THE FIRST FREAK
My name is Carmyle. Possibly you may have noticed it in the previous
chapter, among the list of those present at the breakfast at the
Imperial. It was not a particularly hilarious meal for me, for I was
leaving Grandwich for good that morning; and the schoolboy bids farewell
to this, the first chapter of his life, with a ceremony--not to say
solemnity--sadly at variance with the cheerfulness or indifference with
which he sometimes turns the page at the close of later epochs.
I parted from the main body of Hivites at Peterborough, for they were
bound for London, while I had to transfer my person and effects to the
care of the Great Eastern Railway for conveyance to my home in Essex.
At Ely, a little tired of the company and conversation of five East
Anglian farmers, who occupied more than their fair share of room and
conducted an extremely dull technical conversation with quite surprising
heat and vehemence over my head and across my waistcoat, I walked up the
platform in search of a little more cubic space. At the very front of
the train I found a third-class compartment containing only a single
occupant.
"Hallo, Freak!" I said. "I thought you were bound for London."
"Your surmise," replied my late fag, "is correct. But there was a slight
mishap at Peterborough."
"You got left behind?"
"Practically, yes. In point of fact, I was bunged out of the train by
Spangle Jerningham."
"Why?"
"He bought some bananas, and I warned him not to. I said some people
had been prosecuted only last week for eating fruit in a railway
carriage."
"Silly young idiot!" I replied, falling into the trap, even as
Jerningham had done. "Why--"
"But they _were_," persisted The Freak. "They were caught sucking
dates--off their tickets! And as there was no train on for two hours,"
he concluded, neatly dodging "The Strand Magazine," "I decided to come
round this way. We get to Liverpool Street by four. How far are you
going?"
I told him, and the train resumed its journey through the fenland.
The next stop was Cambridge, where The Freak, suddenly remembering that
the railway ticket in his possession was entirely useless for his
present purpose, got out to buy another. I hung out of the carriage
window, wondering which of the Colleges the tall yellow-brick building
just outside the station might be, and gazing reverentially upon a group
of three young men in tweed jackets and flannel trousers, who had
temporarily torn themselves from the pursuit of knowledge for the
purpose of bidding farewell to the members of a theatrical touring
company.
Presently our engine and brake-van removed themselves to a place of
refreshment down the line; whereupon a somnolent horse of mountainous
aspect, which had been meekly standing by, attached by a trace to an
empty third-class coach, took advantage of their absence to tow its
burden to the front of our train and leave it there, like a foundling on
a doorstep, subsequently departing in search of further practical jokes.
With that instinctive shrinking from publicity which marks the
professions of literature, art, and the drama, each of the compartments
of the third-class coach bore a label, printed in three colours,
announcing that this accommodation was reserved for Mr. Wilton Spurge's
Number One Company--I have always desired to meet a Number Two Company,
but have never succeeded--in "The Sign of the Cross," proceeding from
Cambridge to Liverpool Street, for Walthamstow.
The majority of Mr. Wilton Spurge's followers took their seats at once;
but three young ladies, hugging boxes of chocolate, remained in
affectionate conversation with the undergraduates upon the platform.
Most of the gentlemen of the company still lingered in the
refreshment-room. Suddenly there was a gentle tremor throughout the
train, as the engine and brake-van reluctantly backed themselves into a
position of contact. A whistle blew, and a white flag fluttered far down
the platform.
"There's no hurry," observed The Freak, who had returned from the ticket
office and was now surveying the passing show with his head thrust out
of the window under my arm. "That white flag only means that the
Westinghouse brake is working all right."
But the female mind takes no account of technical trifles, least of all
upon a railway journey. To a woman flags and whistles all spell panic.
At the first blast, a lady (whom I took to be the Empress Poppeia)
hastily shepherded every one within reach into the train, and then
directed a piercing summons in the direction of the refreshment-room.
She was seconded by an irregular but impressive chorus of admonition
upon the perils of delay, led by Mercia in person and supported by a
bevy of Christian Martyrs and Roman Dancing-Girls.
