THE FIGHT
Meanwhile, the children were travelling towards Barsdon. They were
in high spirits, for the long rest had refreshed them, while the
invigorating air exhilarated them. There was no shade whatever now
from the heat of the sun, but what did that matter when the hill air
swept through you? It set your feet dancing along the road, and the
miles would have been left swiftly behind had not Modestine willed
otherwise.
"Can't you feel it dancing through you, Modestine?" Nancy
expostulated. "Anybody'd think you were an old lady of about a
hundred to see you plodding along."
To this and other entreaties Modestine turned a deaf ear. Why hurry
over the hills, she seemed to say--it was the hills you wanted to
come to, well, here they are. And wasn't it views you wanted? Well,
where can you hope to find anything more beautiful than the country
that is sweeping in hill and dale around you? Adventure you ask for?
Well, let adventure come over the hills to meet you; why go forth to
seek it? Oh, Modestine, you who have youth in your veins, do you not
know that youth cannot stand still? It is old age, Modestine, that
sits with folded hands awaiting that which may happen.
On and on over the hills, each child taking a turn with the
troublesome little animal while the others raced on ahead. Then, in
the late afternoon they came to the road that led down into the
valley.
Nancy offered to ride Modestine down the hill, and the others decided
to have a race. Montague was for giving Mavis a start, but Billy
advised him not to.
"She'd leave you a mile behind, nobody can run as fast as Mavis.
'Sides, it's too far to have a proper race; let's run just as we want
to, and never mind about winning."
Montague agreed to this, for the thought of being beaten by a little
girl was not pleasant, especially when you wanted to shine yourself
in the eyes of that small person.
"We'll wait for you at the bottom, Nancy," Mavis shouted, "'nless
Modestine changes her mind and decides to run, too!"
"All right," Nancy replied, waving her hand as, with a shout, they
set off down the hill.
Modestine's gentle amble fitted in with her mood. She was in no
hurry to leave the hill top, and now that she was alone the
imagination part of her gently pushed aside the everyday, practical
side of her nature and led her across this lovely hill country. And
presently she began to feel no longer a stranger in a strange land;
seeing the hills with her imagination eyes she began to feel near to
them. Would she some day understand them as she did her own dear
forest and river? The shouts and laughter of the other children
coming distantly seemed to be a part of the joyousness of the hills.
The hills, she told herself fancifully, were laughter. The winds
that blew across them voiced that laughter, and she and the others
were just little wild creatures of the earth who echoed the laughter
brimming all around them.
She no longer questioned the hills as she jogged happily down the
road. She wanted to laugh, but to laugh alone would be too stupid
she thought, so instead, a song that Aunt Letty had taught her
bubbled from her lips:
"I will arise and go now and go to Inisfree,
And a small cabin build there of clay and wattles made
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee
And live alone in the bee-loud glade."
"I'd love the bee-loud glade," she thought, "but I don't _think_ I'd
live alone--I couldn't just talk to bees _all_ day."
She continued humming the song.
"And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes
dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the
cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer and noon a purple glow.
And evening full of the linnets' wings."
"I've seen a _blue_ glow," Nancy thought, "but not a purple one. And
it was swallows' wings the evening was full of, last night, not
linnets'. 'Spect the man who wrote that would have made a song last
night if he'd been with us in the Priory garden. I think I'll try to
make one myself about--about the swallows and children picking up the
joy-drops splashed about by a Prior. I'd like to stop and write it
now--'spect I'd better not. They would think I was lost, so
"I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand in the roadway, or on the pavements grey
I hear it in the deep heart's core."
Nancy suddenly pulled up Modestine sharply. In spite of her delight
in the hills, all day she had felt that there was something missing.
Now, as she sang of one whose heart ached for the sound of water
while he trod the dull pavements of London, she suddenly knew what
was lacking in this hill country.
"Oh," she thought passionately, "it's the sound of the dear old Gleam
I miss. _I_ can hear it in my heart's core, I can hear the tide
coming in, I can hear the wind playing with the waves."
How she loved water, how even the memory of the sound of it stirred
her. With a laugh at herself she shook the reins and Modestine
jogged slowly on. Nancy's thoughts wandered back to the song she had
been singing. Curious how little the words had conveyed to her until
to-day; singing it here in the hills had made it alive for her.
