Oh, dear, what can the matter be?
Johnny’s so long at the Fair!
JOHNNY’S father was busily chopping wood in the little shed at the back
of the cottage, and Johnny himself sat on an upturned block with one
chubby leg crossed over the other—a feat of some difficulty when one’s
legs are short and one’s seat unsteady—superintending the parental
labours, and revolving a certain project in his mind. John the elder was
a red-bearded giant of a man, with strongly marked features and great,
sinewy, hairy arms, which were now fully revealed under his rolled up
shirt-sleeves. Johnny the younger, like his namesake of poetic fame, had
a golden head “like a yellow mop in blow,” a cherub-face, big solemn blue
eyes—very serious and thoughtful just now—and every other good point
which may reasonably be looked for in a healthy little peasant
four-year-old.
[Picture: “You do seem to be choppin’ a lot this evenin’, Dada”]
He had not long been promoted to the dignity of knickerbockers, and was
the proud possessor of pockets which still retained all the charm of
novelty. Into one of these pockets he now dived from time to time,
extracting from its depths (which were not very profound) a small round
wooden box, the lid of which he proceeded to unscrew; a painful squeaking
accompanying the process. This, on being removed, displayed a bright,
threepenny-bit; and Johnny, taking it out, contemplated it for a moment
in the broad palm of his grimy little hand, turned it over, polished it
on the knee of his little breeches, replaced it in its receptacle,
screwed on the lid again with laborious grinding, and finally restored
the whole to his pocket.
Observing, after these operations had been gone through some half-dozen
times, that his father allowed them to pass unnoticed, Johnny heaved a
deep sigh and made a remark on his own account.
“You do seem to be choppin’ a lot this evenin’, Dada.”
“’Ees, Johnny, I be”—and here John Reed senior laid down his hatchet,
straightened himself, and wiped his brow. “I have to chop so much as
your mother will want to-morrow and next day too, d’ ye see? I’m goin’
to Shroton to-morrow wi’ Maggie and Rosie. If you be a good little chap
I’ll bring ’ee a cake, maybe.”
Johnny uncrossed his legs and sat rigid on the block, his eyes apparently
ready to jump out of his head. The father nodded good-naturedly, and
took up his axe again. The son threw out his hand after the manner
employed by scholars desirous of attracting the teacher’s attention.
“Bide a bit!”—with a quaint assumption of authority—“I’ve got summat to
show ’ee here.”
The chubby hand sought the pocket once more, the box was produced, and
its contents displayed. “I’ve got fruppence,” announced Johnny
triumphantly.
“Have ’ee, now?” returned Reed kindly but dispassionately. “Well done!
Where did ’ee get that?”
“Gran’ma gived it me. Dada!”—here Johnny got off the block—“Dada, do ’ee
take me to the fair to-morrow, and let me ’pend it.”
“Why, I never!” cried the father, half puzzled and half admiring. “You
be too little, Johnny—you’d be tired out afore the day was half done.”
“Nay, nay” and the little head was shaken until the golden mop was in
full display. “Nay, I’d not be tired. I can walk so far as Rosie, an’ I
do want to go in the roundabouts.”
“Want to go in the roundabouts, do ’ee? That’s a tale.” Here John Reed
laughed, scratched his head, and contemplated his small sturdy son. “I
d’ ’low you’d enjoy the roundabouts, and the shows and that—jist about.
But we shan’t be home till late. And whatever ’ud Mother say? Ye’d best
stop an’ take care of Mother, I reckon, Sonny.”
“Nay,” said Johnny junior. “I be goin’ with ’ee; Mammy have got Puss!”
And thereupon the red-haired giant laughed long and loud, and the imp
beside him knew the victory was his.
The sun was sinking when they came indoors, both looking extremely
important, albeit somewhat sheepish, as became a pair of conspirators.
Mrs. Reed stood by the window mending the coat which her master was to
wear on the morrow; Maggie, a tall, shapely girl of seventeen, was
ironing a starched white petticoat; while Rosie, the younger daughter,
busily stitched a lace frill on the neck of her Sunday dress. An air of
joyful bustle and excitement pervaded the place, for, although Mrs. Reed
herself had ceased to join in the annual outing, she was good-natured
enough to share the others’ pleasure at the prospect.
“There, Missus, I’ve cut ye enough wood to do ye for a week,” announced
John, “an’ me and the little chap ’ull feed chicken jist now.”
“It’s time for Johnny to go to bed,” remarked the mother, gazing at him
fondly, however. “He’s best out of the way to-night—there do always seem
to be sich a lot to be done afore Shroton.”
“Well,” agreed John falteringly, “p’r’aps he would be best abed, more
particular as he has a mind to come wi’ us to-morrow.”
There was a chorus of surprise and disapproval, in the midst of which
Johnny stood silent, gazing from one to the other with a solemn, resolute
little face. It was not until “Dada” himself had begun to show signs of
wavering that the little fellow suddenly sat down on the ground and began
to cry.
