The hops that year had been looking magnificent, and some of the growers
were chuckling as they thought of the number of hundredweight that would
go to the acre, while others took a prejudiced view of the case from a
dread of the plentifulness of the crop bringing them down to a state of
cheapness that would, when the cost of growing, picking, kilning, and
packing had been deducted, leave nothing to pay the rent.
Then a change had come--a rapid change. There had been a fortnight's
dry weather, and, as if by magic, the beautiful growths began to look
foul, black, and yellow.
It was very simple--a few tiny flies came and laid eggs: the eggs
hatched into little insects, and before many hours had elapsed these
little insects, without waiting to become flies, had children, and these
had children, and these had children as hard as ever they could, while
the mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers kept on increasing
until the vine-leaves became covered. These grew into hundreds,
hundreds into thousands and tens and hundreds of thousands, then
millions, and then into hundreds and thousands of millions, and then on
and on till billions and trillions, and all the other brain-devouring
lions covered the hop-grower's crops, threatening destruction to his
hopes.
Then out came the engine to attack the plague.
It was an old parish fire-engine that used to live beneath the bells in
the square tower of a church not many miles away. It had once been red;
and upon rare occasions, when a cottage or wheat-rick caught or was set
on fire and a glow gave warning, there would be a great deal of
shouting, the clerk's house was raced to for the keys, and then the old
engine was dragged out by its cross-handle, and a cheering crowd would
trundle it for miles to the scene of the fire, which was generally
expiring by the time it was reached. If the fire was not out, boys and
men dragged down the coils of hose and the suction-pipe, which was run
into a pond. Buckets were dipped, and water was poured down the
cylinders to moisten the suckers, and ran through, because the leathers
were all dried-up. Then the handles were seized and worked up and down,
making a good deal of noise, but no water began to squirt, which did not
matter (for the hose was all cracked, and would not have conveyed it);
and at last everything was packed up again, and, the fire being out for
want of more food, the engine was dragged back to its dwelling-place in
the belfry, to go on growing older and more mildewy and useless.
It took a great many years to teach people that, but for the show of the
thing, a great deal more good would have resulted if everybody had
carried a tin mug of water and thrown it upon the fire. Still, they did
learn this truth at last, and the result was that one day the old
fire-engine was sold by auction in the marketplace of the nearest town
and bought for a trifle by one of the hop-growers.
From that day the engine began to lead a new life, for it was cleaned
up, newly leathered and suckered, and kept in a barn, from which it was
dragged year after year to put out a plague as bad as fire.
Upon the morning in question there was a little procession from the
oast-houses down to the gardens in the hollow, where, in a sheltered
bower, a fire was lit under a huge copper, which had led the way; a
great water-tub brought fluid from the muddy pond, and a kind of hot
soup was made, bucketfuls of which were mixed with tubs of water; the
suction-pipe of the engine was inserted in these, the hose and branch
attached, and the slaughter of the insects began down between the rows
of hop-poles, where the blackened, blight-covered hops clustered,
twined, and hung.
_Fizz-fuzz_, _spitter-sputter_! Away flew the medicated water in a
poisonous spray, and row after row of the blighted hops was relieved of
the insect enemies, while the farmer's men kept the fire going, the
water boiling, and the poison brewing to save the crop.
There was just enough room for the little engine to be dragged down
between the hills--as they term them--of the hops without much crushing;
but the labourers took good care to empty it first, and even then the
wheels made deep ruts in the well-dug soil. After some hours' work the
men had drawn it well into the middle of the garden; and while two
pumped and another directed a fine spray under the leaves and among the
tendrils, others plodded steadily along from the copper and tubs, each
bearing a couple of buckets, and carefully picking a fresh way from time
to time so as to avoid the shower of fine rain dripping from the verdant
arches overhead.
"Hope nobody won't taste none o' this stuff in his yale, Joey," said one
of the bucket-bearers, as he tossed the medicated water into the big tub
from which the suction-pipe of the engine drew its supply, and as he
spoke he widened the perennial grin which dwelt upon his puckered face.
"Do un good," growled Joey, who was directing the spray from the branch
so as to spread it over as many leaves as possible. "Make un teetotal,
Smiler."
"Ha, ha!" chuckled the man with the buckets; "deal o' teetotal about
you, Joey. Make yale taste, though, won't it?"
"Na-a-a-ay! Rain'll wash it all off in no time, Smiler. There, fetch
some more."
"All very fine, Joey; but its wa-arm down here. Wind don't come."
