SQUIB AND HIS FRIENDS.
[Illustration:
“_Squib flung himself upon the dog, and threw his arms about his
neck._”
Page 17.
]
SQUIB AND HIS FRIENDS ❧ BY E. EVERETT-GREEN
LONDON, EDINBURGH,
AND NEW YORK
THOMAS NELSON
AND SONS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
I. “THE ODD ONE,” 9
II. GOING AWAY, 28
III. THE CHALET IN THE HILLS, 47
IV. THE LITTLE GOAT-HERD, 65
V. COMRADES, 84
VI. HERR ADLER, 102
VII. HAPPY HOURS, 124
VIII. A WONDERFUL WALK, 148
IX. A STORY AND A FAREWELL, 175
X. A MOUNTAIN STORM, 204
XI. PLANS AND PROJECTS, 221
XII. FAREWELLS, 238
XIII. GOING HOME, 256
XIV. CONCLUSION, 272
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
“SQUIB FLUNG HIMSELF UPON THE DOG, AND THREW HIS ARMS _Frontispiece_.
ABOUT HIS NECK,”
“SQUIB LISTENED WITH A STRANGE SENSE OF FASCINATION,” 68
“BREATHLESSLY ONE BOY WORKED AND THE OTHER WATCHED,” 94
“DOWN, DOWN, DOWN—WITH A CRASH, AND A BANG, AND A 169
ROAR!”
“SEPPI DREW SQUIB’S HAND DOWN UPON THE HEAD OF MOOR,” 254
“SQUIB’S BROTHERS AND SISTERS REJOICED OVER THE PRETTY 283
GIFTS HE HAD BROUGHT THEM,”
SQUIB AND HIS FRIENDS.
CHAPTER I.
“THE ODD ONE.”
That was the name Squib went by in the nursery and in the household—“the
odd one.” Not exactly because of any personal peculiarities—although he
had a few of these—but because he had no especial brother or sister
belonging to him, and seemed to stand alone, whilst all the others could
be paired off together.
Norman and Frank were big boys, away at school most of the year, near to
each other in age, and always together in the holidays. Philippa and
Molly came next, and were girls, devoted to each other and to their
family of dolls, and even more devoted to the live dolls in the
nursery—the little twin sisters, Hilda and Hulda, whom nobody knew apart
save themselves and the nurse. But Squib had no brother or sister to be
bracketed with him. The baby who came next in age to him had died in
infancy, and was only a dim memory to the brother just above him in age.
So he had always been, as it were, “the odd one” of the family, although
his sisters were very fond of him, and never refused him a share in
their games when he wanted to join in them.
But Squib did not care for dolls, and his tastes lay amongst things
beyond the walls of nursery or schoolroom. He wanted always to be out of
doors when not busy with his lessons for Mademoiselle (for so far he had
not gone to school, but had been taught with his sisters in the
schoolroom); and his pursuits were not of a kind to be attractive to the
dainty little ladies, Philippa and Molly, or to find favour in the eyes
of nurse, who reigned supreme over Hilda and Hulda. So Squib got into
the way of amusing himself in his own fashion, and took his name of “the
odd one” with great equanimity.
Squib was not his real name, as I suppose I need hardly say; it was a
nickname given him by his father some years before my story begins, and
it had stuck to him ever since. His real name was Sydenham, and he had
been called Syd for a time, till Colonel Rutland had hit upon this other
appellation.
And the reason for this was a habit of Squib’s which amused his father a
good deal. The child had a way of sitting perfectly still and silent for
a very long time in the room, not speaking, even when spoken to, until
some exhaustive mental process had taken place, after which he would
suddenly “go off,” as his father expressed it, and talk rapidly and
eagerly for several minutes straight on end; then having thus relieved
his mind and delivered himself of his thoughts, he would relapse into
dead silence until ready for the next explosion. And so his father
called him “Squib;” and Squib he became in time to the whole household.
It was commonly whispered about the place that Squib was the Colonel’s
favourite amongst his children. Colonel Rutland was not a man who had
taken a great deal of notice of his sons and daughters as they appeared
upon the scene. He was a busy man, having a large estate to order, being
a magistrate, churchwarden, and guardian of the poor-law, and having
social duties to attend to as well. He was a most devoted husband; and
people used to say that never was there a happier couple than he and
Lady Mary, his beautiful wife. He was proud of his fine young family in
the aggregate, but did not notice the children very much individually,
until one or two small incidents brought Squib before his eyes.
The first of these was a severe altercation which he chanced to overhear
between the child and his nurse when Squib was five years old. He was
walking through the shrubberies one morning when the sound of raised
voices attracted his attention, the first being that of a child lifted
in indignant protest.
