THE sun, breaking through the mist of a September morning, shone on a
grassy knoll by a great wood, where a man was cooking his breakfast. He
was tall, ruddy, with a clear-cut profile and black hair cut close at
the back. He wore a soft shirt, breeches, and stout boots. His
wide-brimmed hat, jacket, and a towel hung on a bush close by. As he
made his preparations he whistled “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Breakfast in the woods presupposes camping; no tent, however, showed
itself, but a few paces off was an erection in the form of a lean-to, of
dead branches interlaced with brushwood, and the whole well thatched
with heather and bracken. Looking up from within, no peep of sky could
be seen; the shack was, in fact, watertight.
The breakfast utensils were placed on a newspaper spread on the turf. A
fire of sticks crackled in a hollow. Three aluminium saucepans were on
the fire, and the man was stirring porridge in one. “Nearly ready,” he
muttered; “now for the bacon.” He opened a package, took out two
rashers, placed them in a small frying-pan, took the porridge-pan off
the fire, removed the detachable handle and fitted the latter to the
frying-pan, which he placed on the fire, now a mass of glowing embers.
Then he found sugar, poured in milk from an aluminium milk-can, and ate
his porridge out of the pan while watching the rashers. When these were
turned, he took an egg from each of two egg-shaped aluminium cases,
broke the shells, and poured the contents on the rashers. When cooked to
a turn, he took the frying-pan off the fire, and ate the bacon and eggs
out of it. Then one of the remaining saucepans boiled, and he made
coffee. The bread and coffee he took out of waterproof bags, butter from
a small aluminium box. His first course had been of blackberries picked
from a bush near by. Blackberries are not plentiful in the New Forest,
but occasionally they are found of a size and lusciousness rarely
equalled elsewhere.
After finishing his breakfast, he took out a cigar, and began to smoke.
As he mused he talked to himself for company. “Guess this is some quiet
spot: not many birds except woodpeckers, jays, stonechats, and
meadow-pipits, though I saw a whinchat, a redstart, and two wheatears
yesterday. But I expect they were on migration. Nothing much to be heard
in English woods after the first week in June. And except for the
kingfisher, they can’t hold a candle for colour against our cardinals
and bluebirds.
“And no beasts worth mentioning. No bears, wolves, moose, or porcupines,
and only rarely one sees a fox or a hedgehog. Of course, the deer show
themselves now and then, and there are always the ponies. A viper here
and there, perhaps, but no rattlers.
“Well, thank goodness, there are no mosquitoes, and however warm it is,
the heat doesn’t amount to much. And the views! Superb! That walk over
Emery Down was delightful. I wish Sadie was here. Plenty of room in that
shack, and how she would enjoy it. Hard lines, marrying, and having to
leave one’s wife almost on the church step.” Here he broke off, and took
out a letter, which he read as one does when there is no need to hurry,
turning back occasionally to earlier passages, though the letter already
seemed well thumbed. Then he replaced the missive—which was a long one,
and called forth a smile now and then—in its envelope, and set himself
to wash up, grumbling at the tenacity of the remnant of porridge; for
once he had forgotten to fill the pan with water. The bacon rinds and
crumbs he left for any furred or feathered epicures which might be
about; the egg-shells, tea-leaves, and other rubbish he put down a hole.
Then he began to pack. He had no blankets, heavy and not too efficient
conservators of heat. His only bed covering was an eiderdown quilt,
which went into marvellously small compass. He had no less than three
air-pillows—a tiny one for his head, one in the form of a ring for his
hip, and a pleated one for his shoulder. These and a pair of plimsolls,
with his sleeping suit, went into his ground-sheet, which he rolled into
a long bundle round a light fishing-rod, with a strap attached to either
end so that he could sling it like a rifle.
The other details of his equipment—bath and bucket, of the thinnest and
lightest material, which had been emptied of water and hung up to dry;
milk-can, collapsible cup, plates, saucepans, each of which he wrapped
in paper before putting one within the other, not forgetting to place
the handle inside—went into his waterproof knapsack with food-bag,
tins, etc. In a little bag he put comb, brush, and mirror, all of
diminutive proportions, from which the greater part of the handles had
been removed, in order to reduce weight, for this was a walking tour,
where every ounce makes a difference. Even a pocket Primus would have
added too much to the burden of the day. And in the forest, firewood is
plentiful.
