THE TRAMP’S STORY
“I lived,” said the tramp, “in a little house on the edge of a wood
just outside a village. I had a little daughter. She was more like a
fairy than a child. Her mother died when she was a wee girl. I was an
artist. I used to paint pictures of the woods and lanes and trees--the
woods by moonlight, the woods at sunrise, the woods all green and blue
in spring; the woods looking like dark, solemn churches on winter
afternoons, with the red and gold and purple sunset showing through
the fine black traceries of the trees like the stained-glass windows
of a Gothic cathedral, and blue mist hanging about like incense.
And somehow there were always fairies peeping out somewhere in my
pictures--Mariette expected them. And after all, what are artists for
if not to see what ordinary people miss and put what they see into
their pictures? We had no friends, Mariette and I--we didn’t want any.
We had each other and the fairies.
“Sometimes I used to spend the night out in the woods, getting pictures
into my head to paint by day, or so as to catch the very first glimmer
of golden clouds for a picture of the sunrise fairies. I used to leave
Mariette at the cottage of my old nurse, whom she loved very much. It
was on one of these sunrise days that my bad dreams began.
“Mariette was just seven. I had left her with the old nurse, and had
started out to spend a night in the woods about five miles away. I took
a few things with me so as to camp in the bracken, and be fresh and
ready to paint at dawn. As I walked through the village, I chanced to
meet a man that Mariette and I always called ‘the wicked uncle.’ He
was the only person in the place that we did not like. He lived in a
square, grey house, with dirty windows, and most of the blinds drawn
down. He had a mean, cruel face, and little eyes like a rat. We were
quite sure no fairies lived in his garden--it was a sad, dull garden,
with no flowers.
“As I passed him that evening at dusk, he said, ‘Good evening. Going on
a painting expedition?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But surely,’ said the wicked
uncle, ‘you can’t paint by moonlight?’ ‘No,’ I replied, ‘I am going to
sleep out in the woods, and paint at sunrise.’ ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘and what
happens to your little girl?’ ‘She stays with Mrs. Binks,’ I answered.
I was getting tired of his questions. ‘Going far?’ he called after me.
I had grown impatient. ‘Yes, miles and miles,’ I shouted. I felt angry
to think of his having pried into our private affairs. Somehow I did
not sleep well on my bracken bed. I kept seeing the face of ‘the wicked
uncle,’ and his little peering eyes in the dusk.
“After sunrise I painted for a few hours, and then started home. It was
nine when I reached Mrs. Binks’ cottage, where I had gone to call for
Mariette to come back and help me cook my breakfast. But she was not
there, nor was Mrs. Binks.
“I went on to our cottage, but they were not there either. So I made
myself some tea and fried an egg, and just as I was sitting down to
begin, I heard the sound of feet on the cobbled path outside. It was a
strange, tramping sound, and I expected to hear a rap on my knocker.
But to my surprise the door was opened from outside, and for a moment I
saw the cunning face of the ‘wicked uncle.’
“Then a police inspector and three constables marched in. I was too
much surprised to speak. It was the inspector who broke the silence.
‘I arrest you,’ he said, ‘on a charge of forgery.’ Click, click, and
handcuffs were on my wrists.
“Of course, I said I knew nothing about forgery, and was pretty rude,
too, I’m afraid, as I was angry. But the inspector laughed drily,
and said he had a very clear case against me. I was not quite such a
clever fellow as I thought. In a moment there would be some very pretty
evidence, so I had better leave off arguing. ‘Lead the way, Mr. Crale,’
he added, turning to the ‘wicked uncle,’ who thereupon produced a bunch
of skeleton keys and led the way through my kitchen, followed by the
inspector and two constables.
“I told the two bobbies who were left to guard me exactly what I
thought of Mr. Crale; but they grinned at my remarks, and one of them
said: ‘’E’s done a good turn to us police, anyway. A long time we’ve
been searching for the ringleader of your gang, and we shouldn’t never
have found you if it ’adn’t ’a’ been for Mr. Crale. A clever gentleman
he is.’