“It’s not a lie. I never tell lies! I _did_ hear father sing it his own
self!”
“Master Syd, that’s not true. Your father never would sing such a wicked
song. It only makes it worse, telling stories about it!”
“It isn’t a story!—it isn’t, I tell you! I heard him my own self, and
lots of other people heard him, too. It’s you who are wicked, saying I
tell lies and father sings wicked songs!” and the crunch of the gravel
betrayed the fact that Squib had brought his small foot heavily down
upon it in a stamp of passionate wrath.
Colonel Rutland turned a corner and came full upon the combatants. The
nurse—a most excellent and trustworthy woman, who had been for twelve
years with them—was looking very grieved and disturbed as she held Squib
by the hand, as if with the intention of taking him at once before some
domestic tribunal; whilst the child’s square, determined face was
flushed a deep crimson, his dark-grey eyes looked almost black, as they
had a way of doing in moments of passion and excitement, and his whole
frame was quivering with anger and protest as he reiterated his
assertion that he was speaking nothing but the truth.
“What is all this?” asked Colonel Rutland in a deep voice. “Squib, what
do you mean by resisting your nurse like that? I will have no
insubordination to authority in my house—you know that as well as I do.”
For Colonel Rutland, with his military training, was a martinet in his
house about discipline, and his children knew perfectly that he would be
more severe over an act of disobedience than over any other kind of
transgression.
Squib and the nurse both started at the sound of the Colonel’s voice,
and nurse dropped the hand she was holding and made a respectful
courtesy to her master. Squib stood perfectly silent, after his fashion,
for a full minute, and then burst into rapid speech,—
“I wasn’t resisting her, father. She told me I was telling lies—and I’m
not. You did sing it. I heard you; and it isn’t wicked—and she didn’t
ought to say it was. I don’t tell lies. I never did. It isn’t lies—it’s
only about them!”
The Colonel held up his hand to command silence.
“What does all this mean?” he asked, turning to nurse.
“If you please, sir, I heard Master Syd singing something that didn’t
sound right for a young gentleman, and when I told him I wouldn’t have
wicked words sung, he turned and said that he’d heard you sing them,
which I was quite sure was not true, and I told him so. And then he went
off into one of his tantrums—which I hoped he was learning to get better
of—and that’s all I know about it. But I am quite sure he is not
speaking the truth.”
“Leave him to me and I will get at the rights of the matter,” said the
Colonel; and nurse, who had an ailing baby indoors (Squib’s little
brother who shortly afterwards died), was glad to go in to see after
him, leaving Squib and his father to settle things together about the
song.
“Now, Squib,” said Colonel Rutland, with grave severity of manner, “let
me hear the whole truth of this from you. What is it you were singing?
Don’t be afraid to speak the truth.”
“I’m not afraid a bit!” cried Squib, after his habitual pause. “I’ll
sing it to you now. _You’ll_ know it—it’s your own song,” and taking a
deep breath and swelling himself out in unconscious imitation of a
singer about to commence his song, the child broke out with the
following words, sung in a deep voice as like that of a man as he could
achieve—
“Fi-ive del dies—
The father of lies!”
And then suddenly breaking off he looked up at his father and cried,—
“You know you did sing it yourself, father—so it can’t be wicked!”
The Colonel was puzzled. There was something in the rhythm of the notes
that was familiar to him; but what could the child mean? How had he got
hold of those absurd words, and what was in his head?
“When did you hear me sing it, Squib?” he asked, still not permitting
his face to relax.
“Why, father—you know—when all those people came, and you read such a
lot of funny things in turn in the drawing-room and sang songs. There
was another song about ‘Ban, ban, Ca-Caliban’—you _must_ remember; but
it was you who sang about the father of lies, and it can’t be wicked if
you did it, though nurse does say so!”
Colonel Rutland broke into a sudden laugh. The whole thing flashed
across him now. From time to time in that neighbourhood there were
gatherings generally known by the name of “Shakespeare readings”—friends
meeting together at one another’s houses to read a play of the great
dramatist’s, the parts being allotted by previous arrangement. Not very
long since “The Tempest” had been read in this way at Rutland Chase, and
the children had been allowed to come into the room for part of it. It
was just the kind of thing to fascinate Squib, and perhaps he had
succeeded in hiding away and being up longer than was known. At any
rate, he had evidently heard his father sing the well-known song—
“Full fathom five,
Thy father lies;”
and, with the capricious alchemy of a child’s mind over anything not
understood, had transformed it to the version which had aroused the ire
of his nurse.