Now Johnny occupied a somewhat unique position in the family, which may
thus be accounted for: Rosie and Maggie had come tumbling into the world
hard on each other’s heels; and then five little graves, side by side
under the churchyard yew, marked the advent and departure of five little
boys, not one of whom had lived more than a few years; and then, after a
long interval, when the cradle had been put away and the baby-clothes
laid by on the top shelf of the cupboard, Johnny had made his appearance;
and Johnny had from the first evinced a determination to live, and from
the moment he could walk had become the recognised ruler of the entire
household.
Therefore, when Johnny lifted up his voice in protest, general
consternation ensued. Dada, taking him in his arms, upbraided the
women-folk, and remarked indignantly that the child was not so big yet
but what he could carry him if he was tired: and Maggie with a blush
reminded her mother that Jim Fry was going to give them a lift to Shroton
and back, and therefore there would be no need for Johnny to walk except
just at the Fair itself; and Rosie observed that he didn’t seem to be one
for catching cold, and, moreover, opined that he would look beautiful in
his new suit, and that it did seem a pity that he couldn’t wear it where
it could be seen. This last suggestion turned the scale, and Johnny
dried his eyes and was carried off to bed in triumph.
On the next morning the entire household was enlisted in the service of
the youngest-born. The father, coming upon Rosie as she was blacking his
sturdy little Sunday boots, desired her to hand them over—he’d show her
how to make ’em shine. And shine they certainly did when he had done
with them, for, though he could with difficulty squeeze two of his great
fingers into them, he polished them with as much energy as would have
sufficed for full-sized Wellingtons.
Meanwhile Maggie was sedulously brushing the smart new sailor-suit, and
the little pilot-coat with its two rows of brass buttons, while Mrs. Reed
was carefully winding round her fingers the yellow curls which looked so
much better when allowed to cluster freely about brow and neck, but which
were now persuaded to assume the corkscrew shape dear to the village
mother’s heart. She devoted particular time and care to the arrangement
of a top-knot, which much resembled a small sausage-roll, and was poised
immediately above Johnny’s right eye. At last the only son of the house
stood arrayed in all his glory, while the admiring family gathered round.
“He do look a pictur’—I’ll say that for him,” remarked the father
proudly. “There’ll not be his like at the Fair.”
“See and keep your coat buttoned, Johnny,” observed Mrs. Reed anxiously;
“and don’t ’ee go for to take off your muffler, not if you be ever so
warm.”
Johnny rolled his eyes towards his mother over the white woollen
folds—which, indeed, very nearly came up to them—and then looked down to
where the fringed ends showed beneath the bottom of his coat. The
comforter was certainly uncomfortably warm, and the day was mild and
sunny; but Johnny was in the mood to promise anything; therefore he
gravely nodded.
Presently the sound of wheels was heard, and Jim Fry’s “trap” halted
outside the little garden-gate. Jim himself looked very smart in his
best clothes; his hat being set on at a knowing angle over his
well-sleeked locks; a nosegay about the size of a saucer in his
button-hole. There were flowers, too, at the horse’s ears, and the
harness was polished to a nicety.
“Now, then, how had we best divide?” inquired Jim. “Suppose you sit next
me, Maggie, and Rosie t’ other side of you? And if you’ll get up behind
wi’ the little chap, Mr. Reed, you’ll just about balance us.”
John Reed stared a little, winked solemnly at his wife, and finally
agreed; and the girls came tripping down the path, Maggie blushing as she
clambered into the cart, while Rosie, with many giggles, ascended on the
other side. Then little John waved his hand from his place beside his
father, big John shouted “Right!” in a stentorian voice, Jim Fry cracked
the whip, and they were off.
Oh, what a merry drive was that! The old horse hammering along briskly,
up the hills as well as down, and covering the ground at a prodigious
rate, constantly overtaking other parties of pleasure-seekers who were
proceeding more soberly, some on waggons, some on foot, some in little
donkey carts. Now the pretty village of Stourpaine was left behind; a
few old folks came to their doors to look after the dashing equipage, and
some children ran for a little way beside the horse; now they turned off
by Steepleton, and for a while enjoyed the shade of the plantation
farther on; and at last they drew near the scene of the Fair itself,
being forced to proceed more slowly, for the road was well-nigh blocked
with vehicles.
A mingled and extraordinary din greeted their ears as they approached.
The shrieking music of the merry-go-rounds mingling with the shouting and
laughter of many voices, the banging of the shooting-galleries, the
hoarse cries intermingled with trumpet-blasts from proprietors of the
different shows.
Johnny was at first disposed to be alarmed, and clutched his father’s
hand somewhat tightly, but when the latter cheerily remarked that it was
“rare sport” the little fellow strove to put away his fears, and to think
it rare sport too.