"Well, who wants wind to knock the poles down?--best lewed garden, this,
on the fa-arm. Fatch some more!"
Smiler, as he was called, went off with his empty buckets, trudged back
to the copper and water-barrel, justifying his name at every step; for
he smiled at the clods of earth, the weeds which had sprung up, at the
poles, and then at the horse in the shafts of the water-barrel cart,
before refilling his buckets and starting back down a fresh row of hops,
between which the sun came glinting and sending shafts of silver arrows
to the rich soil, out of which peeped wool clippings, shoddy, greasy
rags, and other indescribable rubbish used by the farmer to fertilise
his field.
When abreast of the engine, hidden from him by three or four rows of
poles, Smiler set down his pails with a clank, smiled round him, and
wiped his wet brow with one bare arm, then the other side in the same
way, the operation being so satisfactory that he continued it all over
his face. Then, smiling more than ever, he stooped, picked up his
buckets, went on a few yards to where there was an opening into the next
row, turned himself edgewise, and passed through with his buckets swung
round, and was about to pass through into another green arcade, but
stopped, smiling still, and put down his load once more with a louder
rattle of the handles, while _clank clank_ went the engine and _whish
whish_ and _sputter_ the cloud of spray among the leaves.
"Now then, Smiler, come on!" shouted one of the men with the engine,
still hidden, but close at hand.
"Hi! Joey," shouted Smiler.
"What's the matter?--found a hop-dog?"
"Nay! Here's a tipsy swaddy lying dead asleep; shall I gi'e him a
bucket o' hop-wash?"
"Gahn! Bring that stuff."
"But I tell ye he's tipsy, boy. Come, all on yer, and see!"
The clanking of the engine stopped at once, for it was very hot there,
and the diversion was acceptable; so, leaving the fine rain dripping
from the hop-bine, three men came, dragging their legs after them,
threading their way through the poles till they all stood together,
wiping their streaming faces with their bare arms, and gazing down at
the recumbent figure, at which the bucket-bearer smiled, the others
following his example, and ending in a hearty chuckle, in which Smiler
joined.
"Shall I gi'e him a bucket, Joey?" he said again.
"Nay," said the man addressed. "Nobody never give you a bucket, Smiler,
when you lay down in a ditch."
The others laughed, and Smiler winced a little.
"Make him wet outside as well as in!"
"Yah! We don't want to spoil his red coat," said Joey; "he's got it
pratty will syled without. Why, he must ha' been here all night! Here,
soger, wake up!"
There was no movement.
"D'yer hear? Right about face! 'Tention!"
"Well, he must have had a good wet! How did un come here?"
"I d'know," said one of the men. "Take two shillin' worth o' yale to
make a man like that."
"Ay," said Smiler. "Know how they do it?"
"Saves up," said Joey.
"Yah! They don't get no money to save. I'll tell 'ee. My cousin,
Billy Weekes, 'listed--you all knew Billy?"
"Ay!" chorussed the others, as they stood gazing down at the
scarlet-coated figure lying with its face hidden by a drooping tangle of
hops caused by the breaking of a pole.
"Billy tode me," continued Smiler, "as, when one on 'em gets leave, he
goes round among his mates, and they all gi'es him a penny or twopence
apiece--hundred on 'em, p'r'aps--and that sets him up!"
"Ay?" said Joey. "And when their turn comes he gi'es them all a penny?"
"Yes; that's it--all round. So they chaps as goos out allus has some'at
to spend."
"And a very good way, too," said Joey, chuckling. "Well, I could drink
a quaart now, and I've got a penny; s'pose you three chaps all gi'es me
one apiece, for my throat's as dry as a lime-basket."
The men looked at one another and chuckled.
"Hadn't us better wake un up?" said Smiler, at last.
"Ay, 'fore he gets a drenching with the hop-wash," said Joey. "Here!
hi! soger! Why, he's got a bottle in his fist here still. It's--"
The man, who had bent down low and drawn aside the verdant veil of
hop-bine, started back in alarm; for, as the sunshine was let in, a
couple of large vipers, which had been nestling close up to the figure,
raised their heads and began to crawl away.
"Look at the nedders!" cried Smiler. "Aren't stung him, have they?"
"Nay," cried Joey, hanging back, "that arn't all. 'Tarn't a bottle he's
got; it's a pistol!"
Two of the men turned as if to run away, but at that moment another
bucket-bearer came up, and there was a shout from up by the fire to know
why the spraying had stopped.