Something in this little incident tickled the fancy of the Colonel and
attracted his attention towards Squib, who had always amused him when he
had had time to notice his children; and the bond was more closely drawn
between them by two little incidents which occurred, one after the
other, during the ensuing year.
The first of these had reference to a very fine Russian wolf-hound,
which had been presented to Colonel Rutland a short time before. It was
an animal almost as big as a calf, of a slate colour merging almost in
black, with a head very broad across the brows, and a voice like a
church bell. He was a very magnificent animal, but he had a fierce
temper, and made few friends. Colonel Rutland was one of these few, but
even he did not feel that he had the dog very well under control, and
always took him out with a certain sense of misgiving.
One of the chief difficulties with regard to the creature was that he
was so fierce when chained up that it was hardly safe to approach him,
either to give him his food or to let him loose when the time for his
daily run had arrived. Colonel Rutland was having a place made for him
where he could be shut up without being chained, which he hoped would
tend to the humanizing and taming of him; but, meantime, he had to be
fastened up in the yard when not at large, and Colonel Rutland made a
point of both chaining and loosing him himself—although it was not
without misgiving that he approached the great brute straining on his
chain, and glaring out at the world with red, defiant eyes.
One day, as he was approaching the kennel, liking the looks of the dog
rather less even than usual, he stood meditating at a short distance as
to whether it were really safe to keep such a fierce animal on the
premises, and whether he might not be running a foolish risk in going
near him. He was startled by the sound of a small voice proceeding from
an invisible questioner quite near at hand.
“Father,” said the little voice, “shall I let Czar out for you?”
Colonel Rutland looked up, and looked down, and looked round about him,
and again came the sound of the small voice, saying,—
“I’m in Czar’s kennel, father.”
The Colonel had certainly never thought of looking in such a place for
the speaker. Now, turning his startled glance in that direction, he saw
Squib sitting curled up on the clean straw in the huge kennel, looking
out from his nest with a friendly smile.
For a moment the fathers heart stood still. Suppose the great brute
should turn and see him! It was with difficulty he commanded his voice
to say quietly, whilst himself striving to attract the notice of the
dog, “Come out, Squib; come very quietly.”
But the child never heard the last words; he jumped up at once and made
an outward bound, flinging himself upon the dog as he did so, and
throwing his arms about his neck.
“Oh, father, if you would only let me have Czar to go out with me
sometimes! We should have such fun together!”
At the touch of those small childish hands the aspect of the dog changed
at once. The lifted crest along his back smoothed down, the red light in
his eyes changed altogether, the fierce bay ceased, for the creature was
engaged in licking the child’s hands and face, and in fondling him with
evident delight. The father looked on in amaze, and when Squib repeated
his question, “Shall I let him out now?” he gave his assent rather by
sign than by word, so great was his surprise at what he saw.
“Oh, father, _may_ I go with you?” pleaded Squib, with great, wistful
eyes. “I’ve never been out with Czar yet—and I should so like to!”
His father held out a ready hand.
“Come along, my little man. We will go together. How came you and Czar
to be such friends? I did not know he had made real friends with anybody
yet.”
Squib did not immediately answer; he was watching the gambols of the
great dog careering round and round them in wide circles—a thing he had
never done before when out with Colonel Rutland, always making a rush
ahead, and only coming reluctantly to his side when called with
authority. Whenever Squib held out his hand, Czar made a dash at him and
licked it; and once the child jumped upon the great creature’s back, and
Czar took him for a breathless scamper across the park—Squib holding on
like a little monkey; and only when he had come back and was holding his
father’s hand again did he “go off,” and enter into explanations of this
strange friendship.
“You see, father, it was like this—Czar had nobody to love him. They
were all afraid of him. I saw coachman give him his supper one day—he
had the stable broom, and he pushed the pan to Czar with it, and never
even gave him a pat, or said a kind word to him. And it _did_ seem so
hard! So when he was gone I just went up and patted him as he was eating
his great bones, and then I sat just inside his kennel and talked to him
all the time, and made it sociable for him; and he brought me the
biggest bone of all, and I pretended I liked it very much, and then I
gave it him back and he lay down and ate it, and I stroked him and
talked to him all the time. He is such an interesting dog to talk to
when you know him. And after that I went every day, and—when I can—I
give him his food, and we always have a great deal of conversation, and
it isn’t nearly so dull for him as it was at first. But I’ve never been
able to go out with him, because coachman says I mustn’t loose him. But
we’ve always longed to take walks together, and if you say we may, it
_will_ be so nice.”