Presently he was securely mounted on John Reed’s great shoulders, and
watched the jumping of the horses, which were sent from all parts of the
country for sale. It was exciting to see the dealers flap their
crackling calico flags, and with strange, uncouth cries urge on the
animal actually under inspection to show off his paces, and to leap an
adjoining hedge—the latter feat being one not often accomplished; the
rider indeed, much to the delight of the lookers-on, more frequently
taking the fence than the horse. It was, however, a very amusing sight,
and Johnny shouted and laughed and drummed on his father’s chest with his
shining little boots, and stared about him at the seething mass of heads,
and at the horses thundering past, and at those other horses tied up in
pickets or rows, some of them plentifully bedecked with ribbons, while
the manes and tails of others were curiously ornamented with straw. Over
yonder were the booths and the tents and the waggons, and the
red-and-yellow roundabouts and the swings and the shooting-galleries, and
the crowds and crowds of merry folk. Johnny’s spirits rose more and more
as the moments passed, and he presently found himself obliged not only to
drum upon his father’s chest, but to jig up and down upon his shoulder,
supporting himself by the crown of John Reed’s best Sunday hat.
“Hold hard!” cried his parent good-naturedly, when a more than usually
ecstatic movement had well-nigh bonneted him. “Sit still, my lad. Where
be climbin’ to, eh?”
“I’m lookin’ at the roundabouts,” chanted Johnny; “all the folks ridin’,
and the harses goin’ up an’ down. There’s Maggie and Jim—and Rosie
a-ridin’ behind! O-o-oh, Dada, do ’ee take I to ’em!”
“Well, a promise is a promise. I did say I’d take ’ee, didn’t I? Come
along, then jump down! That’s the boy! Now we’ll go. Which shall it
be? That great, big, red un?”—as the child pointed with his small
forefinger. “We’ll make straight for he, then. Now, will ’ee ride in
front o’ Dada, or will ’ee have a horse all to yourself?”
Johnny’s eyes were growing rounder and rounder, and his little hot hand
clutched his father’s finger with almost feverish eagerness, as he
answered stoutly that he’d like to ride all by his own self.
“Well done!” cried Reed admiringly. “You wouldn’t think the spirit of
en,” he remarked to the red-faced proprietress of the merry-go-round as
he paid the fare. “Ye’d think a little chap same as this ’ud be afeared
to go alone. But no, not he. ‘I’d like to ride all by my own self,’
says he, as cool as a cucumber—an’ him but just turned four years old.”
It was pleasant to see the pair circling to the sound of the diabolical
music: the father perspiring with terror on the child’s account, with one
great hand hovering over him, ready to support him at the smallest sign
of wavering, his own huge form ridiculously out of proportion to his
wooden steed, his long legs trailing; the son, very red in the face,
clutching the wooden neck of his horse with strong, resolute little
hands, his eyes bright with rapture, his smile growing broader and broader
until at length he was forced to chuckle aloud for glee.
Well, they had two rides on the roundabout, and then they went on the
switchback, and then they went in a swing, and then Reed bought a large
flabby cake and a couple of very green apples, and while Johnny was
munching these dainties they suddenly knocked up against an acquaintance
whom his father had not seen for years. There was much greeting and
hand-shaking and questioning—the two deep voices booming over the child’s
head, which was now beginning to swim a little, partly as a result of
much agitation, and partly, perhaps, because those very green apples
began to make him feel rather uncomfortable.
He hung more and more heavily on his father’s hand, and at last, his
short legs giving way beneath him, he fairly dropped on the ground.
“Gettin’ tired, eh?” said Reed, glancing down at him. “Come, we’ll look
for Maggie and Rosie, and get ’em to take ’ee somewhere where ye can sit
down and rest for a bit.”
Lifting him up, he threaded his way through the crowd, followed by his
new acquaintance. Soon they came upon the two girls, who, provided with
an admirer apiece, were gleefully “shying” at cocoanuts.
They readily agreed to take charge of Johnny, and their father, turning
to Jim Fry, informed him that he intended to return home on foot, as he
had met an old friend, and when they had finished with the Fair they
would probably go to the village for a glass or two.
“Right, sir, right,” returned Jim amiably. “I’ll take care of the two
young ladies, without Tom Davis there likes to get up at the back along
of Rosie to keep the balance even.”
And here Jim grinned and winked knowingly.
“I d’ ’low he won’t have no objections,” returned Reed good-humouredly.
“But ye must see and take ’em home afore dark, Jim, same as ye did
promise the missus. And take good care o’ Johnny, maids, whatever ye
do.”
Johnny had by this time stared his fill at the cocoanuts, and now came
backing up against his father, turning suddenly as the latter was about
to move away.
“I want to stop with Dada!” he cried. “Let me go with you, Dada?”
“Ah, he be ter’ble fond o’ Dada, that he be,” remarked John to his
friend. “Never was such a chap for wantin’ to be al’ays at my heels.
There, but ye must stop with sister now, Johnny—and Dada ’ull come back
for ’ee by-and-bye.”
“You’ll not keep the child out late, Father, will ye?” inquired Maggie
anxiously. “Ye’ll let him come home wi’ us.”
But he had already turned away.
Johnny was at first disposed to lament, but was somewhat consoled on
being invited to try his luck with the cocoanuts; the sticks thrown by
his small arm, however, fell wide of the mark, and presently his lip
began to droop again and his eyes to roam wistfully,
“Why, you haven’t spent your money yet,” cried Rosie, catching him up.
