A LITTLE DRIVE
Those within the shop had been too much interested in their own
proceedings to be conscious of a dog-cart, which came tearing through
the darkening shadows at such a pace that startled pedestrians might
be excused for thinking that it was a case of a horse running away
with its driver. But such would have been convinced of their error
when, in passing Mrs. Huffham's, on hearing Mr. Stephen bellowing with
what seemed to be the full force of a pair of powerful lungs, the
vehicle was brought to a standstill as suddenly as a regiment of
soldiers halt at the word of command. The driver spoke to the horse,--
"Steady! stand still, old girl!" The speaker alighted. Approaching
Mrs. Huffham's, he stood at the glass-windowed door, observing the
proceedings within; and when Mr. Stephen, in his blind rage, struck
the lamp from its place and plunged the scene in darkness, the
unnoticed looker-on turned the handle of the door and entered the
shop, shouting, in tones which made themselves audible above the
din,--
"Bravo! that's the best plucked boy I've seen!" And standing on the
threshold, he repeated his assertion, "Bravo! that's the best plucked
boy I've seen." He drew a box of matches from his pocket, and striking
one, he held the flickering flame above his head, so that some little
light was shed upon what was going on within. "What's this little
argument?" he asked.
Seeing that Mr. Huffman was still holding Bailey firmly in his grasp,
"Hold hard, big one," he said; "let the little chap get up. You ought
to have your little arguments outside; this place isn't above half
large enough to swing a cat in. Granny, bring a light!"
As the match was just on the point of going out he struck another, and
entered the shop with it flaming in his hand. Mrs. Huffham's nerves
were too shaken to allow her to pay that instant attention to the
new-comer's orders which he seemed to demand.
"Look alive, old lady; bring a light! This old band-box is as dark as
pitch."
Thus urged, the old lady disappeared, presently reappearing with a
little table-lamp in her trembling hands.
"Put it somewhere out of reach--if anything is out of reach in this
dog-hole of a place. I shouldn't be surprised if you had a little
bonfire with the next lamp that's upset."
Mrs. Huffman placed it on a shelf in the extreme corner of the shop,
from which post of vantage it did not light the scene quite so
brilliantly as it might have done. Mr. Stephen and the boy, relaxing a
moment from the extreme vigour of discussion, availed themselves of
the opportunity to see what sort of person the stranger might chance
to be.
He was a man of gigantic stature, probably considerably over six feet
high, but so broad in proportion that he seemed shorter than he
actually was. A long waterproof, from which the rain was trickling in
little streams, reached to his feet; the hood was drawn over his head,
and under its shadow was seen a face which was excellently adapted to
the enormous frame. A huge black beard streamed over the stranger's
breast, and a pair of large black eyes looked out from overhanging
brows. He was the first to break the silence.
"Well, what is this little argument?" Then, without waiting for an
answer, he continued, addressing Mr. Huffham, "You're rather a large
size, don't you think, for that sized boy?"
"Who are you? and what do you want? If there's anything you want to
buy, perhaps you'll buy it, and take yourself outside."
The stranger put his hand up to his beard, and began pulling it.
"There's nothing I want to buy, not just now." He looked at Bailey.
"What's he laying it on for?"
"Nothing."
"That's not bad, considering. What were you laying it on for?" This to
Huffham.
"I've not finished yet, not by no manner of means; I mean to take
it out of all the lot of 'em. Call themselves gents! Why, if a
working-man's son was to behave as they does, he'd get five years
at a reformatory. I've known it done before today."
"I daresay you have; you look like a man who knew a thing or two. What
were you laying it on for?"
"What for? why, look here!" And Mr. Huffham pointed to the broken
bottles and the damaged case.
"And I'm a hard-working woman, I am, sir, and I'm seventy-three this
next July; and it's hard work I find it to pay my rent: and wherever
I'm to get the money for them there things, goodness knows, I don't.
It'll be the workhouse, after all!" Thus Mrs. Huffham lifted up her
voice and wept.
"And they calls themselves gents, and they comes in here, and takes
advantage of an old woman, and robs her right and left, and thinks
they're going to get off scot free; not if I know it this time they
won't." Mr. Stephen Huffham looked as though he meant it, every word.
