FIRST ATTEMPT AT HIDING.
Nicky-Nan belonged, congenitally and unconsciously, to that happy
brotherhood of men--_felices sua si bona norint_--whom a little
liquor exhilarates, but even a great deal has no power to bemuse.
But what avails an immunity above your fellows, if life seldom or
never gives you opportunity to prove it?
Nicky-Nan had drunk, after long abstinence and upon a fasting
stomach, one brandy-and-soda. He was sober as a judge; he walked
straight and--bating his weak leg--firmly, yet he trod on air: he
looked neither to the right nor to the left, yet he saw nothing of
the familiar street through which he steered. For a vision danced
ahead of him. Gold in his pockets, golden sunshine now in his
veins--thanks to the brandy-and-soda,--a golden vision weaving itself
and flickering in the golden August weather, and in his ears a
sentence running, chiming, striking upon the word "gold"--
"Ding-a-ding-a-dong! 'Taty-patch a _gold_ mine--'taty-patch a _gold_
mine!" The prosaic Mr Latter had set the chime ringing, as a dull
sacristan might unloose the music of a belfry; but like a chime of
faery it rippled and trilled, closing ever upon the deep note "gold,"
and echoed back as from a veritable gong of that metal.
"'Taty-patch a gold mine"--How came it that, until Latter put the
idea into his head, he had never thought of this, his one firm
holding on earth, as a hiding-place for his treasure? His lodging in
the old house, hard as he would fight for it, acknowledged another
man's will. But the patch of ground by the cliff was his own.
He had claimed its virginity, chosen and tamed it, marked it off,
fenced it about, broken the soil, trenched it, wrought it, taught the
barren to bear. It lay remote, approachable only by a narrow
cliff-track, overlooked by no human dwelling, doubly concealed--by a
small twist of the coast-line and a dip of the ground--from the
telescopes of the coastguard in their watch-house. Folks had hinted
from time to time (but always chaffing him) that the land must
belong to _some one_--to the Crown, maybe, or, more likely, to the
Duchy. But he had tilled it for years undisturbed and unchallenged.
The parcel had come to be known as "Nicky-Nan's Chapel," because on
fine Sundays, when godlier folks were in church, he spent so much of
his time there, smoking and watching the Channel and thinking his
thoughts. It was inconceivable that any one should dispute his title
now, after the hundreds and hundreds of maundfuls of seaweed under
which, first and last--in his later years--he had staggered up the
path from the Cove, to incorporate them in the soil.
At the turn of the street he fetched up standing, arrested by another
bright idea. Why, of course! He would carry up a part of his wealth
to the 'taty-patch and bury it. . . . But a man shouldn't put all his
eggs in one basket, and--_why_ hadn't he thought of it before?
The money had lain those many years, safe and unsuspected, under the
false floor of the cupboard. Simplest thing in the world, now that
Pamphlett had given him a respite, to plank up the place again with a
couple of new boards, plaster up the ceiling of the sitting-room, and
restore a good part of the gold to its hiding!--not all of it,
though; since Pamphlett might change his mind at any time, and of a
sudden. No, a good part of the gold must be conveyed to the
'taty-patch. He would make a start, maybe, that very night--or
rather, that very evening in the dusk when the moon rose: for (now he
came to remember) the moon would be at her full to-morrow, or next
day. While the dusk lasted he could dig, up there, and no passer-by
would suspect him of any intent beyond eking out the last glimpse of
day. To be surprised in the act of digging by moonlight was another
matter, and might start an evil rumour. For one thing, it was held
uncanny, in Polpier, to turn the soil by moonlight--a deed never done
save by witches or persons in league with Satan. Albeit they may not
own to it, two-thirds of the inhabitants of Polpier believe in black
magic.
