_Most of this tale actually happened during the War about the year 1916
or 1917 but it was much funnier as I heard it told by an English Naval
officer than it is as I have written it from memory. It shows, what one
always believed was true, that there is nothing that cannot happen in
the Navy._
H. M. S. _Gardenia_ (we will take her name from the Herbaceous Border
which belonged to the sloops, though she was a destroyer by profession)
came quietly back to her berth some time after midnight, and disturbed
half a dozen of her sisters as she settled down. They all talked about
it next morning, especially _Phlox_ and _Stephanotis_, her left- and
right-hand neighbours in the big basin on the east coast of England,
that was crowded with destroyers.
But the soul of the _Gardenia_—Lieutenant-in-Command H. R. Duckett—was
lifted far above insults. What he had done during his last trip had been
well done. Vastly more important—_Gardenia_ was in for a
boiler-clean—which meant four days’ leave for her commanding officer.
“Where did you get that fender from, you dock-yard burglar?”
_Stephanotis_ clamoured over his rail, for _Gardenia_ was wearing a
large coir-matting fender, evidently fresh from store, over her rail. It
creaked with newness. “You common thief of the beach, where did you find
that new fender?”
The only craft that a destroyer will, sometimes, not steal equipment
from is a destroyer; which accounts for the purity of her morals and the
loftiness of her conversation, and her curiosity in respect to stolen
fillings.
Duckett, unmoved, went below, to return with a valise which he carried
on to His Majesty’s quarter-deck, and, atop of a suit of rat-catcher
clothes, crammed into it a pair of ancient pigskin gaiters.
Here _Phlox_, assisted by her Dandy Dinmont, Dinah, who had been trained
to howl at certain notes in her master’s voice, gave a spirited and
imaginary account of _Gardenia’s_ return the night before, which was
compared to that of an ambulance with a lady-driver. Duckett retaliated
by slipping on to his head for one coquettish instant a gravy-coloured
soft cloth cap. It was the last straw. _Phlox_ and _Stephanotis_, who
had no hope of any leave for the present, pronounced it an offence, only
to be wiped out by drinks.
“All things considered,” said Duckett. “I don’t care if I _do_. Come
along!” and, the hour being what it was, he gave the necessary orders
through the wardroom’s tiny skylight. The captains came.
_Phlox_—Lieutenant Commander Jerry Marlett, a large and weather-beaten
person, docked himself in the arm-chair by the wardroom stove with his
cherished Dinah in his arms. Great possessions and much land, inherited
from an uncle, had removed him from the Navy on the eve of war. Three
days after the declaration of it he was back again, and had been very
busy ever since. _Stephanotis_—Lieutenant-in-Command Augustus Holwell
Rayne, _alias_ “The Damper,” because of his pessimism, spread himself
out on the settee. He was small and agile, but of gloomy outlook, which
a D. S. O. earned, he said, quite by mistake, could not lighten. “Horse”
Duckett, _Gardenia’s_ skipper, was a reversion to the primitive Marryat
type—a predatory, astute, resourceful pirate, too well known to all His
Majesty’s dockyards, a man of easily injured innocence who could always
prove an alibi, and in whose ship, if his torpedo-coxswain had ever
allowed any one to look there, several sorts of missing Government
property might have been found. His ambition was to raise pigs (animals
he only knew as bacon) in Shropshire (a county he had never seen) after
the war, so he waged his war with zeal to bring that happy day nearer.
He sat in the arm-chair by the door, whence he controlled the operations
of “Crippen,” the wardroom steward, late of Bolitho’s Travelling Circus
and Swings, who had taken to the high seas to avoid the attentions of
the Police ashore.
As usual, Duckett’s character had been blackened by My Lords of the
Admiralty, and he was in the midst of a hot campaign against them. An
able-seaman’s widowed mother had sent a ham to her son whose name was E.
R. Davids. Unfortunately, Engineroom-Artificer E. Davies, who swore that
he had both a mother and expectations of hams from her, came across the
ham first, and, misreading its address, had had it boiled for, and at
once eaten by, the Engineers’ mess. E. R. Davids, a vindictive soul,
wrote to his mother, who, it seems, wrote to the Admiralty, who,
according to Duckett, wrote to him daily every day for a month to know
what had become of E. R. Davids’ ham. In the meantime the guilty
Engineroom-Artificer E. Davies had been transferred to a sloop off the
Irish coast.
“An’ what the dooce _am_ I to do?” Duckett asked his guests plaintively.
“Apply for leave to go to Ireland with a stomach-pump and heave the ham
out of Davies,” Jerry suggested promptly.
“That’s rather a wheeze,” said Duckett. “I _had_ thought of marrying
Davids’ mother to settle the case. Anyhow, it was all Crippen’s fault
for not steering the ham into the wardroom when it came aboard. Don’t
let it occur again, Crippen. Hams are going to be very scarce.”
