"Learn all you can, Sep," he said, "and get to be a man, for you have a
busy life before you, and before long I shall want you to help me."
I climbed in, and old Teggley drew out the corners of his lips and
grinned as if he was glad that Bob Chowne was so miserable. For Bob did
not move, only sat with his hands supporting his face, staring down
before him, bent, miserable, and dejected.
"What's the matter, Bob?" I said, trying to be cheerful. "Got the
toothache?"
"Yes," he said sourly, "all over."
"Get out! What is it? Father made you take some physic?"
"Yes, pills. Verbum nasticusis, and bully draught after."
"What! Has he been scolding you?"
"Scolding me! He never does anything else. I sha'n't stand it much
longer. I shall run off to sea and be a cabin-boy."
"Hi, hi, hi!"
"What are you laughing at?" snapped Bob, turning sharply upon old
Teggley.
"At you, Mars Bob Chowne, going for a cabin-boy."
_Whop_!
That last was a severe crack given to admonish the big bony horse old
Teggley drove; but he was a merciful man to his beast, and always hit on
the pad, the collar, or the shafts.
"S'pose I like to go for a cabin-boy, 'tain't no business of yours, is
it?" cried Bob snappishly.
"Not a bit, my lad, not a bit. I'll take your sea-chest over to
Barnstaple for you when you go."
"No, you won't," grumbled Bob viciously, "for I won't have one."
"Ahoy! Bigley," I shouted, looking out from under the tilt. "Hooray
for school!"
"Aha! Look at him--look at him!" shouted Bob, whose whole manner
changed as soon as he saw Bigley's doleful face. "I say, old Grey,
here's a little boy crying because he is going back to school."
Bigley did not say anything, only gave Bob a reproachful glance as he
handed his box up to the carrier, and then climbed in.
"Gently, Mars Uggles'on," cried the old carrier, who seemed to consider
that he had a right like other people to joke Bigley about his size;
"gently, my lad, or you'll break the sharps. I didn't know I was going
to have a two-horse load."
"Look here, old Teggley Grey!" cried Bigley firing up; "if you say
another word about my being so large, I'll pitch you out of the back of
the cart, and drive into Barnstaple without you."
"Do, Bigley, do," cried Bob in ecstasy. "Here, I'll hold the reins.
Chuck him out."
"Don't talk that way, Mars Bob Chowne," whined the old man. "You
wouldn't like me to be hurt."
"Oh, just wouldn't I!" cried Bob spitefully. "Pitch him overboard,
Bigley, old boy, and hurt him as much as you can."
"No, no, you wouldn't, Mars Bob Chowne. You wouldn't like me to have to
be carried home on a wagon, and your father have to tend me for broken
bones and such."
"I tell you I would," cried Bob savagely; "and I hope you'll bite your
tongue, and then you won't be so ready to ask questions. There!"
"Me ask questions!" exclaimed the old carrier in an ill-used tone. "As
if I ever did. Well, never mind, he'll know better some day."
The old man sniffed several times quite severely, and sat bolt upright
at the side of the cart, looking out at his horse's ears, and left us to
ourselves. Bob's fit of melancholy was over, and he was ready to make
remarks upon everything he saw; but neither Bigley nor I spoke, for we
were intent upon something the latter told me.
"I don't want to tell tales," he said to me in a low tone, "but father
makes me miserable."
"But do you think it is so bad as you say?"
Bigley nodded.
"He goes and sits on a stone with his spy-glass where he can see them,
but they can't see him, and he stops there watching for hours everything
they do, and comes back looking very serious and queer."
"Well, what does it matter?" I said. "He won't hurt us. He can't,
because he is my father's tenant, and if he did he'd have to go."
"Don't talk like that, Sep," whispered Bigley. "It's bad enough now,
and it would be worse then."
"I say, what chaps you two are!" cried Bob Chowne. "Why don't you talk
to a fellow?"
No one answered, and Bob turned sulky and went and sat on the front of
the cart, where he began to whistle.
"What do you mean by being worse?" I said.
Bigley shook his head.
"I don't know; I can't say," he whispered. "I mean I don't want father
to be very cross."
"I say, Big," I whispered. "Your father really is a smuggler, isn't
he?"
Bigley looked sharply round to gaze at old Teggley Grey and Bob Chowne,
creeping as he did so nearer to the tail-board of the cart, and I
followed him.
"I oughtn't to tell," he whispered back.
"But you'll tell me. I won't say a word to a soul," I said.
"Well, I don't know. I'm not sure, but--"
Bigley paused, and looked round again before putting his lips close to
my ear and whispering softly:
"I think he is."
"I'm sure of it," I whispered back; "and I know he goes out in his
lugger to meet French boats and Dutch boats, and makes no end of money
by smuggling."
"Who told you that?" whispered Bigley fiercely.
"Nobody. It's what everybody says of him. They all say that he'll be
caught and hanged some day for it--hung in chains; but of course I hope
he won't, Big, because of you."
"It's all nonsense. It isn't true," said Bigley indignantly, "and those
who talk that way are far more likely to be hung themselves. But I wish
your father hadn't bought the Gap."
"I don't," I said. "He had a right to buy it if he liked, and I don't
see what business it is of your father. Why don't he attend to his
fishing?"
Bigley looked up at me sharply, to see if I had any hidden meaning.
"He does attend to his fishing," he said angrily; "and if he hadn't been
attending to his fishing he wouldn't have been out in his boat that day,
and saved you from being drowned."
I never liked Bigley half so well before as when he spoke up like that
in defence of his father; but I was in a sour disappointed mood that
day, because the holidays were over and I was going back to school, so I
said something that was thoroughly ungenerous, and which I felt sorry
for as I spoke.
"Yes, he saved us all from being drowned, I suppose," I said; "but he
hadn't been fishing, for there were no fish in the boat."
"Just as if anybody could be sure of catching fish every time he went
out," cried Bigley angrily. "There, you want to quarrel because you are
miserable at having to go back to school, but I sha'n't. I hate it. Go
and fall out with old Bob Chowne."
This made me feel angry and I drew away from him, for it was trying to
make out that I was as quarrelsome as Bob Chowne delighted to be. But I
felt so horribly in fault directly after that I went back to my place
and sat by him in silence.
After a time the old carrier turned to us with a request that we would
get out and give the horse a rest up the hill.
We all obeyed, two of us jumping out over the tail-board, the other by
the front, and leaping off the shaft.
It was plain enough that the holidays were over, and that the joyous
hearty spirit of the homeward-bound was there no more, for Bob Chowne
took one side of the road in front of the horse, and the old carrier the
other, while Bigley and I hung back behind and walked slowly after them
on opposite sides after the fashion of those in front.
Then came the stopping of the cart, and mounting again and descending a
couple more times, before we reached Barnstaple, dull, low-spirited, and
ready to find about a score of boys just back, and looking as doleful as
we did ourselves.