The whistle sounded again, and a second flag fluttered--a green one this
time. There was a concerted shriek from the locomotive and the ladies,
followed by a commotion at the door of the refreshment-room, from which
eftsoons the Emperor Nero, bearing a bag of buns and a copy of "The
Era," shot hastily forth. He was closely followed by Marcus Superbus,
running rapidly and carrying two bottles of stout. Three Roman
Patricians with their mouths full, together with a Father of the Early
Church clinging to a half-consumed pork-pie, brought up the rear.
Deeply interested in the progress of the race, and speculating eagerly
as to whether Pagan or Christian would secure the corner-seats, The
Freak and I failed for the moment to note that our own compartment was
in danger of invasion. But resistance was vain. At the very last moment
the door was wrenched open by the guard, and four human beings were
projected into our company just as the train began to move. A handbag
and two paper parcels hurtled through the air after them.
"Sorry to hurry you, Mr. Welwyn, sir," said the guard, standing on the
footboard and addressing the leader of the party through the window,
"but we are behind time as it is, with that theatrical lot."
"My fault entirely, guard," replied Mr. Welwyn graciously. He was a
handsome scholarly man of about forty. I put him down as a University
Don of the best type--possibly one of the Tutors of a great college.
"We should have come earlier. And--er"--here followed the indeterminate
mumble and sleight-of-hand performance which accompany the bestowal of
the British tip--"thank you for your trouble."
"Thank you, sir," replied the gratified menial, and disappeared into
space with half-a-crown in his palm. Evidently Mr. Welwyn was a man of
substance as well as consequence.
"You did n't ought to have given him so much, father dear!"
This just but ungrammatical observation emanated from the female head of
the party; and despite an innate disinclination to risk catching the eye
of strangers in public, I turned and inspected the speaker. From her
style of address it was plain that she was either wife or daughter to
Mr. Welwyn. Daughter she probably was not, for she must have been quite
thirty; and therefore by a process of exhaustion I was led to the
reluctant conclusion that she was his wife. I say reluctant, for it
seemed incredible that a suave polished academic gentleman could be
mated with a lady:--
(1) Who would initiate a domestic discussion in the presence of
strangers.
(2) Whose syntax was shaky.
(3) Who wore a crimson blouse, with vermilion feathers in her hat.
But it was so. Mr. Welwyn waved a hand deprecatingly.
"One has one's position to consider, dear," he said. "Besides, these
poor fellows are not overpaid, I fear, by their employers."
At this, a grim contraction flitted for a moment over Mrs. Welwyn's
florid good-tempered features, and I saw suitable retorts crowding to
her lips. But that admirable and exceptional woman--as in later days
she proved herself over and over again to be--said nothing. Instead,
she smiled indulgently upon her extravagant husband, as upon a child of
the largest possible growth, and accepted from him with nothing more
than a comical little sigh two magazines which had cost sixpence each.
I now had time to inspect the other two members of the party. They were
children. One was a little boy--a vulgar, overdressed, plebian,
open-mouthed little boy--and I was not in the least surprised a moment
later to hear his mother address him as "Percy." (It had to be either
"Percy" or "Douglas.") He was dressed in a tight and rather dusty suit
of velveteen, with a crumpled lace collar and a plush jockey-cap. He
looked about seven years old, wore curls down to his shoulders, and
extracted intermittent nourishment from a long and glutinous stick of
licorice.
The other was a girl--one of the prettiest little girls I have ever
seen. I was not--and am not--an expert on children's ages, but I put
her down as four years old. She was a plump and well-proportioned
child, with an abundance of brown hair, solemn grey eyes, and a friendly
smile. She sat curled up on the seat, leaning her head against her
mother's arm, an oasis of contentment and neatness in that dusty railway
carriage; and I felt dimly conscious that in due time I should like to
possess a little girl of my own like that.
At present she was engaged in industriously staring The Freak out of
countenance.
The Freak, not at all embarrassed, smiled back at her. Miss Welwyn
broke into an unmaidenly chuckle, and her father put down "The Morning
Post."
"Why this hilarity, my daughter?" he enquired.
The little girl, who was apparently accustomed to academically long
words, indicated The Freak with a little nod of her head.