Once he ceased packing and raised a tiny prism glass of the most recent
pattern, which was slung round his neck, quickly to his eye, in order to
identify a passing bird. “Have learned quite a lot about English birds,”
he said to himself. “When I go back I shall be able to tell the Western
Reserve Ornithological something about the English warblers. The
nightingale’s song is very fine, I’ll admit, especially at night, but
give me the blackcap in clear daylight. He beats the band.”
When everything was packed, he turned towards the shack. “Better leave
it as it is,” he muttered; “I might come back this way and put in
another night.”
As he turned into the woodland path, the bushes parted and a man dressed
in tattered khaki emerged. He carried a coil of rope over his shoulder
and in his hand a stout cudgel. “Got the time on ye, sir?” he asked. The
camper took out a gold watch. “I make it nine o’clock. But I should have
thought that you forest men were in no need of watches with the sun
shining.” “Oh, ay!” muttered the man in khaki evasively. “Ah, what’s
this?” he exclaimed, pointing to the shack. “Sleeping rough? Why, that’s
punishable at the magistrates’ court,” he added with a grin. “Not at
all,” said the other. “I have my permission, duly signed from Lyndhurst,
to camp in the forest, also a licence to fish in the streams, although
up to the present I’ve caught nothing but minnows. This is how we camp
out West. Saves lugging a tent about.” “Oh,” said the man in khaki, “you
be an Amurrican; I thought so, by your twang. What puzzles me,” he
continued, “is why you should be tramping about here. Most of the
Yankees at Winchester never set foot in the forest. They see it all from
the car. But,” with a sneer, “p’raps you can’t afford it?” The American
noticed, but answered with a smile: “Why, friend, I could afford it very
well, but all my life I have loved open spaces and fresh air, and I like
to do things for myself. I am what you might call a cattle-farmer, and
have a ranch in the West.”
“Indeed,” said the other, “and how many cattle might ye own?” “Well, I
am not sure, anyway,” answered the American, “but I suppose, if things
are going all right, that my men have charge of 10,000 head of stock.”
“Well, I’m ——,” exclaimed his questioner. “And to think, if you’re
worth all that money, you care to sleep on damp ground with a bit of
brushwood overhead.”
“I said just now,” laughed the other, “that I’m used to outdoor life.
When I came over with my regiment, we were sent to the camp at
Winchester. You know that city?” and the other nodded. He did not deem
it necessary to say that the last stay he put in there was in the city
gaol. “Well, I got interested in this locality, because there seemed
room to move in it, as there is at home; and in my spare time I used to
come down here and look about me. Then one afternoon when I was sitting
in the cathedral, while hundreds of our men, from all over the States,
were being taken round in parties to see the sights, I had some talk
with a man and a boy who looked in. They were cycling with camping
luggage, and were to spend a holiday in the forest. I guess they were
some novices, for I went outside to see them off. Never saw such poor,
ill-used, overladen bicycles before or since. Afterwards I got my knock
in the big push, and they sent me to the hospital at Brockenhurst, where
I saw more of the forest. Just now family business is keeping me in
London, so I thought I would spend a few days down here, in my own way.”
The man in khaki became effusive. He thrust out a dirty tattered sleeve.
“We ought to be pals, mister. See my wound stripes? Wipers, Loos. Been
through the lot and glad to be back for good. I suppose you can’t raise
a drink for a pore comrade? You gentlemen generally have a whisky-flask
on you.”
“No, my friend,” replied the American. “You’ll find no intoxicating
liquor in this outfit. I’m a prohibitionist, what you call a
teetotaller.” Then, as waves of incredulity, derision, and horror
crossed the other’s face, he added: “You’ll find a lot more of us across
the Pond. And now, friend,” he continued, “I’ve told you as much about
myself as if you were an agister, as I think you call him. Why do you
appear, like a jack-in-the-box, and so anxious to know the time?”
“Not much of an agister,” grumbled the man. “Miserable cusses, I calls
’em, interfering with a pore man’s living. I comes from Romsey way, but
settled down here since the war. A suspicious lot,” he added surlily. “I
drives cattle, carts wood, breaks in horses, and that’s what I’m going
to do this morning,” and he held out the rope. “Ah,” said the American,
“that reminds me of home. None of my cowboys ride anywhere without a
coil hanging to their saddles. They never know when they may want to
rope a steer or a mustang.” “Well,” said the man in khaki, “I’ve heer’d
tell that the forest people used ropes in the old days, but they never
do now.”
While talking, they had reached the edge of the wood, and the road,
thick with dust, lay before them. “Well, friend,” said the American,
“you’ll be taking the road; I wish you good-day. I am keeping to the
forest paths.”