“Come, we’ll go to the stalls and find summat to buy.”
After Johnny was perambulated up and down the stuffy arcade between the
rows of shouting, excited vendors of toys, sweet-stuff, and crockery,
after he had paused irresolutely in front of several booths, and screwed
and unscrewed his precious little squeaking box any number of times, he
found himself unable to part with his threepenny-bit, and finally agreed,
with a sigh of satisfaction, to follow Rosie’s advice and keep it for
another day.
They went to a shooting-gallery next, and the noise made Johnny’s head
ache; and then to a peep-show, which he didn’t understand; and then to
watch an acrobatic performance, which failed to interest him.
The day was wearing on now, and he was becoming very tired. He dragged
at his sister’s skirts as he walked beside her, and his head was ever
turned backwards over his shoulder in the hope of descrying “Dada”. Big
folk going past tumbled over him or pushed him to one side with curt
admonitory remarks. “Now, then, my man!” “Out of the way, youngster!”
“Look where you are going, can’t you, child?” Even Maggie and Rosie, who
were themselves probably a little weary, began to lose patience with him,
and when, under his despairing clutch, the gathers of the elder sister’s
dress gave way, she shook him, not roughly, but irritably, and said
sharply:—
“Bless me, Johnny, hold up a bit, can’t ’ee? Jist see what ye’ve a-done
to my new dress.”
Thereupon all Johnny’s stoicism gave way, and he began to cry piteously.
“I want Dada, I want Dada!”
“Why, he’s over there—see!” cried Jim Fry, who had found Johnny by no
means a welcome addition to the party. “Look, Johnny, there’s Dada
standin’ jist by that tent. He’ll be comin’ to fetch ’ee in a minute.”
Sure enough the stalwart form of the elder John was plainly discernible
some fifty yards or so away.
“Let me go to him!” wailed the child. “I want to go to Dada—I _will_ go
to Dada!”
And thrusting aside Maggie’s hand, he broke from the little group and ran
at full speed towards the spot where his father was standing.
“Best let him go,” advised Jim, catching hold of Maggie as she was about
to start in pursuit. “He’ll be twice so happy wi’ he, and you know your
father did say he was a-comin’ back to fetch en.”
“That’s true,” assented she.
As they stood watching the little figure making its way among the groups
of people, Tom Davis came up in great excitement, with Rosie on his arm.
“There’s a man over there as is eatin’ fire!” he called out. “I never
see sich a thing in my life! He be a-swallerin’ yards of it. ’Tis a
kind of a ribbon, and he do set a light to one end, and do put it in his
mouth, and goes on a-swallerin’ and a-swallerin’! Ye never did see sich
a thing! His cheeks—there, ye can very nigh look through them! Come
quick, else it will be over. He’ve a-been doin’ all sorts o’
things—playin wi’ knives and a-pullin’ rolls and rolls o’ coloured
ribbons out of his mouth. Dear heart alive, how he can keep all they
things inside of him I can’t think! But come along quick—this way!”
Maggie turned her head for a last look at Johnny, who was by this time
but a few yards away from the tent near which John Reed was standing; and
then, deciding in her own mind that he was now quite safe, hastened away
with the others.
But Johnny was not quite safe: though so close to his father that two or
three of the latter’s strides would have covered the space between them,
he was not destined to reach his side that day.
Lo! just as he was preparing to uplift his shrill little voice and call
ecstatically on his parent, there was a sudden stampede among the crowd,
and Johnny found himself lifted off his feet. One of the colts exposed
for sale had broken loose, and, excited by the strange medley of sights
and sounds around him, was galloping madly hither and thither, snorting
and lashing out with his heels. A big, bearded farmer had caught up the
little chap in his arms and ran with him out of harm’s way. In a few
moments he halted breathless, and set the child upon his feet.
“They’ve caught en, I see,” he said; “no fear now. There, give over
hollerin’, my boy; nobody wants to hurt ’ee. If I hadn’t a-catched ’ee
up ye’d ha’ been run over.”
Johnny gave one scared look at the kind red face, shook off the hand upon
his shoulder, and then made off as fast as his tired little legs would
carry him in the direction of the tent where he had last seen his father
standing. But alas! no father was to be seen, and the poor little
fellow, wailing aloud, began a fruitless search for him amid the throng.
He did not find him; perhaps because the elder John had already left the
Fair, perhaps because the younger, though he imagined himself to be
covering a large area, was in reality wandering round and round about the
same place. Nobody noticed his continuous cry—there were many tired
children at Shroton Fair that day—and now that the dusk was beginning to
fall the heads of families were too busy gathering together their own
belongings to take heed of a fretful stranger. So Johnny stumbled
wearily along, and at last, being thoroughly worn out, climbed into a
wicker chair which formed part of a large assortment of basket wares, and
resolved to wait until “Dada” came by.
Here he crouched with his legs tucked beneath him, his cap far back on
his dishevelled yellow locks, big tears hanging on his eyelashes, and one
little forefinger between his lips—the picture of childish woe.