Colonel Rutland listened to all this with something of a shiver. He had
not lived all this while without having known many instances of the
wonderful understanding between children and animals, or of the
forbearance shown often by the fiercest creatures to confiding little
children; but, nevertheless, he could not picture the first approach of
his small son to that great fierce dog in the midst of his bones without
a tremor of thankful relief. Now it was abundantly evident that an
excellent understanding existed between them, for Czar would come at the
least sound of Squib’s voice, and, when bidden to do so, would walk just
behind him with docile submissiveness. The conquest made by the little
boy, quite unconscious of conquest, was complete, and never had the
Colonel felt so secure of training the dog and humanizing him as he did
that day.
“If I let you take Czar out into the park every day for an hour, Squib,”
he said presently, “do you think you can teach him to be more gentle and
obedient?”
“Oh, father, I think I can,” answered the child with brightening eyes.
“I’ll explain everything to him so carefully—about being obedient and
all that. I think he wants to be good—only he’s got nobody to teach him
and be good to him. But I should like to teach him. I’m sure he has a
very good heart, and he understands what I say, I’m quite sure.”
So the experiment was tried, and with signal success. The fierce dog
became gradually tamed and dependable, and a fresh link was formed
between Squib and his father.
Later on in the same year another incident occurred which increased the
Colonel’s interest in “the odd one” of the family.
Like most country gentlemen of some leisure, Colonel Rutland was fond of
hunting, although he could not give the time to it that some of his
friends were able to do. Still, he had always one, and sometimes two
hunters in his stable, and at this time, when Squib was just six years
old, his favourite was a horse of the name of Charger, upon whom he had
hunted three seasons in succession.
Charger had something of a history of his own with which Squib was not
unconnected. Three years before, when the horse was five, and Squib
three, the former had been brought up for Colonel Rutland’s inspection,
as the owner desired to sell him. He was then only just broken, for he
had done no work as yet, the farmer who owned him having wished to let
him run as long as possible, and then to sell him to some of the gentry
as a hunter and weight-carrier. He was a very beautiful creature, with a
grand shoulder and very strong hind-quarters, legs as sound and fine as
the huntsman himself could wish to see, and a well-turned head and
gentle eye. The Colonel and his wife and some of the children all
assembled at the front-door to examine and look at the horse, who stood
pawing the gravel, seeming as if he knew perfectly the commotion his
beauty and strength were exciting. There were several guests in the
house who knew something about horses, and a great deal of conversation
was going on after the animal had been walked, and trotted fast, his
hoofs examined, and his eyes well peered into. He was growing rather
restive now with all the waiting and testing, but was standing pretty
quietly, held by the farmer, when suddenly little Squib, who was always
very fond of animals, and seemed not to know the meaning of fear, ran
forward from the group about his mother, and clasped his arms tightly
round the hind leg of the young horse, laying his cheek against it with
that caressing movement so common in little children.
A sudden hush fell upon the whole group—every man among them afraid to
move or speak lest the horse should be frightened and kick out, as it
seemed impossible that he should not do at that strange touch upon his
leg. But the creature turned his head round, looked at the little, white
clinging figure, and stood perfectly quiet under the unwonted caress.
The next moment the Colonel had caught up his daring little son, and one
of the gentlemen standing by said to the farmer with a short laugh,—
“I think you may take the horse round to the stables now; he has won
himself a home here, or I am much mistaken.”
So Charger stayed, and never a horse was better worth his money, as the
Colonel often said. He was so gentle that Lady Mary herself sometimes
rode to hounds upon him by her husband’s side, and so strong and clever
and enduring that the Colonel could have sold him for almost any money
in his own county if he had wished to part with him.
As for Squib, although he did not long remember the exploit of which he
had been guilty that day, the story was often told in his hearing, and
it seemed to make a bond between him and Charger which was closer than
between him and any other horse, although the child was fond of them
all. He was fonder of Charger than of his own little Shetland pony,
although Shag was a great friend and favourite. But Charger was so
sensible, so kind, so friendly, and so big! There is always an
attraction to a boy of native courage in the sensation of being mounted
on a big horse. Often and often, when the great hunter was saddled and
about to be brought round to the door, Squib would plead to be allowed
to ride round upon him, and though on these occasions coachman himself
would take the bridle and not permit any one else to superintend the
child’s feat, it was accomplished again and again without any danger;
for Squib had ridden his own pony bare-backed from the time he could get
his small legs across the broad back, and was a veritable monkey for
sticking on the back of anything with four legs.