"Did you do that?" asked the stranger of Bailey.
"No, I didn't."
"I don't care who did it; they're that there liars I wouldn't believe
a word of theirs on oath; they did it between them, and that's quite
enough for me."
"I suppose one of you did do it?" asked the stranger.
Bailey thrust his hands in his pockets, looking up at the stranger
with the dogged look in his eyes.
"The place was pitch dark; why didn't they have a light in the place?"
"Because there didn't happen to be a light in the place, is that any
reason why you should go smashing everything you could lay your hands
on? Why couldn't you wait for a light? Go on with you! I'll take the
skin off your back!"
"How much?" asked the stranger, paying no attention to Mr. Stephen's
eloquence.
"There's a heap of mischief done, heap of mischief!" wailed the old
lady in the rear.
"How am I to tell all the mischief that's been done? Just look at the
place; a sovereign wouldn't cover it, no, that it wouldn't."
"There isn't five shillings' worth of harm," said Bertie. "If you were
to get five shillings, you'd make a profit of half a crown."
The stranger laughed, and Mr. Huffham scowled; the look which he cast
at Bertie was not exactly a look of love, but the boy met it without
any sign of flinching.
"I'll be even with you yet, my lad!" Mr. Stephen said.
"If I give you a sovereign you will be even," suggested the stranger.
Mr. Stephen's eyes glistened; and his grandmother, clasping her old
withered palms together, cast a look of rapture towards the ceiling.
"Oh, deary me! deary me!" she said.
"It's a swindle," muttered Bertie.
"Oh, it's a swindle, is it?" snarled Mr. Stephen. "I'd like to swindle
you, my fighting cock."
"You couldn't do it," retorted Bertie.
The stranger laughed again. Unbuttoning his waterproof, and in doing
so distributing a shower of water in his immediate neighbourhood, out
of his trousers pocket he took a heavy purse, out of the purse he took
a sovereign, and the sovereign he handed to Mr. Stephen Huffham. Mr.
Stephen's palm closed on the glittering coin with a certain degree of
hesitation.
"Now you're quits," said the stranger, "you and the boy."
"Quits!" said Bertie, "it's seventeen-and-sixpence in his pocket!"
Mr. Stephen smiled, not quite pleasantly; he might have been moved to
speech had not the stranger interrupted him.
"You're pretty large, and that's all you are; if this boy were about
your size, he'd lay it on to you. I should say you were a considerable
fine sample of a--coward."
Mr. Stephen held his peace. There was something in the stranger's
manner and appearance which induced him to think that perhaps he had
better be content with what he had received. After having paused for a
second or two, seemingly for some sort of reply from Mr. Huffham, the
stranger addressed the boys.
"Get out!" They went out, rather with the air of beaten curs. The
stranger followed them. "Get up into the cart; I'm going to take you
home to my house to tea." They looked at each other, in doubt as to
whether he was jesting. "Do you hear? Get up into the cart! You, boy,"
touching Bailey on the shoulder, "you ride alongside me."
Still they hesitated. It occurred to them that they had already broken
their engagement with the credulous Mr. Shane, broken it in the most
satisfactory manner, in each separate particular. They were not only
wet and muddy, looking somewhat as though they had recently been
picked out of the gutter, but that half-hour within which they had
pledged themselves to return had long since gone. But if they
hesitated, there was no trace of hesitation about the stranger.
"Now then, do you think I want to wait here all night? Tumble up, you
boy." And fairly lifting Wheeler off his legs, he bore him bodily
through the air, and planted him at the back of the trap. And not
Wheeler only, but Griffin and Ellis too. Before those young gentlemen
had quite realized their position, or the proposal he had made to
them, they found themselves clinging to each other to prevent
themselves tumbling out of the back of what was not a very large
dog-cart. "You're none of you big ones! Catch hold of each other's
hair or something, and don't fall out; I can't stop to pick up boys.
Now then, bantam, up you go."
And Bertie, handled in the same undignified fashion, found himself on
the front seat beside the driver. The stranger, big though he was,
apparently allowed his size to interfere in no degree with his
agility. In a twinkling he was seated in his place by Bertie.