"Hi!--all on yer! Coome here!" yelled Smiler.
"What's he been shootin'?" cried one of the men who had turned to go.
"Hissen," growled Joey, with a horrified look. "He's a dead un, lads,
and been here for days."
Mastering the feeling of shrinking which had come over him, Joey went
down upon one knee, amidst the awful silence which prevailed, and
stretched forth a hand to draw the figure out into a patch of sunlight,
but a shout in chorus from his companions made him snatch back his hand
with a violent start.
"Yah!--don't touch him," they all cried.
"Why?--poor lad," protested Joey. "We can't leave him here!"
"Mustn't touch 'im till there's been a inkwess," said Smiler, excitedly.
"I don't keer for no inkwesses," grumbled Joey; "I shall want to come
here directly to wash my hops."
"What's the matter?" cried the first of several men who came down the
narrow alley. "Ingin busted?"
"Nay; look ye here," cried Smiler, excitedly, and there was a low,
suppressed exclamation from the group that crowded up.
"Better get a gate and carry him out," said one.
"Couldn't get a gate down here," said another.
"And yer mustn't touch 'im till there's been a inkwess," cried Smiler.
"Is he dead?" said one of the new-comers.
"Ay," said one of the first four. "We sin the nedders come away from
him. Stinged to death."
"Nay, he's not bitten," cried Joey. "Here's his little pistol. Why,
he's one o' they chaps as blows brass things in the band."
As he spoke, the man took the rusty pistol from the tight fingers which
clutched it, and then uttered a cry.
"What's the matter?"
"His hand arn't cold," cried Joey, and, quickly turning the figure right
over into the sunshine, he gazed down excitedly, and pointed at a great
red stain on the breast and side of the scarlet tunic, hidden until
then, and dry now and dark.
"But he's quite dead, arn't he?" said Smiler.
"Nay, he's not dead. You can feel his heart beat right up into his
throat. Come and take hold of his legs, two on you, and Smiler and me
'll carry this end."
"Where to?" asked one of the men, who seized a leg.
"Tak' un up to the oast-house. Here! one o' you go and fatch a
policemun and 'nother on you goo right on and tell doctor what we found.
How soon can you get there?"
"'N 'our, cross the fields."
"Cut, then. He'll gi'e you a ride back in his chay."
The two men started, and, the figure being raised, it was carefully
borne along the dark green alley out into the open sunshine, and then
along to the shelter of a huge espalier, kept there to shelter the
hop-garden from the western gales.
Not a word was spoken, the men keeping still and walking as if
awestricken along by the great green bank, startling the velvet-coated
blackbirds, which flew out on either side and skimmed along near the
great flowery ditch, and passed over the top a hundred yards ahead.
Twice over a cotton-tailed rabbit darted out of the hops and plunged
into the ditch, to reach its burrow in the sandy bank, while on and on
the men tramped with their burden, whose bright scarlet coat, laced with
gold, stood out vividly against the green of the hops on one side and
that of the tall hedge on the other.
"Nay, he's only quite a boy," said Smiler, who, as soon as his
remonstrance had been conscientiously disregarded, lent himself to the
task with far more energy than he had directed toward carrying the
pails.
"Say, one of you," cried Joey, "go and lay that old bed out in the
oast--one I had last year for kiln-watching."
"What that there in the hop-pocket?"
"That's it, lad;" and another man ran forward up the hillside.
A few minutes later the burden was borne in through the wide entrance of
the building to where the man who preceded them had dragged out the
rough mattress used by the watcher through the night of the clear coal
fires. And here in the cool shade the burden was gently laid; and the
men stood round in silence, looking at the pale face before them and
then at each other as if asking what to do next.
"He's gone!" whispered Smiler, whose grotesque face gave him the aspect
of enjoying it all as some horrible jest.
For they had hardly decently composed the stiffened figure upon its soft
elastic couch before it uttered a low, deep groan.
"Nay," said Joey, in a whisper, "he's with us yet, lads; men don't die
when you can see that."
A shudder ran through the group as they leaned forward to gaze at that
to which the man pointed, and there plainly to be seen in the great
windowless place by the light which came in through the broad, high
doorway, they gazed at a slowly-increasing stain which came out upon the
scarlet tunic hard by the blackened dried-up patch there at the side.
For the movement had started the wound bleeding afresh, and a bit of
experience when a fellow-labourer had his arm crushed in a
threshing-machine years before had taught the speaker that where
bleeding continues there must be life still left in the sufferer's
veins.