"I like that boy," she said frankly. "Not the other. Too big!"
"Baby _dearie_, don't talk so!" exclaimed Mrs. Welwyn, highly
scandalised.
"I apologise for my daughter's lack of reserve--and discrimination,"
said Mr. Welwyn to me, courteously. "She will not be so sincere and
unaffected in twenty years' time, I am afraid. Are you gentlemen going
home for the holidays?"
I entered into conversation with him, in the course of which I learned
that he was a member of the University, off on vacation. He did not
tell me his College.
"Do you get long holi--vacations, sir, at Cambridge?" I asked. "When do
you have to be back?"
Youth is not usually observant, but on this occasion even my untutored
faculties informed me that Mr. Welwyn was looking suddenly older.
"I am not going back," he said briefly. Then he smiled, a little
mechanically, and initiated a discussion on compound locomotives.
Presently his attention was caught by some occurrence at the other end
of the compartment. He laughed.
"My daughter appears to be pressing her companionship upon your friend
with a distressing lack of modesty," he said.
I turned. The Freak had installed his admirer in the corner-seat beside
him, and, having found paper and pencil, was engaged in turning out
masterpieces of art at her behest. With a flat suitcase for a desk, he
was executing--so far as the Great Eastern Railway would permit him--a
portrait of Miss Welwyn herself; his model, pleasantly thrilled,
affectionately clasping one of his arms in both of hers and breathing
heavily through her small nose, which she held about six inches from the
paper.
Finally the likeness was completed and presented.
"Now draw a cow," said Miss Welwyn immediately.
The Freak meekly set to work again.
Then came the inevitable question.
"What's her name?"
The artist considered.
"Sylvia," he said at length. Sylvia, I knew, was the name of his
sister.
"Not like that name!" said the child, more prophetically than she knew.
The Freak apologised and suggested Mary Ann, which so pleased his
patroness that she immediately lodged an order for twelve more cows.
The artist executed the commission with unflagging zeal and care, Miss
Welwyn following every stroke of the pencil with critical interest and
numbering off the animals as they were created.
About this time Master Percy Welwyn, who had fallen into a fitful
slumber, woke up and loudly expressed a desire for a commodity which he
described as "kike." His mother supplied his needs from a string-bag.
Refreshed and appeased, he slept anew.
Meanwhile the herd of cows had been completed, and The Freak was,
immediately set to work to find names for each. The appellation Mary
Ann had established a fatal precedent, for The Freak's employer
ruthlessly demanded a double title for each of Mary Ann's successors.
Appealed to for a personal contribution, she shook her small head
firmly: to her, evidently, in common with the rest of her sex,
destructive criticism of male endeavour was woman's true sphere in life.
But when the despairing Freak, after submitting Mabel-Maud, Emily-Kate,
Elizabeth-Jane, and Maria-Theresa, made a second pathetic appeal for
assistance, the lady so far relented as to suggest "Seener Angler"--a
form of address which, though neither bovine nor feminine, seemed to me
to come naturally enough from the daughter of a Don, but caused Mr. and
Mrs. Welwyn to exchange glances.
At last the tale was completed,--I think the last cow was christened
"Bishop's Stortford," through which station we were passing at the
moment,--and the exhausted Freak smilingly laid down his pencil. But no
one who has ever embarked upon that most comprehensive and interminable
of enterprises, the entertainment of a child, will be surprised to hear
that Miss Welwyn now laid a pudgy fore-finger upon the first cow, and
enquired:--
"Where _that_ cow going?"
"Cambridge," answered The Freak after consideration.
"Next one?"
"London."
"Next one?"
Freak thought again.
"Grandwich," he said.
The round face puckered.
"Not like it. Anuvver place!"
"You think of one," said The Freak boldly.
The small despot promptly named a locality which sounded like
"Tumpiton," and passed on pitilessly to the next cow.
"Where _that_ one going?" she enquired.
"It is n't going: it's coming back," replied The Freak, rather
ingeniously.
Strange to say, this answer appeared to satisfy the hitherto insatiable
infant, and the game was abruptly abandoned. Picking up The Freak's
pencil, Miss Welwyn projected a seraphic smile upon its owner.