"Steady!" he cried. "Look out, you boys!" He caught the reins in his
hands; the mare knew her master's touch, and in an instant, even
before the boys had altogether yet quite realized their situation,
they were dashing through the darkening night.
It was about as cheerless an evening as one could very well select for
a drive in an open vehicle. The stranger, enveloped in his waterproof,
his hood in some degree sheltering his face, a waterproof rug drawn
high above his knees, was more comfortable than the boys. Bailey,
indeed, had a seat to sit upon and a share of the rug, but his friends
had neither seat nor shelter.
Perhaps, on the whole, they would have been better off had they been
walking. The imperfect light and the hasty start rendered it difficult
for them to have a clear view of their position. The mare--which, had
it been lighter and they versed in horseflesh, they would have been
able to recognise as a very tolerable specimen of an American
trotter--made the pace so hot that they had to cling, if not to each
other's hair, at least to whatever portion of each other's person they
could manage to get hold of. Even then it was only by means of a
series of gymnastic feats that they were able to keep their footing
and save themselves from being pitched out on to the road.
They had not gone far when Griffin had a disaster.
"I've lost my hat!" he cried. Wind and pace and nervousness combined
had loosened his headgear, and without staying to bid farewell to his
head, it disappeared into the night.
The stranger gave utterance to a loud yet musical laugh.
"Never mind your hat! Can't stop for hats! The fresh air will do you
good, cool your head, my boy!" But this was a point of view which did
not occur to Griffin; he was rather disposed to wonder what Mr. Shane
and Mrs. Fletcher would say.
"I wish you wouldn't catch hold of my throat; you'll strangle me,"
said Wheeler, as the vehicle dashed round a sharp turn in the road,
and the hatless Griffin made a frantic clutch at his friend to save
himself from following his hat.
"I--can't--help--it," gasped his friend in reply. "I wish he wouldn't
go so fast. Oh--h!"
The stranger laughed again.
"Don't tumble out! we can't stop to pick up boys! Hullo! what are you
up to there?"
The trio in the rear were apparently engaged in a fight for life. They
were uttering choking ejaculations, and struggling with each other in
their desperate efforts to preserve their perpendicular. In the course
of their struggle they lurched against the stranger with such
unexpected violence that had he not with marvellous rapidity twisted
round in his seat and caught them with his arm, they would in all
probability have continued their journey on the road. At the same
instant, with his disengaged hand he brought the horse, who seemed to
obey the directions of its master's hand with mechanical accuracy, to
a sudden halt.
"Now, then, are you all right?"
They were very far from being all right, but were not at that moment
possessed of breath to tell him so. Had they not lost the power of
speech they would have joined in a unanimous appeal to him to set them
down, and let them go anywhere, and do anything, rather than allow
them to continue any longer at the mercy of his too rapid steed. But
the stranger seemed to take their involuntary silence for
acquiescence. Once more they were dashing through the night, and again
they were hanging on for their bare lives.
"Like driving, youngster?" The question was addressed to Bailey. "Like
horses? Like a beast that can go? Mary Anne can give a lead to a flash
of lightning and catch it in two T's."
"Mary Anne" was apparently the steed. At that moment the trio in the
rear would have believed anything of Mary Anne's powers of speed, but
Bailey held his peace. The stranger went on.
"I like a drive on a night like this. I like dashing through the wind
and the darkness and the rain. I like a thing to fire my blood, and
that's the reason why I like you. That's the reason why I've asked you
home to tea. What's your name?"
"Bailey, sir."
"I knew a man named Bailey down in Kentucky who was hanged because he
was too fond of horses--other people's, not his own. Any relation of
yours?" Bertie disclaimed the soft impeachment.
"I don't think so, sir."
"There's no knowing. Lots of people are hanged without their
own mothers knowing anything about it, let alone their fathers,
especially out Kentucky way. A cousin of mine was hanged in Golden
City, and I shouldn't have known anything about it to this day if
I hadn't come along and seen his body swinging on a tree. As nice
a fellow as man need know, six-feet-one-and-three-quarters in his
stockings--three-quarters of an inch shorter than me. They explained
to me that they'd hanged him by mistake, which was some consolation
to me, anyway, though what he thought of it is more than I can say. I
cut him down, dug a hole seven foot deep, and laid him there to
sleep; and there he sleeps as sound as though he'd handed in his
checks upon a feather bed."