Every now and then he would fancy he descried the burly figure of his
father advancing towards him, and would crane his head with an eager cry;
but when the figure drew near it would always prove to be that of a
stranger, and then Johnny would sob, and sink back again—a mere little
heap of misery.
After long waiting and fruitless watching, Johnny’s little head began to
droop, and his heavy lids closed gradually over his blue eyes; he sank
backwards in the low chair, and presently forgot all his troubles in
sleep.
It was quite dark when he was suddenly startled into consciousness by the
pressure of a heavy hand upon his shoulder, and the sound of a rough
voice in his ear.
“Hullo—what’s this? What be you a-doin’ in my chair?”
Silverlocks herself could not have been more bewildered by the advent of
the Three Bears than was Johnny as he sat up, blinking at what seemed to
him a gigantic form dimly outlined in the dusk: he was positively
voiceless with terror.
“Who gave ’ee leave to go to sleep in my chair, ye rascal?” continued the
new-comer, and in another moment the little fellow’s seat was lifted up,
and his own small person was sent sprawling on the ground.
Uttering a choked wail, the child scrambled to his feet and gazed about
him; all was strange, dark, and terrifying; undefined shapes loomed
through the dusk; the lights flashing out here and there intensified the
prevailing gloom; a babel of voices intermingled with shouts and laughter
sounded in the distance. Two or three unknown figures now drew near to
him, and one stretched out its hand.
“Now, then, little man, who may you be?” said a thick voice which he had
never heard before.
Johnny started back, gasped, and then, terror lending him wings, darted
swiftly from the group and fled away into the darkness.
* * * * *
When the time came for the young folks to return home, they were much
surprised to find that Reed did not appear to restore Johnny to their
care. After long waiting and searching in the crowd, they decided that
the little fellow must have prevailed upon his sire to allow him to
remain with him.
“Be hoped he’ll not keep out the child too long,” said Maggie as she
mounted the cart. “Mother ’ull be awful upset at our goin’ back wi’out
him.”
“She will—jist about!” agreed Rosie gloomily, from the back seat. “I’m
sure I don’t know however he’ll manage to get en home, without he carries
en all the way, and he’s a pretty good weight, Johnny is.”
“Somebody ’ull give ’em a lift, you mid be sure,” said optimistic Tom,
from his place next Rosie. “’Tis wonderful how things do fall out.
There now, d’ye see, I never looked for gettin’ a ride in sich pleasant
company.”
And he leered at Rosie in so meaning a manner that she tossed her head
and forgot all about her little brother.
Mrs. Reed’s indignation and anxiety knew no bounds, and she was far from
satisfied with the girls’ explanation. Indeed, she rated them both
soundly, refused to hear any details of their doings, and dismissed them
in dudgeon to their little attic room, where, infected by her alarm, they
lay quaking as the hours passed without bringing their father.
Midnight had been proclaimed by the asthmatic cuckoo-clock, and one had
struck before the sound of heavy footsteps on the path without awoke
Maggie from the uneasy doze into which she had at length fallen.
“’Tis Father,” she cried, sitting up in her bed. “Lard! how he do fumble
wi’ the latch. He do seem to be a bit drinky, and he can’t have been
druv, after all. He must ha’ carried Johnny all the way. ’Tis a mercy
if he haven’t dropped him.”
They could hear their mother unbolting the house door, her voice raised
in querulous reproach.
“’Tis a shame for ’ee, John, to keep out the child to this time o’
night.” Then a sudden cry. “For mercy’s sake, what ha’ ye done wi’ him?
Where be he?”
“Where be what?” returned the father good-humouredly, if a little
thickly. “Johnny? Why he be at home and abed hours ago. I left en wi’
the maids. They be come home, sure?”
Maggie’s heart seemed to stand still; in a moment she had thrown a shawl
over her nightgown, and was pattering down the narrow stairs, Rosie
following and sobbing aloud. They burst into the kitchen. John Reed’s
tall figure was standing in the open doorway, and though his wife,
voiceless with terror, was clutching him by the arm, actually shaking him
in her anxiety, he was smiling stupidly down at her, quite unconscious of
the effect produced by his announcement.
“’Ees,” he repeated, “I left en wi’ the maids, and they must ha’ started
long afore I. I’ll tell ye all about it—I did meet Charl’ Pollen—”
“Father!” shrieked Maggie, “ye don’t mean to say ye haven’t got Johnny!
He wasn’t with us! He ran off to you late in the afternoon. I saw en
close aside o’ you. Lard save us, what’s to be done! The child’s lost!”
“Lost!” repeated Reed, sobered in a minute. “Lost!”
He rushed towards the girls, his face working, his eyes bloodshot. “If
you’ve been and lost that child I’ll be the death o’ you.”
His voice was harsh, absolutely unlike itself; he could scarcely
articulate in his frenzy of rage and terror.
“I told ’ee,” he cried, “I told ’ee to look after en—my last words was,
‘Take care o’ Johnny, whatever ye do’. Don’t dare tell me ye’ve been and
lost en!”