“Well, now you’ve got all that off your chest”—Jerry Marlett lowered his
voice—“suppose you tell us about what happened—the night before last.”
The talk became professional. Duckett produced certain evidence—still
damp—in support of the claims that he had sent in concerning the fate of
a German submarine, and gave a chain of facts and figures and bearings
that the others duly noted.
“And how did your Acting Sub do?” asked Jerry at last.
“Oh, very fair, but I didn’t tell him so, of course. They’re hard enough
to hold at the best of times, these makee-do officers. Have you noticed
that they are always above their job—always thinkin’ round the corner
when they’re thinkin’ at all. On our way back, this young merchant o’
mine—when I’d almost made up my mind to tell him he wasn’t as big tripes
as he looked—told me his one dream in life was to fly. Fly! He flew
alright by the time I’d done with him, but—imagine a Sub _tellin’_ one a
thing like that! ‘It must be _so_ interestin’ to fly,’ he said. The
whole North Sea one blooming burgoo of what-come-nexts, an’ this pup
complainin’ of lack of interest in it! Fly! Fly! When _I_ was a
Sub-Lootenant——”
He turned pathetically towards The Damper, who had known him in that
rank in the Mediterranean.
“There wasn’t much flyin’ in our day,” said The Damper mournfully. “But
I can’t remember anything else we didn’t do.”
“Quite so; but we had some decency knocked into us. The new breed
wouldn’t know decency if they met it on a dungfork. _That’s_ what I
mean.”
“When _I_ was Actin’ Sub,” Jerry opened thoughtfully, “in the
_Polycarp_—the pious _Polycarp_—Nineteen-O-Seven, I got nine cuts of the
best from the Senior Sub for occupyin’ the bathroom ten seconds too
long. Twenty minutes later, just when the welts were beginnin’ to come
up, y’ know, I was sent off in the gig with a Corporal o’ Marines an’ a
private to fetch the Headman of All the Pelungas aboard. He was wanted
for slavery, or barratry, or bigamy or something.”
“All the Pelungas?” Duckett repeated with interest. “’Odd you should
mention that part of the world. What are the Pelungas like?”
“Very nice. Hundreds of islands and millions of coral reefs with atolls
an’ lagoons an’ palm-trees, an’ all the population scullin’ round in
outrigger canoes between ’em like a permanent regatta. Filthy
navigation, though. _Polycarp_ had to lie five miles out on account of
the reefs (even then our navigator was tearin’ his hair) an’ I had an
hour’s steerin’ on hot hard thwarts. Talk o’ tortures! _You_ know. We
landed in a white lather at the boat-steps of the Headman’s island. The
Headman wasn’t takin’ any at first. He’d drawn up his whole army—three
hundred strong, with old Martini rifles an’ a couple of ancestral
seven-pounders in front of his fort. _We_ didn’t know anything about his
domestic arrangements. We just dropped in among ’em so to say. Then my
Corporal of Marines—the fattest man in the Service bar one—fell down the
landin’ steps. The Headman had a Prime Minister—about as fat as my
Corporal—and he helped him up. Well, _that_ broke the ice a bit. The
Prime Minister was a statesman. He poured oil on the crisis, while the
Headman cursed me and the Navy and the British Government, and I kept
wrigglin’ in my white ducks to keep ’em from drawin’ tight on me. _You_
know how it feels! I remember I told the Headman the _Polycarp_ ’ud blow
him an’ his island out of the water if he didn’t come along quick. She
could have done it—in a week or two; but we were scrubbin’ hammocks at
the time. I forgot that little fact for the minute. I was a bit hot—all
over. The Prime Minister soothed us down again, an’ by and by the
Headman said he’d pay us a state call—as a favour. I didn’t care what he
called it s’long as he came. So I lay about a quarter of a mile
off-shore in the gig, in case the seven-pounders pooped off—I knew the
Martinis couldn’t hit us at that range—and I waited for him till he
shoved off in his State barge—forty rowers a side. Would you believe it,
he wanted to take precedence of the White Ensign on the way to the ship?
I had to fall him in behind the gig and bring him alongside properly. I
was so sore I could hardly get aboard at the finish.”
“What happened to the Headman?” said The Damper.
“Nothing. He was acquitted or condemned—I forget which—but he was a
perfect gentleman. We used to go sailing with him and his people—dancing
with ’em on the beach and all that sort of thing. _I_ don’t want to meet
a nicer community than the Pelungaloos. They aren’t used to white
men—but they’re first-class learners.”
“Yes, they _do_ seem a cheery crowd,” Duckett commented.
“Where have _you_ come across them?” said Jerry.
“Nowhere; but this Acting Sub of mine has got a cousin who’s been flying
down there.”
“Flying in All the Pelungas?” Jerry cried. “That’s impossible!”
“In these days? Where’s your bright lexicon of youth? Nothing’s
impossible anywhere now,” Duckett replied. “All the best people fly.”
