fitting a nosebag on
the horse, came at a call to assist him, and together they lifted out a
painted wooden steed wrapped in straw, and carried it to the store.
Having deposited it there, they returned and unloaded another. Five
horses they disembarked and housed thus; and then, like men relieved of
a job, spat on their hands and turned to work their boat down through
the locks. For twenty minutes the children lay prone and watched them,
Tilda still keeping a hand on the scruff of 'Dolph's neck. Then, as the
boat, having gained a clear reach of water, faded down in the gathering
dusk, she arose and stretched herself.
"For anyone but Bill I wouldn' risk it," she said. "But maybe his
credit depends on gettin' them 'osses delivered to-night."
She took Arthur Miles by the hand, found the road, and dragged him
uphill at a trot towards the group of red brick buildings that showed
between the trees.
The buildings consisted of a cottage and a long stable or coach-house
contiguous. This presented a blank white-washed wall to the road, but a
Gloire de Dijon rose spread itself over the cottage front, almost
smothering a board with the inscription: _S. Holly and Son, Carters and
Hauliers_.
Tilda knocked, and her knock was answered by a sour-visaged woman.
"Well, an' what can I do for you?" asked the woman, staring down from
her doorstep on the children.
"If you please, ma'am, is Mr. 'Olly at 'ome?"
"No, he ain't."
"I knew it," said Tilda tranquilly. "But by all accounts 'e's got a
son."
"Eh?"
The woman still stared, divided between surprise and mistrust.
"You're mistakin'," Tilda pursued. "I ain't come with any scandal about
the fam'ly. A grown-up son, I mean--with a 'orse an' cart. Because, if
so, there's five gallopin' 'orses down at the wharf waitin' to be taken
over to Henley-in-Arden."
"Oh?" said the woman. "My 'usband left word Gustavus was to fetch 'em
along if they arrived. But who sent you with the message?"
"I've a friend in Gavel's business," Tilda answered with dignity.
"'E's what you might call Gavel's right 'and man--an' 'e's 'andy with
'is right, too, when 'e's put out. If 'e should 'ear--I'm advisin' for
yer _good_, mind--if 'e should 'ear as five 'orses was 'ung up on the
wharf 'ere through S. 'Olly an' Son's neglect, you may look out for
ructions. An' that's all I promise."
She turned back towards the wharf, and even as Arthur Miles turned to
follow they could hear the woman calling loudly, summoning her son from
his tea in the kitchen.
"I reckon," commented Tilda, "I put the fear o' Bill into that woman.
You may 'a noticed I didn' like her looks."
She led the way back to the wharf in some elation. Twilight was
gathering there and over the canal. She had rounded the corner of the
store, when, happening to glance towards the _Success to Commerce_,
moored under the bank a bare twenty yards away, she halted, and with a
gasp shrank close into the shadow.
"Collar 'Dolph! Grip old on 'im for the Lord's sake!" she whispered,
and clutched Arthur Miles by the arm.
On the bank beside the boat stood a man.
"But what's the matter?" the boy demanded.
"'Ush! Oh, 'ush an' lie close! It's Glasson!"