He would make a start, then, towards dusk. There was no occasion to
take any great load at one time, or even to be seen with any
conspicuous burden. As much gold as his two pockets would carry--
that would serve for a start. To-morrow he might venture to visit
Mrs Pengelly and purchase a new and more capacious pair of trousers--
to-morrow, or perhaps the day after. Caution was necessary. He had
already astonished Mr Gedye, the ironmonger, with his affluence: and
just now again, like a fool, he had been dropping sovereigns about
Latter's bar-parlour. That had been an awkward moment. He had
extricated himself with no little skill, but it was a warning to be
careful against multiplying evidence or letting it multiply. A new
pair of trousers, as this narrative has already hinted, is always a
somewhat dazzling adventure in Polpier. No. . . . decidedly he had
better postpone _that_ investment. Just now he would step around to
boatbuilder Jago's and borrow or purchase a short length of
eight-inch planking to repair the flooring of the bedroom cupboard.
Jago had a plenty of such odd lengths to be had for the asking.
"I'll make out the top of the water-butt wants mending," said
Nicky-Nan to himself. "Lord! what foolishness folk talk about the
contrivances of poverty. Here have I been living in fear and
tremblement over a dozen things never likely to befall, and all
because my brain has been starving for years, along with my stomach.
Start the pump with a dose of brandy, and it rewards ye by working
sweet and suent. Here at this moment be a dozen things possible and
easy, that two hours agone were worrying me to the grave. Now I know
how rich men thrive, and I'll use the secret. Simplicity itself it
is: for set me on the Lord Mayor's throne and fill me with expensive
meat and drink, and I'll be bold to command the Powers o' Darkness."
This was fine talking. But he had not freed himself from the tremors
of wealth: and now again--
Can such things be,
And overcome us like a summer cloud,
Without our special wonder?
--now and again and for about the twentieth time--now again, as he
turned to bend his steps towards Boatbuilder Jago's yard--suddenly
and without warning, as a wave the terror took him that in his
absence some thief or spy had surprised his hoard. Under its urgency
he wheeled right-about and hurried for home, to assure himself that
all was safe.
Such was his haste that in passing the corner of the bridge he
scarcely observed a knot of children gathered thereby, until 'Beida's
voice hailed him and brought him to a halt.
"Mr Nanjivell!"
"Hey! Is that you, Missy?" Nicky-Nan wheeled half-about.
"If you had eyes in your head, you wouldn' be starin' at me," said
'Beida, "but at 'Bert. Look at him--And you, 'Biades, can stand
there an' look up at him so long as you like, provided you don't bust
out cryin' at his altered appearance: no, nor crick your neck in
doin' it, but bear in mind that mother used up the last of the arnica
when you did it last time tryin' to count the buttons up Policeman
Rat-it-all's uniform, an' that if the wind should shift of a sudden
and catch you with your eyes bulgin' out of your head like they'm
doin' at this moment, happen 'twill fix you up comical for life: an'
then instead of your growin' up apprenticed to a butcher, as has been
your constant dream, we'll have to put you into a travellin' show for
a gogglin' May-game, an' that's where your heart will be turnin'
ever, far from the Old Folks at Home. . . . You'll excuse me, Mr
Nanjivell, but the time an' trouble it costs to wean that child's
eyes off anything in the shape of a novelty you'd hardly believe.
. . . Well, what do you say to 'Bert?"
"I'd say," answered Nicky-Nan slowly, contemplating the boy--who wore
a slouch hat, a brown shirt with a loosely tied neckerchief,
dark-blue cut-shorts and stockings that exhibited some three inches
of bare knee--"I'd say, if he came on me sudden, that he was Buffalo
Bill or else Baden Powell, or else the pair rolled into one."
"You wouldn't be far wrong either. He's a Boy Scout, that's what he
is. Walked over to St Martin's this mornin' an' joined up. A kind
lady over there was so took with his appearance that she had to
improve it or die on the spot, out of her own pocket. He's walked
back with his own trousers in a parcel, lookin'--well, like what you
see. _I_ think it becomin', on the whole. He tells me his motto is
'Be British,' an' he has to do a kind action every day of his life:
which he won't find easy, in a little place like Polpier."
