The child pointed the way over a hot, open common, where the sun had
already, as it seemed, begun to drop a shower of golden sparks among the
gorse.
Then under her guidance they crossed a warren and a highroad, and
suddenly entered a cool wood, where sparkles of sunlight could only be
seen here and there when the leaves shook, and the trees stood in a
shimmer of green dreams. And their steps grew slower and their voices
lower, as it must always be in woods. At the end of it they entered a
sunlit lane with another wood beyond. The unexpected light made their
sight dance, so that at first they could not see properly, but they
could hear, at a little distance, the sound of young owls hooting,
“Tu-wick! tu-wick!” and their mother answering, “Tu-whoo-whoo-oo!” And
then they saw that the hooting came from a small circular building on
the edge of the forest. The building was of stone, and had one door in
its wall, and a very small, barred window above it. Here Barbie stopped.
“I don't know which way now,” said she. “This is the Round-House, and I
didn't get farther than that.”
“Perhaps the owls know,” said Audrey, “for they're wiser than most.
Owlets!” cried she, “tell us which way to the Murray River.”
“Tu-wick! tu-wick! tu-wick!” answered the owlets, like a merry taunt.
“Let's go in and see the little owls,” said Barbie.
Dick tried the door. “It's locked,” said he, “and too thick to break
down. We must look for help to others than owlets.”
So they went a little way up the road, and soon stumbled on Sir John,
who had gone ahead as usual, and was standing motionless with one hand
upheld as though bidding them to listen. And what they now heard was
husky calls of “Heave-O! heave!” uttered every half-minute; but the
calls were broken by great gulpings and chokings. The sounds came from
behind a little farm which stood half in the lane, half in the wood; its
doorways were open back and front, and a tunnel of air and light ran
through the farmhouse. You could look straight through from the sunny
lane on this side to the greenwood trees on that.
“See, children,” said Sir John, “how brief is the passage through the
house of life; from the light of our coming to the twilight of our going
it is but a dozen steps, no more. And the end is lovelier than the
beginning. Shall we pass through?”
“I think we'd better, sir,” said Dick; “there seems to be some bother
out there, doesn't there?”
For by this time the choking and gulping had got the upper hand of the
calling, and the “Heave-Os!” were almost drowned in sobs.
“Oh hurry!” said Audrey.
They hurried; and in a strip of kitchen-garden that lay between the
farmyard and the trees they found a middle-aged Farmer and his men
hauling on a lettuce with a rope. The Farmer stood gripping at the
nearest lettuce, and his three men stood behind him. When he cried
“Heave!” they set their jaws and hove, and the lettuce came up and they
fell down. Then they picked themselves up and dusted their breeches and
noosed another lettuce and hung on to the rope, awaiting the Farmer's
signal. But as often as not they had to guess at it, because of the
choke in his throat.
When the men saw the little procession troop through the doorway they
paused in their labour, wiping the sweat from their brows with
red-and-white handkerchiefs.
“Can I help you pull your lettuces, Farmer?” said Dick.
“You can, young man,” groaned the Farmer.
“Every man Jack of them?”
“Every man Jack of them.”
“You'll have a rare feed,” said Dick, beginning to pull up the lettuces,
of which there were quite eighty, with his two hands.
[Illustration: ... _they paused in their labour_.]
“Lettuces are delicious,” remarked Audrey.
“Take what you please, young lass. They'd but stick in my throat.”
“We're much obliged to you, Farmer,” said Dick, “for a lettuce suits
well with a salad of cress.” And he popped three fat-hearted lettuces
into his bucket, while the Farmer gulped and choked.
“What makes you so unhappy?” asked Audrey.
“Because I shall see my little daughter Christie no more in this life.
And now the sight of these lettuces, which she planted, is more than I
can bear.”
“Alas!” said Audrey, and turned her head away.
Dick stood first on one foot and then on the other to show his sympathy,
and asked, “When did it happen, Farmer?”
“An hour ago,” said he, “and the fault was mine. For nothing would
content her but she must be away to the Murray River, where time and
again I've told her she'd catch her death of cold. But it's as though
that water were fire to the blood of all young things, and when they
will go they will go. So at last I locked her up in the Round-House in
the wood, and for safety I tied the key to the handle of the
well-bucket; but when next I went to draw water I forgot it was there,
and, as luck would have it, the bucket slipped from its buckle, and is
now swimming underground, as you can see for yourself.” And he kicked
the cover from the well, and there, on the dark water, swam the tilted
bucket, forty feet down.
Sir John had listened attentively to the Farmer's tale, and now his eyes
kindled with their fine fire. “Dick,” said he, “here's an adventure
ready to my hand.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dick, “The key must be got, for the door can't be
broken; I've tried it already.”
But Sir John did not heed him, for he was already polishing his shield
with might and main.
Then Dick took the well-rope in his hand and tested it carefully, and
found it sound; and next he fastened the swivel of the buckle to his
leather belt.
“Oh Dick!” exclaimed Audrey, and clutched his shoulders with all the
strength of her two hands.
“It's got to be done,” said he. “There's no call to be frightened,
Audrey.” For her face was as blanched as skim milk when it foams one way
from the separator, while the yellow cream slides another.
He signed to the men, and they came forward and slowly lowered him into
the well, while he gripped the rope above his head; and Audrey shut her
eyes and counted a hundred-and-fifty. Then she opened them and leaned
over the well, and hers were the first hands to help him as he came to
the top, key, bucket, and all; though when he saw her stooping above him
he cried, “Go back, silly!” for fear she should fall. However, in
another moment he stood beside her in the yard; but her knees shook so
that she went down on them under pretence of unfastening the buckle from
his belt.
“Now we'll let out the little girl,” said Dick; and they hastened to the
Round-House where the young owls were “Tu-wicking!” louder than ever.
“Owlet!” cried Audrey again, “we're come to let you fly, if only you
will tell us the way to the Murray River!”
At that a lovely little fair face, full of dreamy mischief, with soft,
short hair falling loose about its ears, peeped through the bars.
“Tu-wick!” said she. “I won't come out, and I won't tell, unless you let
me and Mike come too.”
“I'll answer for that,” said Dick, and he turned the key in the lock;
and the child came running out with a wiry Irish terrier at her heels; a
lean, excitable dog with loving eyes.
Her father caught her to his heart and kissed her repeatedly, and she
returned his kisses, saying, “Good-bye, father, because I'm going now.
I'm going to the Murray River with these people and animals.”
“Ay, so you shall, you shall!” said the Farmer; “but do not be home
after dark.”
“I'll see to it, sir,” said Audrey.
By this time Sir John had joined them with his gleaming shield, and,
looking gravely at Christie, he said, “It is you, dear child, that can
lead us to the Murray River?”
“Oh yes,” said Christie, looking as gravely at him; “as far as the
garden in the wood. But I've never been right down the river yet.”
“Dick,” said the Knight, “the fairies are guiding us. Come, children.”
And he strode the way Christie pointed her finger, and she and Barbie
ran after him, and Dick and Audrey kept close behind them; and Paul the
pig, and Emily the hen, and Rufus the cat, and Mike the dog brought up
the rear.
“How well you do owls,” said Barbie to Christie.
“Yes,” said Christie; “and what a beautiful shield your father's got.”
She looked from Barbie to Audrey as she spoke, but Dick said: “He isn't
their father, but his shield is as bright as the full moon. There's not
a man in all England with such a beautiful shield, is there?” And he
turned to Audrey, who looked wistfully after her Knight, and then on the
ground, and said, “Not in all England.”