_Notes from the Travel Diary of Toby, M.P._
_The Cottage, Burrow-in-the-Corner, Devon._
VERY awkward to have missed the Post; being Saturday night means delay
of twenty-four hours.
"Seen the postman?" I asked Old Gentleman.
"Seed ee two minits ago. Gone up the hill. I'll call him back."
New idea this. Never remember when just too late for last pillar-box
clearance in London suburb running after postman, bringing him back,
and getting him to make special clearance. Old Gentleman evidently
thought nothing of it; skipped out of garden with remarkable agility;
in middle of road in a twinkling; shouting "Hi! hi!" and waving green
umbrella wildly over his narrow-brimmed top hat, round which the rime
of age modestly lurked. Postman did not seem at all annoyed; came back
promptly, unlocked box, and trudged off again on his rounds.
Here's where my misfortune began. Way back clear by the road I had
come; inviting lane passed Old Gentleman's house; was there anyway
along it to Burrow-in-the-Corner? "Why, yes," said Old Gentleman,
whose desire to accommodate was illimitable. "Follow this lane till
you come to four cross roads, then turn to left, and keep on." Nothing
plainer than this: getting used to four cross roads in these parts;
came upon this particular assortment after quarter of an hour's walk;
a sign-post too; so thoughtful; no difficulty about four cross roads
when there's a sign-post. Walked up to it and round it; not a single
letter remaining intact of the direction. Sign-post older than
Old Gentleman with the umbrella, and not nearly in such state of
preservation. Not a soul in sight; "no footfall breaking silence of
closing day." Old Gentleman said turn to left; so left must be right;
take it, and walk on.
Pretty broad highway; must be main road leading somewhere. Why not to
Burrow-in-the-Corner? Quarter mile off come upon bifurcation. Which is
main road? Instincts of trapper assert themselves; carefully examine
which way traffic mostly goes; not many cart-ruts, but majority turn
to left; that must be the way to Burrow-in-the-Corner. Take it; find
it a ditch between lofty hedges going up a hill, and then, like the
late Duke of York, going down again. Half a mile of this; then another
bifurcation; a gentle curve, insidious, but unmistakable, one horn of
my dilemma leading to right, the other to left. Take the right this
time, by way of change; leads into a road running at right angles.
Should I turn right or left? Do a little of both in succession; can
see nothing of the lay of country, by reason of wall-like hedges;
presently come to gate in field; country chillingly unfamiliar.
Situation beginning to grow serious; dusk closing in apace. In spite
of it I see my mistake; took the wrong turning when I examined the
traffic-mark; must turn back there, and peg along the other road;
get into narrow lane again; this time, varying man[oe]uvre of Duke of
York, go down a hill, and then go up again.
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[Illustration: LIKA JOKO'S JOTTINGS.--No. 3. STAG HUNTING.]
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Trapper instinct, before alluded to, made me note heap of broken
stones at this particular bifurcation. Here it is; no mistake about
that; take other turning, and press on full speed; can't be more
than two miles now; straight road, and there you are. Can do it under
half-an-hour. Nothing so delightful as walk in country lane in cool of
evening. This particular lane rather long; roads and lanes cutting
off to right and left; at least no bifurcation. Not a house in sight;
every soul in the country apparently turned in. Cottar's Saturday
night, of course; should have thought of that before; explains
everything.
Apparently no end to this road; suddenly seems to disappear; only a
dip down a hill; think at first, from steepness, it must be road into
Tipperton; but Tipperton is miles away. Getting on for dinner-time;
better run down hill; do so; see light flickering at end; probably
The Cottage windows; hum "A light in the window for me"; find I've no
breath to spare for musical entertainments; shut up, and run. Light
comes from farm-house; enter yard cautiously in case of another dog
being there. In the twilight see second Old Gentleman; this time in
his shirt-sleeves, sitting meditatively on an upturned bucket set on a
barn floor. "Is this the way to Burrow-in-the-Corner?" I ask, a little
out of breath. Old Gentleman stares; perhaps he is deaf; looks deaf,
but find he is only chuckling; repeat question louder. "No," says he,
"but that be;" and he waves a horny hand up the wall of a hill down
which I had scrambled.
For the last twenty minutes I'd been running away from
Burrow-in-the-Corner as if we didn't dine at 7.30.
Old Gentleman not accustomed to seeing joke; made most of this; when
he recovered I learned that if I walked back up hill a mile, and
took first turning to right, I should be on the road to
Burrow-in-the-Corner. Nice pull up hill; kept keen look out for
turn to right; after quarter of hour's rapid walking passed on left
openings of two lanes in close contiguity. Through one I had forty
minutes earlier walked on to this very road. If I had then turned to
left instead of going back I should have been at The Cottage by this
time--supposing, of course, the road leads thither.
No use repining; must get on; feeling peckish; walk in middle of road
to make most of twilight shut out by hedges; can't see time by watch;
doing something more than four miles an hour. At end of what seems
half-hour am apparently no forrader; no house; no passer-by; no
friendly light over ghostly expanse peeped at through occasional
gates.
Begin to think of story heard the other day. Belated parson went to
take evening service for friend at church close by post-office where
I made acquaintance of first Old Gentleman. Only three miles from his
own house; after sermon set off to walk home; thinking of many things,
turned off at wrong point; knew country pretty well, but darkness
came on; hopelessly lost; found forlornly sitting on a gate at eleven
o'clock by farmer's son fortuitously delayed on his return home; took
stranger home with him; woke up family, and gave him shakedown for
night.
"It was bad enough, TOBY," rev. gentleman said, "and might have been
worse. But what rankles most bitterly in my breast at present day is
remark of farmer's wife when her son shouted up at open window that
he had brought home a clergyman who had lost his way and wanted a
bed. 'Clergyman!' she cried, with cruel scorn. 'Get away with you. No
clergyman would be out at this time of night.'"
One comfort it's not raining; rained in torrents when my friend the
parson had his Sunday night out. Road evidently not leading towards
The Cottage; suppose that once more I am walking away from it! Trapper
instincts already alluded to have evolved a plan which I hold in
reserve. Remember (or think I remember) the turns on the way back to
post-office where I made acquaintance of first Old Gentleman; terrible
trudge, but better than sleeping in ditch or shed; shall turn back and
face it. Halt and hesitate; no sign of Cottage or other light; hedges
are black shadows; a few feet in front and an equal distance behind is
wall of darkness; decide to take a hundred paces forward. If then no
sign of habitation shall turn back and grope way by post-office.
At eightieth pace a turn in the road; a light across the roadway; then
The Cottage, and through the open window, into the dark still night,
floats the music of SCHUMANN'S "_Fruehlingsnacht_." It is the Cook
singing, while the Housemaid spreads the cloth for dinner.
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[Illustration: WIREPROOF. SIR HARRY HARDMAN, MOUNTED ON "BEHEMOTH,"
CREATED RATHER A STIR AT THE MEET. HE SAID HE DIDN'T CARE A HANG FOR
THE BARBED OR ANY OTHER KIND OF WIRE.]
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