As 'Beida drew breath, the boy faced Nicky-Nan half sulkily.
"They put me into this outfit. I didn't _ask_ for it."
"If you want my opinion, 'Bert," said Nicky-Nan, "it suits 'ee very
well; an' you look two inches taller in it already."
He hurried on in the direction of Boatbuilder Jago's yard, which
stands close above the foreshore, on the eastern side of the little
haven. When he returned, with the boards under his arm, it was to
find 'Bert the centre of a knot of boys, all envious--though two or
three were making brave attempts to hide it under a fire of jocose
criticism. It was plain, however, that morally 'Bert held the upper
hand. Whilst they had been playing silly games around the Quay, he
had walked to St Martin's and done the real thing. No amount of
chaff could hide that his had been the glory of the initiative.
Indeed, he showed less of annoyance with his critics than of boredom
with 'Biades, who, whichever way his big brother turned, revolved
punctually as a satellite, never relaxing his rapt, upward gaze of
idolatry.
"You can shut your heads, the whole lot," said 'Bert airily. "First
thing to-morrow mornin' the half of 'ee'll be startin' over for
St Martin's to enlist; an' you know it. Better fit you went off home
and asked your dear mammies to put 'ee to bed early. Because there's
not only the walk to St Martin's an' back--which is six mile--but
when you've passed the doctor for bandy legs or weak eyesight, you
may be started on duty that very night. I ben't allowed to say more
just now," he added with a fine air of official reticence. "And as
for _you_"--he turned impatiently on 'Biades--"I wish you'd find your
sister, to fetch an' shut 'ee away somewhere. Where's 'Beida _to?_"
"She's breakin' the news to mother," answered 'Biades.
By seven o'clock Nicky-Nan had measured and cut his boards to size.
He fitted them loosely to floor the bedroom cupboard. Later on he
would fix them securely in place with screws. But by this time
daylight was dusking in, and more urgent business called him.
Returning to the parlour downstairs, he refilled his pockets with the
gold of which he had lightened himself for his carpentry, knotted
another twenty sovereigns tightly in his handkerchief, picked up the
lighter of his two spades--for some months he had eschewed the
heavier--and took his way through the streets, up the cliff-track by
the warren, and so past the coastguard watch-house.
The sun had dropped behind the hill, leaving the West one haze of
gold: but southward and seaward this gold grew fainter and fainter,
paling into an afterglow of the most delicate blue-amber. In the
scarce-canny light, as he rounded the corner of the cliff, he
perceived two small figures standing above the hollow which ran down
funnel-wise containing his patch, and recognised them.
"Drat them children!" he muttered; but kept on his way, and, drawing
near, demanded to know what business brought them so far from home at
such an hour.
"I might ask you the same question," retorted 'Beida. "Funny time,--
isn't it?--to start diggin' potatoes? An' before now I've always
notice you use a visgy for the job. Yet you can't be _plantin_--not
at this season--"
"I find the light spade handier to carry," explained Nicky-Nan in
some haste. "But you haven't answered my question."
"Well, if you _must_ know, I'm kissin' goodnight to 'Bert here.
They've started him upon coast-watchin', and he's given this beat
till ten-thirty, from the watch-house half-way to the Cove.
I shouldn' wonder if he broke his neck."
"No fear," put in 'Bert, proudly exhibiting and flashing a cheap
electric torch. "They gave me this at St Martin's--and in less than
an hour the moon'll be up."
"But the paper says there be so many spies about--eh, Mr Nanjivell?"
"Damme," groaned Nicky-Nan, "I should think there were! Well, if
there's military work afoot, at this rate, I'd better clear.
--Unless 'Bert would like me to stay here an' chat with 'en for
company."
"We ben't allowed to talk--not when on duty," declared young 'Bert
stoutly.
"Then kiss your brother, Missy, an' we'll trundle-ways home."