"I shall call it my Hill Song," she told herself. "I'll tell Aunt
Letty about it."
Ah no, she could not do that she remembered, for since Aunt Letty had
ceased to be engaged to Uncle Jim she had not sung it, for it was one
that he had given her. Nancy remembered too how they used to laugh
over the song together.
"Nine lovely scenty bean rows they were going to have between them,"
she sighed, "and we were all going to stay with them in the little
clay cabin, though Uncle Jim said it might end in some of us having
to sleep in the bee-loud glade, else we'd be a bit congested."
Ah yes, _that_ verse had always been "alive." Nancy sighed as she
remembered the happy days when Aunt Letty had sung it.
"I wish," she thought, "people wouldn't go and be miserable and not
marry when they really want to--it's so worrying. I do wish I could
let Uncle Jim know Aunt Letty wants him--I _know_ he'd come like a
shot."
A bend in the road showed her that the foot of the hill was near; the
children, scampering along, had almost reached it. Crossing the
valley was a little ford, and near the water Nancy could see a couple
of big lads crouching one on either side of the road. She strained
forward, puzzled as to what they could possibly be doing.
Instinctively she felt that they were up to no good. A moment later
she knew.
Mavis, who, of course, was the first to reach the ford, disregarding
the stepping-stones, was about to leap over it when the lads pulled a
rope they had stretched across the road. Nancy saw the child trip
and fall full length across the ford. Fortunately the water was
shallow, but Nancy in her anger and indignation, and fearing that her
little sister might be hurt, cried out so fiercely that Modestine
literally bounded down the hill.
Mavis, with her handkerchief held to her pretty shapely little nose,
ran towards her with tears in her eyes.
"It's my nose that's bleeding, an' my dress is all filthy and
muddy--nasty, horrid boys!"
"Beastly skunking cads!" Nancy's words expressed what she was
feeling as she slipped from Modestine to comfort the child. "But
see, Billy's settling them, and Monty's helping!"
Billy, indeed, was "settling them."
"You rotten dirty hounds!" he cried. "Come on!"
"Ought we to--to let them fight? They're ever so much bigger than
Billy and Monty," Mavis sobbed.
"We can't stop Billy, you know we can't, once he begins. And he does
know about proper fighting, and I daresay they don't."
Billy, usually so sunny tempered, so good-natured, was a difficult
person to deal with once his slow temper was roused, and that it was
thoroughly roused to-day was evident. Both he and Montague had
witnessed the cowardly trick played on Mavis, though they were too
far off to save her.
"We'll take one each," he had cried, as together they dashed forward.
"I'll take that biggest lout----"
"No, me--I'll take the biggest." Montague was just one fierce desire
to hurt terribly those who had hurt his little friend.
"No--me!" Billy panted. "I can fight."
"So can I," Montague persisted.
Billy, however, was quickest, and made for the taller lad, who stood
waiting with a smile of derision on his face, for the small boy
dashing on to him with a challenge bursting angrily from his lips.
Nancy and Mavis clung together watching the fight. Each boy had
thrown off his coat and was fighting desperately. Montague slogged
into and pummelled his opponent, but, though all his passionate young
heart was in the fight, it was clearly not a fair one. Billy, on the
other hand, to his adversary's evident surprise and chagrin, was by
no means getting the worst of it, for, thanks to his father, who had
taught him both boxing and Ju Jitsu, he had science to help him,
whereas the country lad had nothing but brute strength. Every
movement of Billy's lithe young body was prejudged, every thrust was
true. Presently, watching his opportunity, with a sudden swift
movement of arm and leg, he brought his opponent heavily to the
ground. The lad lay on the ground howling with rage and pain, but as
he made no effort to renew the contest Billy left him and ran to
Montague's assistance.
"Go away!" Montague panted. "_I'll_ manage him!"
Billy hesitated. Clearly Montague could _not_ manage the lad, yet,
understanding his spirit, he was loth to interfere. The lad,
however, decided the matter. Through the tail of his eye he had
watched Billy's performance, and was in no mind to suffer the
treatment the youngster had meted out to his confederate, so with a
last cuff at Montague's head he slunk away.