“Just then the party came back. I had heard them stumping down my
cellar stairs. They carried three great chests which Mr. Crale unlocked
with his skeleton keys. One contained an enormous number of bank notes.
Another a curious set of instruments I could not understand. A third
was full of letters and papers. ‘A very pretty little press you’ve got
down there,’ said the inspector. ‘We’ll come back for that, later.’
“Well, to make a long story short, I was taken away in a motor car. I
begged to be allowed to see Mariette, but Mr. Crale told the inspector
I had sent Mariette away the day before to stay with some friend in
London, and was only trying to find a way to escape by asking to see
her now. I was tried, and the case against me was extraordinarily
clever. There were papers and letters and documents all pointing to
my guilt; and when I pleaded not guilty, and accused Crale of being
the forger himself, and of using me to cover his own guilt, they only
smiled, as much as to say what a fool I was to go on denying what was
so obvious.
“When I said I must see Mariette and Mrs. Binks they told me it was
no use talking like that, as they had my letter in their possession
making over my daughter to one of my accomplices, who had unfortunately
managed to escape, and had my daughter with him. And so I was cast
into prison, and all that I had--not much--was taken to pay my supposed
debts.
“There were no fairies in prison, nor Mariette. But the worst--the
worst thing of all was that I did not know what had become of her. I
nearly went mad. Before long I became very ill. Nearly a year I spent
in the prison infirmary. Then I served six long years in the cells.
Three months ago I was set free.”
The tramp’s clear, sad voice ceased. Danny was breathing hard. Bitter
rage filled his soul. He dared not speak, for he felt the words he
would utter would not be Scout-like. Then he remembered that the man
had said he wanted sympathy. He did not know what to say--no words
could possibly express the sympathy he felt. He gripped the tramp’s
cold hand. “No one can know how ghastly it must be for you, sir,” he
said huskily; “no one, except God.”
Silence fell between them. The fire had burned very low. At last Danny
spoke. “Why are you a tramp?” he said.
“Because,” said the man slowly, “I have a quest--two quests. The first
is to find my little Mariette. Day and night in prison I dreamed of
finding her. When I came out I just started walking and walking,
looking for her. I have no money to travel in any other way. I know no
trade. All I could do was to paint, and I can’t paint now. You must
have a happy heart to paint pictures of woods and fairies. And so I
tramp and tramp, and pray every day that God will guide me to where my
little Mariette is waiting for her daddy to find her in this long game
of hide-and-seek.
“Do you know, whenever I come to a cross-road I kneel down and pray
with all my heart to God to make me take the right road that will lead
me to her at last. Then I turn round three times with my eyes shut and
take the road I face. When I came down that little path towards your
fire it was because when I opened my eyes I was not facing any road
but the stile into the wood. I took the path, somehow feeling that
something was going to happen.”
“Perhaps God sent you this way because He means us to find Mariette for
you. Did you notice the little grey church near the cross-roads?”
“Yes, yes,” said the tramp, “that was why I felt I must take the path.
I saw the statue of St. Antony over the door--St. Antony, the saint who
finds lost things.”
“Yes,” said Danny, “I thought of that, too.”
The tramp stood up. Then suddenly he laughed an almost happy laugh.
“‘Danny the Detective,’ the Cubs called you,” he said. “Well, Danny,
it’s done me good to talk to you. And I believe between you and St.
Antony I shall get my little fairy back again. God is very good.”
So Danny led the mysterious tramp through the wood to a deserted
cottage that a gamekeeper had once lived in. He gathered some dry
bracken and with this and his own camp blankets made him a bed. A good
supper of steak pie and potatoes and roly-poly pudding had been kept
hot for Danny by the kind old cook. That night the tramp enjoyed the
best meal he had had for seven years; but he did not know that Danny
went to bed on a supper of biscuits left over from tea.
[Illustration: Danny led the mysterious tramp to a deserted cottage.
[_To face page 50._
]
A bottle made a fine candlestick, and the old cottage looked quite cosy
by the time Danny had finished arranging it.
“Good night, sir,” he said at last. “I hope you’ll sleep well.
To-morrow we must have a proper pow-wow about things. My word, the Cubs
won’t half be pleased to find you here.”