"You give this to Tilly?" she enquired, in a voice which most men know.
"Rather."
"Tilly, ducky, don't act so greedy," came the inevitable maternal
correction. "Give back the young gentleman--"
"It's all right," said The Freak awkwardly. "I don't want it, really."
"But--"
There came a shriek from the engine, and the train slowed down.
"Is this where they collect tickets, father?" enquired Mrs. Welwyn,
breaking off suddenly.
Mr. Welwyn nodded, and his wife rather hurriedly plucked her daughter
from her seat beside The Freak and transferred her to her own lap, to
that damsel's unfeigned dolour.
"Sit on mother's knee just now, dearie," urged Mrs. Welwyn--"just for a
minute or two!"
Miss Welwyn, who appeared to be a biddable infant, settled down without
further objection. A moment later the train stopped and the carriage
door was thrown open.
"Tickets, please!"
Mr. Welwyn and I sat next the door, and I accordingly submitted my
ticket for inspection. It was approved and returned to me by the
collector, an austere person with what Charles Surface once described as
"a damned disinheriting countenance."
"Change next stop," he remarked. "Yours, sir?"
Mr. Welwyn handed him three tickets. The collector appeared to count
them. Then his gloomy gaze fell upon the unconscious Miss Welwyn, who
from the safe harbourage of her mother's arms was endeavouring to
administer to him what is technically known, I believe, as The Glad Eye.
"Have you a ticket for that child, madam?" he enquired. "Too old to be
carried."
Mrs. Welwyn looked helplessly at her husband, who replied for her.
"Yes, surely. Did n't I give it to you, my man?"
"No, sir," said the collector dryly; "you did not."
Mr. Welwyn began to feel in his pockets.
"That is uncommonly stupid of me," he said. "I must have it somewhere.
I thought I put them all in one pocket."
He pursued his researches further, and the collector waited grimly. I
looked at Mrs. Welwyn. She was an honest woman, and a fleeting glance at
her face informed me that the search for this particular ticket was to
be of a purely academic description.
"I must trouble you," began the man, "for--"
"It must be somewhere!" persisted Mr. Welwyn, with unruffled
cheerfulness. "Perhaps I dropped it on the floor."
"Let _me_ look!"
Next moment The Freak, who had been a silent spectator of the scene,
dropped upon his knees and dived under the seat. The collector,
obviously sceptical, fidgeted impatiently and stepped back on to the
platform, as if to look for an inspector. I saw an appealing glance
pass from Mrs. Welwyn to her husband. He smiled back airily, and I
realised that probably this comedy had been played once or twice before.
The collector reappeared.
"The fare," he began briskly, "is--"
"Here's the ticket," announced a muffled voice from beneath the seat,
and The Freak, crimson and dusty, emerged from the depths flourishing a
green pasteboard slip.
The collector took it from his hand and examined it carefully.
"All right," he snapped. "Now your own, sir."
The Freak dutifully complied. At the sight of his ticket the
collector's morose countenance lightened almost to the point of
geniality. He was not to go empty away after all.
"Great Northern ticket. Not available on this line," he announced.
"It's all right, old man," explained my fag affably. "I changed from
the Great Northern at Peterborough. This line of yours is so much
jollier," he added soothingly.
"Six-and-fourpence," said the collector.
The Freak, who was well endowed with pocket-money even at the end of
term, complied with the utmost cheerfulness; asked for a receipt;
expressed an earnest hope that the collector's real state of health
belied his appearance; and resumed his corner-seat with a friendly nod
of farewell.
Two minutes later this curious episode was at an end, and the train was
swinging on its way to London. Mrs. Welwyn, looking puzzled and
ashamed, sat silently in her corner; Mr. Welwyn, who was not the man to
question the workings of Providence when Providence worked the right
way, hummed a cheerful little tune in his. The deplorable child Percy
slept. The Freak, with a scarlet face, industriously perused a
newspaper.
As for Miss Tilly Welwyn, she sat happily upon a suitcase on the floor,
still engaged in making unmaidenly eyes at the quixotic young gentleman
who had just acted, not for the last time in his life, as her banker.