The four coats lay jumbled together at the side of the ford. The lad
lurched towards them, picked up his own and was about to turn away
when something lying on the ground near Billy's attracted his
attention. He glanced round furtively. Nobody was watching him so,
stooping hurriedly, he picked up what he had seen, and, thrusting it
into his pocket, called his companion and bolted. Something in his
voice aroused the latter, and, pausing only for his coat, he, too,
slunk away and the children were once more alone.
The next quarter of an hour was a busy time for Nancy, what with
Mavis' bleeding nose and two gory and dishevelled boys to be attended
to.
"It's my fwock I mind more'n my nose," Mavis said pathetically, while
Nancy was bathing the latter with the clear water from the ford.
"It's a horrid, muddy patch, and I'll be the only dirty one now."
For Mrs. White had seen to it that Montague started out that morning
with spotless clothes.
It would probably brush off, Nancy assured her, when it was dry, and,
having done the best she could for Mavis, she turned her attention to
the boys.
Poor Montague was a sorry spectacle, and Billy was little better.
Nancy washed away the blood and cleansed the broken skin, but for the
bruises she could do nothing.
Billy, who had regained his happy spirits, began to laugh at himself
and Montague.
"We don't look handsome, either of us, but we'll just have to pull
our hats down over our eyes and glare at anybody who stares at us!"
Montague, however, was unaccountably silent, and it was not until
they had started off again and Barsdon was in sight that he voiced
his trouble.
"Billy beat the fellow he was fighting an' _I_ didn't," he rumbled in
a voice so low that they could scarcely hear it. "But," he added,
and here apparently lay the sting, "he needn't have offered to help
me." Oh, it was like gall to have your pride so wounded when you
felt just one fierce, primitive impulse to hurt the cad who had
injured Mavis.
"Oh, but, Monty, you were awfully brave!" Mavis cried impulsively.
"Billy, you see, has been taught how to fight--but look how you
slogged into that creature! I 'spect he had some bruises."
"Was he _bleeding_?" Montague asked hopefully.
"Yes, he was," Mavis replied with a little shudder.
"Bleeding as much as me?"
"Well--nearly," Mavis temporized.
Montague's face cleared. Mavis had said that he was brave, and if
she thought well of him nothing else mattered. Nevertheless he found
himself longing for the day when he could fight as Billy had done,
and when Billy offered either to teach him boxing himself "when they
got home" (how persistently that little phrase seemed to crop up!),
or to ask his father to do so, Montague's momentary bitterness
vanished, and he began to take an interest in life again.
And now the village was reached, and the children began to look about
for the inn. They saw the sign swinging slightly in the breeze a
short way down the street, but at the entrance to the village was
something more attractive in children's eyes than an inn, and that
was a sweet shop.
Suddenly, Billy, who was feeling parched and thirsty after the fight,
felt an overwhelming desire for acid drops.
"I haven't bought my weekly sweets yet," he said. "I should think we
could spare twopence, couldn't we?"
The others agreeing that twopence would not be an impossible
extravagance, Billy entered the tiny shop and Nancy accompanied him.
"I've got threepence loose in my pocket," he whispered, "but hadn't I
better change half a crown? I may want the coppers to tip the ostler
at the inn."
Nancy nodded and Billy dived into his coat pocket for his purse, but
no purse was to be found. The poor boy's face went white.
"Nancy, I can't find the purse," he whispered hurriedly. "I put it
in this pocket, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did. Let me feel," Nancy replied anxiously. She slipped
her hand into his pocket, but could find no purse; she felt in all
his other pockets, but in none of them was a purse to be found.
So far the woman who was serving them had not noticed their
consternation, for she had been busy digging out the acid drops, but
now as she handed the sweets to Billy she was struck by the two
white, agitated little faces. Was anything the matter, she enquired
kindly? Were they ill?
"No, thank you," Billy replied in confusion. "It's--it's nothing
very much."
His fingers trembled as they extricated two pennies from the usual
medley a boy's trousers pocket contains, but he was too proud to
share his trouble with a total stranger. Fearing further questions
he flung the money down and hurried out of the shop.