“Oh, Father, Father!” wailed Maggie, who had retreated to the farthest
end of the room, and now stood gazing at him with eyes that seemed ready
to start from her pallid face. “Oh, Father, you did say you was a-comin’
back for en, and he was a-cryin’ for you, and when he catched sight o’
you he wouldn’t be kept back all us could say. And we stood and watched
en till he was close aside of ’ee. How could we but think he was safe!”
“Ye shouldn’t ha’ let go of en for a minute,” thundered the father. “I
never set eyes on en, I tell ’ee. My God! the child’s lost, sure
enough!”
He sank down on the nearest chair, covering his face with his hands,
while the women stood huddled together with ghastly faces, weeping and
lamenting. Suddenly he sprang up again, turning on them savagely:—
“How could ye be sich fools as to think I’d keep him out till this hour?
D’ye fancy I’d no thought for en? D’ye really think I—I could go for to
do anything as mid hurt en? Lard, to think on it! Keep them maids o’
yourn out of my sight, Missus, or upon my word I’ll be the death of ’em.”
Mrs. Reed’s very soul was pierced by the cruelty of the words “Them maids
o’ yours,” which not only implied her responsibility for the catastrophe,
but seemed to portend a kind of dissolution of partnership; but,
nevertheless, she alone of all the family retained a remnant of
self-possession.
“Let’s see,” she said tremulously, “what time was it when you see him
last, maids?”
“Six o’clock, I think,” gasped Maggie.
“Six o’clock,” repeated Reed, dropping his voice suddenly to a despairing
note. “Six o’clock and it’s nigh upon two now! That’s eight hours since
he was seen or heard of.”
“Maybe he’s there yet,” cried the mother, still striving to be hopeful.
“Don’t let’s lose another moment, Father—let’s go and look for en
straight off. Maybe he’s crope into one o’ the tents and fell asleep, or
maybe somebody’s found en and is a-taken care of en. I don’t believe,”
added the poor woman wistfully, “I don’t believe as any one could find it
in their hearts for to hurt a little chap like him—so pretty as he did
look too! Oh, dear!”
Her face changed, and she caught her breath with a sudden gasp. Her lip
began to tremble, and she pressed her finger to it to still it.
“He be too pretty,” she said falteringly; “that’s the worst on it! There
be so many gipsy folk about, and play-actors, and all sorts.”
“Oh, Mother,” cried Maggie and Rosie together, “ye don’t think as anybody
’ud want to steal en?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” she returned almost inarticulately; “there,
maybe they wouldn’t, but they do tell sich tales, and Johnny did look
sich a pictur’, ye know; we was a-sayin’ it ourselves.”
John Reed uttered such a heart-rending groan upon this that the girls,
forgetful of their terror, ran towards him.
“Keep off, I say!” he cried savagely, springing from his chair. “Keep
off!—keep out of my sight—I don’t know what I mid do to you.”
“There, my dears,” interposed their mother, in a tremulous aside, “best
not anger him. He’s not himself, d’ye see. Run upstairs and get your
things on, and see if ye can rouse up any of the neighbours to come and
help look for the child.”
“I’ll not wait for nobody’s help!” growled her husband, catching at the
words. “I be goin’ to look for my child myself. I’m not a-goin’ to take
none o’ you wi’ me—ye don’t deserve it. Ye didn’t, none o’ ye, vally
that child as ye did ought to ha’ vallyed him, and now he be lost, and ye
don’t none o’ ye deserve to find en.”
The women-folk gazed at each other aghast, but before they could
remonstrate he was gone.
* * * * *
Day was dawning in all the cool glamour of fine September; a milky sky,
that would presently become brilliant blue, a dew-drenched landscape;
trees and pasture alike silver-besprent. Robins were already singing in
the boughs, and the sparrows had long been awake and busy, when a party
of workmen, each with spade and pick on shoulder, sauntered across the
fields to the scene of their daily labours. As they walked they could
hear the stir and bustle at Shroton—no great distance away. The Fair had
ended on the preceding night, and the travelling folk were busily
collecting their gear, and preparing for the road. Many shows and gipsy
vans had, indeed, departed long before it was light, and from time to
time the clatter of a traction-engine, the shriek of a steam-whistle, a
column of noisome smoke poisoning the air above the green-gold line of
hedge which bordered the highway, indicated the retirement of some
unusually important merry-go-round or switchback.
The men had all paid a visit to the fair on one or other of the two days
previous, and were discussing with some eagerness and occasional bursts
of laughter the various frolics in which each had taken part, when they
arrived at their goal.
Their task, unusual enough in itself, did not seem strange to them. They
were removing soil and rubbish from the recently discovered remains of a
Roman villa.
Roman remains were common enough in that neighbourhood; antiquarians had
even gloated over traces of still earlier times. Thigh-bones, which were
recognised to be of Danish origin, skulls of ancient Britons, had been
found and treasured; there were undeniable traces, not far from this
particular spot, of a hamlet once occupied by some almost prehistoric
race. No wonder, therefore, that the excavation of a mere Roman villa
was an event comparatively unimportant!