“Why, mister,” said the man with the rope, “you’ll lose yourself.” “Not
with a good English ordnance map,” answered the other, taking from his
breast pocket a folded map. As he did so, a bulky pocket-book fell to
the ground. “Thanks, don’t trouble,” as the man in khaki made a
movement, and bending down himself, picked up and restored his property
to his pocket.
But the man with the cudgel was not to be shaken off. In spite of the
American’s obvious reluctance to have his company, he declared that he
had plenty of time and that he would see him a piece of the way. Once
started, the intruder on the visitor’s privacy became boastful of his
prowess and that of his companions in arms, and began to decry the
American forces, but his hearer good-humouredly parried his clumsy
onslaughts.
As they passed over the moor they came upon a group of ponies. It was
Skewbald’s herd. He was grazing, and as the two men passed within a
short distance, he raised his head and looked at them. But, as they were
on foot, and seemed to have no ill designs on ponies, he turned again to
his own business.
“Now, mister,” said the man with the rope, “you Amurricans talk very big
about lassooing wild steers and hosses. What about giving us a show of
your skill? Let’s see you catch one of these ponies.”
“No, friend,” replied the American, putting aside the proffered coil; “I
don’t rope other people’s beasts without their permission, nor do I wish
to show off.” “All right, mister, don’t be huffy about it,” said the
man; “but that there stallion”—indicating Skewbald—“is worth five bob
to me, if you can rope him. Joe Smith has been wild to get him for weeks
past, but the skewbald has gone away every time. Only a rope will get
him. You might help a pore man,” he urged with garrulous earnestness.
“Well,” hesitated the other, “the ground is soft, and I am not likely to
hurt him, but this rope is all wrong and may put me off. However, I can
try.” They walked on a little and the American stopped and deposited his
luggage at the foot of a holly. He tied the noose and re-coiled the rope
to his liking. Then they walked back so as to pass within a few yards of
the stallion. The man in khaki walked a pace or so behind the other,
gripping his cudgel. He breathed heavily, looked around him and seemed
excited. The stallion raised his head suspiciously, turned, and at the
same moment the rope shot out and encircled his neck. Before the pony
knew what was happening to him, the American, bending down, was taking
several turns of the rope round a stump.
Then two things happened. The stallion, making off, was brought up short
and fell on his side, half-choked by the tightening of the rope, and at
the same moment, the cudgel fell with a thud on the head of the man
bending at the rope. He fell forward on his face without a cry. His
assailant looked around hurriedly, then took the gold watch, pocket-book
and loose cash, and having picked up his stick, was making off without a
second glance at his victim.
But Skewbald struggling on the ground caught his eye. “Why,” he
muttered, “I nearly forgot the rope. Good job I didn’t quite. Might have
give me away.” He dropped the cudgel, unwound the rope from the stump,
and approached the stallion.
Directly the pressure of the noose was removed from the pony’s windpipe,
he revived, and rose to his feet breathing hard. Then as the man reached
him and took hold of the noose, he reared, pulling his liberator off his
feet, to fall beneath the plunging hoofs. The stallion, seeing a
persecutor lying prostrate, and being full of anger at his treatment,
with a scream of fury, flew at him, kicking and biting. Then he seized
an arm in his teeth and savaged it. Launching a final kick, he galloped
to his herd, the rope trailing on the ground.
* * * * *
The American groaned. He thought himself again in the trenches, with the
enemy “putting some hot stuff over.” He was sure he had received a wound
at the back of his head, and was lying face down in mud and blood,
dying, yet no one came to his aid. Then his nose tickled, he sneezed,
and sat up. He felt the back of his head and looked at the blood on his
fingers. He remembered roping the pony, but rope and stallion were both
gone. What was that lying in a trampled bush of bog myrtle? He got up
and walked unsteadily to the prostrate form. The face was marked with
cuts and bruises, while one sleeve was torn, the arm bleeding and
hanging oddly. The American turned him over carefully, and as he did so,
his gold watch fell out of a pocket, its glass smashed, and here was his
pocket-book lying on the ground. Then he began to understand somewhat of
what had happened to himself and to the man, for the hoof-marks around
told their own tale. His face set hard, but this ruffian was in a bad
way, perhaps dying. He would do what he could for him. He went to his
knapsack and took out a first-aid outfit. He bandaged the torn and
broken arm, using sticks for splints. The pain roused the patient and he
began to groan and curse disjointedly, the phrase “—— skewbald”
recurring like a refrain.