Bailey looked up at the speaker. He was not quite sure if he was in
earnest, and was anything but sure that the little narrative which he
rolled so glibly off his tongue might not be the instant coinage of
his brain. But something in the speaker's voice and manner attracted
him even more than his words; something he would have found it
difficult to describe.
"Is that true?" he asked.
The stranger looked down at him and laughed.
"Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn't." He laughed again. "Wet,
youngster?"
"I should rather think I am," was Bertie's grim response. All the
stranger did was to laugh again. Bailey ventured on an inquiry. "Do
you live far from here?" He was conscious of a certain degree of
interest as to whether the stranger was driving them to Kentucky; he,
too, had Mr. Shane and Mrs. Fletcher in his mind's eye. "Shane'll get
sacked for this, as sure as fate," was his mental observation. He was
aware that at Mecklemburg House the sins of the pupils not seldom fell
upon the heads of the assistant-masters.
"Pain's Hill," was the answer to his question. "Ever heard of
Washington Villa?" Bertie could not say he had.
"I am George Washington Bankes, the proprietor thereof. Yes, and it
isn't so long ago that if any one had said to me that I should settle
down as a country gentleman, I should have said, 'There have been
liars since Ananias, but none quite as big as you.'"
Bailey eyed him from a corner of his eye. His father was a medical
man, with no inconsiderable country practice. He had seen something of
country gentlemen, but it occurred to him that a country gentleman in
any way resembling his new acquaintance he had not yet chanced to see.
"You at the school there?"
Taking it for granted that he referred to Mecklemburg House, Bertie
confessed that he was.
"Why don't you run away? I would."
Bertie started; he had read of boys running away from school in
stories of the penny dreadful type, but he had not yet heard of
country gentlemen suggesting that course of action as a reasonable one
for the rising generation to pursue.
"Every boy worth his salt ought to run away. I did, and I've never
done a more sensible thing to this day." In that case one could not
but wonder for how many sensible things Mr. George Washington Bankes
had been remarkable in the course of his career. "I've been from China
to Peru, from the North Pole to the South. I've been round the world
all sorts of ways; and the chances are that if I hadn't run away from
school I should never have travelled twenty miles from my old mother's
door. Why don't you run away?"
Bertie wriggled in his seat and gasped.
"I--I don't know," he said.
"Ah, I'll talk to you about that when I get you home. You're about the
best plucked lad I've seen, or you wouldn't have stood up in the way
you did to that great hulking lubber there; and rather than see a lad
of parts wasting his time at school--but you wait a bit. I'll open
your eyes, my lad. I'll give you some idea of what a man's life ought
to be! Books never did me any good, and never will. I say, throw
books, like physic, to the dogs--a life of adventure's the life for
me!"
Bertie listened open-eyed and open-mouthed; he began to think he was
in a waking dream. There was a wildness about his new acquaintance,
and about his mode of speech, which filled him with a sort of dull,
startled wonder. There was in the boy, deep-rooted somewhere, that
half-unconscious longing for things adventurous which the British
youngster always has. Mr. Bankes struck a chord which filled the boy
almost with a sense of pain.
"A life of adventure's the life for me!" Mr. Bankes repeated his
confession of faith, laughing as he did so; and the words, and the
voice, and the manner, and the laugh, all mixed together, made the
boy, wet as he was, glow with a sudden warmth. "A life of adventure's
the life for me!"
The drive was nearly ended, and during the rest of it Mr. Bankes kept
silence. Wheeler's hat had followed Griffin's, but he had not
mentioned it; partly because, as he thought, he would receive no
sympathy and not much attention, and partly because, in his anxiety to
keep his footing in the trap, and get out of it with his bones whole,
it would have been a matter of comparative indifference to him if the
rest of his clothing had followed his hat. But he, too, mistily
wondered what Mr. Shane and Mrs. Fletcher would say.
Fortunately for his peace of mind, and the peace of mind of his two
friends, the good steed, Mary Anne, brought them safely to the doors
of Washington Villa. Fond of driving as they were, as a rule, they
were conscious of a distinct sense of relief when that drive was at an
end.