But during this particular autumn, when Squib passed his sixth birthday,
and Charger was “rising nine” as coachman called it, one of those sad
mischances befell him which are unfortunately only too common with good
hunters. He was carrying his master in his own gallant fashion over some
very slippery, sticky ground, when, in alighting after a fine leap, he
came down upon a treacherous bit of ground where the foothold was very
bad. With an effort which seemed to imply that he was thinking first of
his rider’s safety and second of his own, he avoided the fall which
seemed for a moment inevitable, but he slipped badly and only recovered
himself after a violent struggle. Colonel Rutland sprang safely to the
ground and helped the gallant animal to get a better footing; but all
this was not accomplished before Charger’s shoulder was badly strained,
and he had to be laid up in a loose box and carefully doctored for many
months before any one could think of riding him again.
Squib was constant in his attentions to the disabled favourite all that
time, and he and Charger and Czar spent many a happy morning in the
paddock together, where Charger was turned out for an hour or two on
warm days “to exercise hisself” as the groom called it. Squib also made
great friends with the veterinary surgeon who attended Charger, and who
would tell him stories of animals by the hour together; and it was from
him that Squib first heard the bad news about the poor hunter.
“He won’t never be good for hunting again, nor for that matter for
riding either. That shoulder will always be weak. He might drop on it
any time sudden like, and nobody cares to ride a horse like that. The
only thing now is to break him for harness if it can be done; but he’s
old to take to collar-work—more likely it’ll just break his heart
instead, poor fellow!”
The tears rose in Squib’s eyes as he heard these words.
“They shan’t break Charger’s heart!” he cried indignantly. “I’m sure my
father will never allow it.”
“Well, sir, I hope not, for I don’t think that horse’ll ever break, for
all he’s so gentle and quiet. He’s got a spirit of his own, he has; and
when a creature has never had a collar over his head up to nine year
old, why, they don’t take kind to it, they don’t!”
Soon it became known that poor Charger’s hunting days were over, and it
was quite a trouble to all the household to think that the master could
never ride him safely again. Then came the question of breaking him for
harness, but the few attempts that were made did not encourage the
authorities to persevere.
“He throws hisself about so, sir,” coachman would explain to Squib.
“He’s not used to it, and don’t know what it means. He comes from a race
of hunters, and don’t have them family feelin’s as some young hacks do,
as takes the collar like mother’s milk as you may say. He’ll only wrench
his shoulder again, and go lame all his life; and that would be a sad
pity, seeing as how well he is now.”
And then it was that a sudden inspiration seized upon Squib. He went
straight from coachman’s presence to his father’s study, and stood
silently beside him as he wrote busily before his table. But when the
Colonel presently looked up, as if to intimate that he was ready to hear
what his small son had to say, Squib “went off” with unwonted vehemence.
“Father, you know about Charger. Coachman says he won’t break, and Mr.
Young said he would only break his heart. I don’t want his heart to
break. He’s the nicest horse that ever lived, and I can’t bear it.
Father, didn’t I hear you say that Shag was getting too old to do
anything but mow the lawns, and that you must look out for a new pony
for me by the time I was seven?”
“Yes, Squib, I think I did. Would you like a little Exmoor? They are
very sure-footed and generally fast.”
“I don’t want an Exmoor, father. I don’t want a pony at all. I want
Charger instead.”
“Charger!”
“Yes, father. Charger could carry me. Coachman says it’s no more for him
than a fly on his back. He’d be just as if he had nobody, and I’ve
ridden him lots in the paddock. He likes it, and I like it; and he’d be
nice, and safer for me than any pony, because he knows the country; you
say so yourself, and he’s so good, even mother wouldn’t be frightened to
let me go out on him. Father, I’m rising seven—that’s what coachman
calls it. I’m rising seven, and I never fall off anything. Let me have
Charger instead of a new pony. I shall like it so much better, and so
will he!”
Something in the notion tickled Colonel Rutland’s fancy, and a little
conversation with coachman convinced him that there would be no risk of
damage either to the child or to the horse in such an arrangement. The
strong trustworthy hunter would carry the light weight of the small boy
without the least fear of renewing the strain; and as Squib said, he had
a remarkable knack of sticking on, whilst he had “hands as any horse
would be proud to answer to,” as the old coachman put it. And so his
request was granted. The faithful old hunter was neither shot nor broken
to uncongenial toil, but was gently and regularly exercised by the
little fellow on the turf of the park, or permitted to trot steadily
along the roads with his light burden, by the side of the Colonel on his
own horse.
Squib was delighted, and his father amused, by the arrangement and the
comments it provoked. The trusty horse justified all the confidence
placed in him, and a stronger bond of friendship was thus established
between the child and his four-footed friend, as well as between him and
his rather stern and commanding father.