Yet when the foremost workman reached the spot and looked down at the
scene of his previous labours, he uttered a long, shrill whistle, and,
turning to his comrades, exclaimed:—
“Well, I’m blowed!”
“What’s up?” cried another, pressing forward in his turn.
The rest hastened after him, and soon all were bending forward looking
into the pit, the depth of which varied from five to six feet. What was
it that had called forth their astonishment? The ancient walls, which
each day’s toil exposed more fully, had now become familiar to them; they
had often noticed the lines of colour traced by some alien hand so many
centuries before, yet still bright and distinct where the sunshine caught
them: they were not prone to marvel at these things at any time, and
certainly not now when the modern wonders at the Fair were still fresh in
their memory.
“Why, how ever did he get there?” cried the first speaker, pointing
downwards with his thumb as the long-dead proprietor of those ancient
walls might once have pointed at some doomed gladiator.
There, amid the relics of a bygone civilisation, lay the chubby form of a
little nineteenth-century child—an extremely modern little Briton in a
sailor-suit, with a mop of yellow curls tumbling over his sleeping face.
Yes, there lay Johnny! While his distracted father was scouring the
roads; while his mother and sisters, frantic with grief, had passed the
night in wandering from house to house beating up search-parties, Johnny
was sleeping the sweet, sound sleep of the tired child, on a heap of soft
earth at the bottom of the Roman villa.
On hearing the strange voices he sat up, and looked about him, rosy and
dewy after his slumbers. The night had been mild, and he had rolled
himself up so tightly that he had contrived to keep warm. He blinked in
bewilderment at the bright sunshine and at the strange bearded faces.
Then, with returning consciousness, the thought which had been last
present to his mind before sleep had overtaken him leaped back to it.
“I want Dada,” said Johnny.
“Why, how in the name o’ fortun’ did you get here?” cried one of the men,
swinging himself over the side, and taking the child up in his arms.
“Have you been here all night?”
“Looks like it,” cried another. “What’s your name, little man?”
“Johnny,” said the child.
“How did ye come here, eh?”
“I thought the man was arter me, and I couldn’t find Dada,” said Johnny.
“I looked and looked, an’ it was dark, and I was running, and I falled
down here and I couldn’t get out again.”
“Well, what a tale! The little chap’s lost hisself, d’ye see, mates?
There’s somebody in trouble about this ’ere, you mid be sure! Somebody’s
lost en at the Fair.”
“Ah, he don’t look as if he belonged to any o’ the gipsy folk, or the
shows, or sich as them,” said somebody. “Seems as if he did belong to
decent folks. They be lookin’ for en at Shroton most like—we’d best take
en back there. He don’t belong to nobody about here, that’s plain.
Where d’ye live, Johnny?”
“Next door to Mrs. Short,” returned the child promptly.
“That’s tellin’ nothin’. What’s the name o’ the place?”
Johnny, who was chary of speech at all times, and was besides slightly
alarmed at being interrogated by so many strangers, returned no answer to
this query, and announced instead loudly, and with a hint of not far
distant tears in his voice, that he wanted “_Dada_”.
“There, best take en to the Fair at once,” said the man who held him in
his arms. “There’s sure to be some of his folks about. Come along,
Johnny—we’ll go and look for Dada.”
He hoisted up the child to one of his comrades, clambered himself to the
higher level, and, taking him again in his arms, set off for the scene of
the Fair, the others looking after him curiously for a moment or two, and
then leisurely setting about their work.
Johnny did not say much during the transit; he sat very upright, staring
about him with all his eyes in his anxiety to catch the first glimpse of
his father.
As they entered the field where the Fair had taken place, and where were
still many groups of busy people, a sudden outcry sounded from the
neighbourhood of one of the large gipsy-vans which stood horsed and ready
for further progress. A great red-bearded man, with a white face and
wild, bloodshot eyes, was struggling in the midst of the little crowd
which had closed about him, while the proprietor of the van, a swarthy,
thick-set fellow, was evidently denouncing him.
“That’s Dada!” cried Johnny eagerly. “There he is! What are they doing
to en? Why are they holdin’ en? Dada!” he cried in a shrill scream.
“Dada!”
Amid all his frenzy, aye, even amid the din about him, John Reed
distinguished the little voice, and suddenly became as a lamb.
“’Tis him,” he cried brokenly. “’Tis Johnny! That’s him yonder,” and
slipping from the loosened grasp of the hands which had been laid upon
him, he staggered forward, paused, wavered, and then dropping to the
ground burst into tears.
Johnny, having been set on his legs, ran gleefully to his father, and
flung his arms about his neck; and John fondled him with one big
trembling hand, and sobbed on, his broad shoulders heaving, the tears
trickling through the brown fingers with which he sought to hide his
face.
People who had been most ready to condemn him now gathered round, full of
sympathy; even the policemen, fathers of families themselves, looked down
with benign compassion. Only the van-proprietor stood aloof, indignantly
surveying the tattered collar of his own rusty jacket, which seemed,
indeed, to have recently sustained severe handling.