"Let's get into a side road quick," he said, "so I can take my coat
off and shake it."
Mavis and Montague looked at him in surprise, and Nancy explained
matters as they hurried after Billy. Suddenly Mavis paused and
called to Billy. "Oh, Billy," she said, her voice trembling with
indignation, "I know who's got it--it's that wicked boy, the one who
fought Monty. I saw him pick up something, and I 'member he looked
kind of scared--oh, I know it's him!"
The children looked at each other. No use to hurry now in order to
turn the coat inside out, it was all too evident that Mavis was
right, and that a search would be fruitless.
"I've just one penny left," Billy replied simply. "_Now_ what is to
be done?"
"I've got some money!" Montague dived into his pocket and produced
fivepence-halfpenny.
"An' I've twopence in my pocket!" said Nancy.
"An' I've twopence, too, in mine!" Mavis added.
Tenpence-halfpenny all told! What a sum for four little people to
face the world with. Well, no use taking Modestine to the inn now;
impossible, too, to present yourselves as prospective boarders at
Mrs. Charsfield's pretty cottage (they knew it at once from Dick's
description) with only tenpence-halfpenny in your pockets.
They turned reluctantly up a narrow lane and even Billy's heart was
heavy within him. Here they were, four children and a donkey in
unknown country, almost penniless. The thought of sleeping out of
doors, of course did not trouble them; but for Dick's suggestion they
would probably have slept out to-night in any case. But to sleep out
of doors from choice was one thing, to sleep out because you had only
the price of one very meagre meal between you was something quite
different.
And then what a tremendous sum of money to have lost! Practically
seventeen shillings, for, thanks to well-filled baskets, their
expenses during the two days had been very small. And seventeen
shillings was a small fortune in the eyes of these children, whose
weekly pocket-money was limited because their parents held the belief
that the modern habit of giving the child an unlimited allowance
robbed it of a certain happiness that is known only to those children
who have to think twice before they indulge themselves. A blasé
child who was unable to enjoy the simple pleasures they had taught
their children to enjoy was the pet abomination of Mr. and Mrs.
Stafford, and the children's little hoard of nineteen shillings had
been the result of much combined savings of presents from relatives,
saved, not originally for this adventure, but "Just in _case_ we
should want to do anything nice with it."
And now it had gone, every penny of it, and if they were to continue
their travels they would have to contrive some means of raising
money. To be sure there was Mr. Frampton, and to whom should you
turn if not to the Warden of the Travellers in the Hills? If they
hung about the village they would be sure to meet him presently; he
would be glad to see them they knew, but, well, if they confided in
him would he not either advise them to return home or else offer to
pay their expenses himself?
"I don't see how we _can_ tell him," Billy said. "It'd look like
cadging."
"But he said he had to help travellers. Wouldn't he be hurt if we
didn't let him help us in some way--not to _give_ us money, of
course, but just, but just----"
"There'd be _no_ way he could help us out of this 'cept with money or
paying for us everywhere, which would be the same thing," Billy
persisted. "And I'm sure he's not meant to help in that way if he is
Warden--it's lifts and accidents and things of that kind he's here
for. We've got to find a way out ourselves or go back home."
And so the matter was left while they looked about for a camping
place. Presently, a wood at the end of a narrow cart-track on the
right seemed to suggest itself, and here they decided to spend the
night. Their spirits began to rise a little as they entered the
wood. After all, there was an excitement about camping out of doors,
and they would build a fire and have tea. Tea? How stupid, why had
nobody thought of buying a loaf in Barsdon? They could at least run
to that. Billy volunteered to go back and buy one while the others
were unpacking. Bread and acid drops for tea, and the scraps left
over from lunch! They laughed at the novelty of the fare. They
began to think after all, their plight was not so utterly desperate
while even a few pence stood between them and--well, not perhaps
starvation, but giving up that which they had set their hearts upon.
"We'll find a way out," Billy called back to them, "so don't any of
you worry!" He paused as he reached the road. "Guess we'll have to
call it part of our adventure; it's the kind of thing that
adventurers have to put up with, isn't it?" and with a laugh he set
off down the hill.