The American carried the man to the shade of a tree. He heard the chink
of coin, which he divined to be his own property, especially when he
found his pockets empty. Then he waited. The man opened his eyes, and
looked at his preserver. “What?” he spluttered, having lost some front
teeth. “Yes, my friend,” said the other, “I am still here, and a good
job for you. I might have left you to bleed to death, and serve you
right. I think you took rather more risk than you knew,” producing a
revolver from a hip pocket and replacing it. “Well, your legs and back
seem all right, and after a rest you should be able to make the road and
get help. You don’t deserve it, but I think I had better see you there.
No, don’t worry,” as the man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to give you
up. You seem to have been well beaten about, without my trying to get
you more punishment.”
The man sat motionless; the double shock of the stallion’s attack, and
being confronted by the victim of his brutal violence, for the moment
bereft him of speech and power to stir.
After a while, he attempted to rise, stammering that it was time he made
a move. His rescuer helped him up, and the man tried to feel in his
pockets. “All right, friend,” said the American, “I have got my own
back.”
As the injured man proceeded, his strength failed and he began to
stumble. The other had to support him, to prevent further injury to the
shattered arm. The road reached, the man sank by the wayside, exhausted.
A cart drawn by a forest pony came along. The driver stopped. “Why, who
be this? Not Bill Nokes again? What’s he been up to this time?” he asked
with emphasis. The American hastily explained that he had found the man
lying injured in the forest. “Put him in. I’ll soon have him in the
hospital at Lyndhurst.”
They laid the man on the floor and made him as comfortable as possible.
“You coming, sir?”—to the American. “No,” he replied. “I cannot be of
any further use, and I have to return for my property.”
He walked back with a splitting headache, a sore head, and a wonder in
his heart that among the kindly forest folk he should have encountered
an alien, and a black sheep at that. He found his goods where he had
left them, and seeing the cudgel lying near, added it to his burden as a
memento. He spied also a lock of chestnut and white hair, sawn from the
skewbald’s mane by the rope, and put it into an envelope. Then he said
to himself: “Better get out of this. My scalp wants seeing to, and the
people may wonder how I came by a broken head.”
He consulted a time-table and estimated (there were no hands to his
watch) that he could catch a train by walking across country, to
Southampton. “I’ll hunt up that doctor who treated me before, and get my
head patched up.”
When the American went to the surgery two days later for a final
inspection the doctor held out a local paper, saying, “Here are some
items which may interest you.” A pencil mark stood against a paragraph
entitled, “Strange Death of a Forest Pony,” which related how Skewbald
had been found by a keeper. The rope had caught in a snag near a deep
pit, and in his efforts to free himself, the pony had fallen down, and
broken his neck. “Well, doc.,” said the patient, “I did more mischief
than I expected, when I fooled around with that rope, but I will put it
right when I get to town.”
“Look at the next page,” said the other. This item was headed, “Forest
Man injured by a Pony?” and narrated that a man picked up grievously
injured, was doing well in hospital and pronounced out of danger. It
went on to say: “He is a somewhat notorious character and well known to
the police. Curiously, after his injuries had been seen to, and while in
a state of delirium, he frequently muttered imprecations on ‘that ——
skewbald.’ Elsewhere we detail particulars of the mysterious death of a
fine skewbald forest stallion belonging to a well-known forest commoner,
Mr. J. Smith. It is conjectured that the man may have lassooed the pony
(though it is not known that he possessed any such skill with a rope),
and in some way was taken at a disadvantage by the animal, which
attacked him, and escaped, only to meet its death shortly afterwards.
The man’s injuries are such as might have been caused by a stallion’s
teeth and hoofs. Such aggressive behaviour on the part of a forest pony
is of the rarest.”
A few days later, Skewbald’s owner received a letter with a London
postmark. “Dang me!” he said, turning it over; “who be this from?” and
getting no answer from the envelope, opened it, when out came a draft
for £40, and a letter in business terminology from a firm of solicitors
intimating that a client of theirs, having heard through the Press of
the death of his pony, hoped that the owner would accept the enclosed
sum as indemnity for his loss. “Well, well!” exclaimed the delighted but
bewildered man, “this beats all. The thing gets stranger and stranger.
I’m sure that varmint Bill Nokes never roped the poor beast. Now, these
people write as if someone owed me the money. I’d better harness the
pony and get this in the bank before anything else happens.” And not
until he had got the draft safely to the bank, and had seen the clerk
initial it, did he really believe that the skewbald’s loss had been made
good.