“He was near the death o’ me, I know that,” he remarked. “He’d no need
to come assaultin’ and a-batterin’ of me, if he had a-lost his child.”
“He didn’t know what he was a-doin’,” returned a sympathetic bystander.
“He’ve a-bin all night runnin’ after vans and sich, thinkin’ they’d
a-carried off the little chap. Somebody went and told en there was a
little kid wi’ yaller curls among your folks, and he made sure ’twas his,
d’ye see?”
“Well, an’ if we do have a kid wi’ yaller curls, what’s that to he?”
grumbled the other. “Us have got brats enough of our own wi’out wantin’
strangers. I’ll have compensation for this. I bain’t a-goin’ to be
assaulted and a-battered for nothin’.”
The nearest policeman, a portly personage, and jealous of his
prerogative, now turning in a dignified manner, informed the malcontent
that he didn’t know nothin’ o’ what he was talkin’ of—compensation didn’t
apply to no such case as this, and finally ordered him sternly to move
on.
Meanwhile Reed had somewhat recovered, and was looking about him with
red, swollen eyes, and explaining huskily to the crowd as he hugged
Johnny in his arms:—
“I thought I’d lost en, d’ye see?—that’s it. I thought I’d lost en.”
Rising presently, he prepared to leave the field, Johnny’s whilom
protector walking beside him, relating over and over again how he had
come upon the child, how surprised he had been, how he had said to his
mates that there was sure to be somebody in trouble about this, and how
he had thought it best to come to the Fair at once. Reed, listening in a
dazed kind of way, folded his arms tighter about Johnny, and stumbled
along almost like a man in a dream.
“Shall I carry him?” said the other suddenly. “Ye do seem that upset I
reckon ye’d get along easier.”
And then John woke up.
“Nay,” he said, “nay, sir. I thank ’ee kindly—I thank ’ee from my heart
for findin’ en and all—but I can’t let go of en. I must have the feel of
en, ye see.”
As they turned out of the gate a sudden rattle of wheels was heard and a
trap came in sight, the horse proceeding at a kind of hobbling canter,
and one of the occupants of the little vehicle actually standing upright
and supporting herself by the shoulder of the driver.
“’Tis Mammy, I do believe,” said Reed. “See, Johnny—and there’s Maggie
and Rosie at back. Call out to ’em, Sonny! Holler loud. I don’t know
what’s come to me, I can’t seem to get my voice out.”
Johnny duly raised his shrill pipe, and in another moment, with a joyful
whoop, Jim Fry had thrown the reins on the horse’s back, and the whole
party had tumbled into the road.
Mrs. Reed and Rosie were beside Dada and his precious burden almost
immediately, but Maggie hung back, looking at her father with piteous,
appealing eyes.
“Come here, Maidy,” he said huskily, “come—all’s forgive and forgot—there
be summat to forgive and forget on all sides. I were a bit rough to ’ee
last night, but there, d’ye see, I were very nigh out o’ my mind.”
Maggie made a clutch at the nearest available portion of Johnny’s person,
which happened to be a sturdy little mottled leg—for he was positively
swamped by the caresses of his family—stooped, kissed it, and burst into
tears.
Rosie followed suit, the mother had been long ago weeping, and now John
Reed himself began to gulp and make contortions of the face as though in
preparation for a fresh outburst of emotion.
Poor little Johnny looked from one to the other, utterly bewildered. The
sight of his whole family simultaneously in tears was too much for him,
and, lifting up his voice, he gave vent to his feelings in a volume of
sound which left no doubt as to the unimpaired condition of his lungs
even after a night under the stars.
Jim Fry had been circling round the group scratching his head, rubbing
his nose, and screwing up his mouth in token of dissatisfaction. At this
juncture he thought it was time to interfere.
“Well, I never,” he remarked irritably, “I never did see sich folk. Here
we’ve all been a-trapesing over the county lookin’ for the child, and
thinkin’ him dead or stole, or hurted some way; and now we’ve a-found en
safe and sound, wi’out so much as a scratch on en, and ye must all begin
a-cryin’ and a-sobbin’ enough to frighten en out of his wits. ’Tisn’t
what ye’d like, be it, Johnny?”
“No,” said Johnny, with such a heave of his little chest that it very
nearly lifted him out of his father’s arms. Again he looked from one to
the other with tearful, bewildered eyes, and again the sense of his
injuries was too much for him. “I’d like—summat—to eat!” he announced in
a bellow of wrath and woe.
And thereupon the whole simple family fell a-laughing; and once again
Johnny was hugged all round, and though eyes were still wet, and every
now and then there would be a little catch in the voice of one or other
speaker, the general equanimity was restored, and the party fell to
discussing the little boy’s practical suggestion.
It was a very happy family that presently sat down to breakfast in a
neighbouring cottage, Johnny being handed with respectful tenderness from
one to the other, and being disposed before the meal was out to look upon
himself quite in the light of a hero. And Maggie sat between her father
and Jim Fry, and was perhaps the happiest of all.