“Count me out,” Jerry grunted. “We went up once, Dinah, little dog, and
it made us both very sick, didn’t it? When did it all happen, Horse?”
“Some time last year. This chap, my Sub’s cousin—a man called
Baxter—went adrift among All the Pelungas in his machine and failed to
connect with his ship. He was reported missing for months. Then he
turned up again. That’s all.”
“He was called Baxter?” said The Damper. “Hold on a shake! I wonder if
he’s ‘Beloo’ Baxter, by any chance. There was a chap of that name about
five years ago on the China Station. He had himself tattooed all over,
regardless, in Rangoon. Then he got as good as engaged to a woman in
Hongkong—rich woman too. But the Pusser of his ship gave him away. He
had a regular cinema of frogs and dragonflies up his legs. And that was
only the beginnin’ of the show. So she broke off the engagement, and he
half-killed the Pusser, and then he became a Buddhist, or something.”
“That couldn’t have been this Baxter, or my Sub would have told me,”
said Duckett. “My Sub’s a morbid-minded young animal.”
“_Maskee_[18] your Sub’s mind!” said Jerry. “What was this Baxter
man—plain _or_ coloured—doin’ in All _my_ Pelungas?”
“As far as I can make out,” said Duckett, “Lootenant Baxter was flyin’
in those parts—with an observer—out of a ship.”
“Yes, but what _for_?” Jerry insisted. “And what ship?”
“He was flyin’ for exercise, I suppose, an’ his ship was the
_Cormorang_. D’you feel wiser? An’ he flew, an’ he flew, an’ he flew
till, between him an’ his observer and the low visibility and Providence
and all that sort of thing, he lost his ship—just like some other people
I know. Then he flapped about huntin’ for her till dusk among the
Pelungas, an’ then he effected a landin’ on the water.”
“A nasty wet business—landin’ that way, Dinah. We know,” said Jerry into
the keen little cocked ear in his lap.
“Then he taxied about in the dark till he taxied on to a coral reef and
couldn’t get the machine off. Coral ain’t like mud, is it?” The question
was to Jerry, but the insult was addressed to The Damper, who had lately
spent eighteen hours on a soft and tenacious shoal off the East Coast.
The Damper launched a kick at his host from where he lay along the
settee.
“Then,” Duckett went on, “this Baxter-man got busy with his wireless and
S O S’ed like winkie till the tide came and floated the old bus off the
reef, and they taxied over to another island in the dark.”
“Thousands of Islands in All the Pelungas,” Jerry murmured. “Likewise
reefs—hairy ones. What about the reefs?”
“Oh, they kept on hittin’ reefs in the dark, till it occurred to them to
fire their signal lights to see ’em by. So they went blazin’ an’
stinkin’ and taxyin’ up and down the reefs till they found a gap in one
of ’em and they taxied bung on to an uninhabited island.”
“That must have been good for the machine,” was Jerry’s comment.
“I don’t deny it. I’m only tellin’ you what my Sub told me. Baxter wrote
it all home to his people, and the letters have been passed round the
family. Well, then o’ course, it rained. It rained all the rest of the
night, up to the afternoon of the next day. (It always does when you’re
in a hole.) They tried to start their engine in the intervals of
climbin’ palm-trees for coco-nuts. They’d only a few buscuits and some
water with ’em.”
“’Don’t like climbin’ palm-trees. It scrapes you raw,” The Damper
moaned.
“An’ when they weren’t climbin’ or crankin’ their engine, they tried to
get into touch with the natives on the next nearest island. But the
natives weren’t havin’ any. They took to the bush.”
“Ah!” said Jerry sympathetically. “That aeroplane was too much for ’em.
Otherwise, they’re the most cosy, confidential lot _I_ ever met. Well,
what happened?”
“Baxter sweated away at his engine till she started up again. Then he
flew round lookin’ for his ship some more till his petrol ran out. Then
he landed close to _another_ uninhabited island and tried to taxi up to
it.”
“Why was he so keen on _un_inhabited islands? I wish I’d been there.
_I’d_ ha’ shown him round the town,” said Jerry.
“I don’t know his reasons, but that was what he wrote home to his
people,” Duckett went on. “Not havin’ any power by that time, his
machine blew on to another reef and there they were! No grub, no petrol,
and plenty of sharks! So they snugged her down. I don’t know how one
snugs down an aeroplane,” Duckett admitted, “but Baxter took the
necessary steps to reduce the sail-area, and cut the spanker-boom out of
the tail-tassels or whatever it is they do on an aeroplane when they
want her to be quiet. Anyhow, they more or less secured the bus to that
reef so they thought she wouldn’t fetch adrift; and they tried to coax a
canoe over that happened to be passing. Nothin’ doin’ _there_! ’Canoe
made one bunk of it.”
“He tickled ’em the wrong way,” Jerry sighed. “There’s a song they sing
when they’re fishing.” He began to hum dolefully.
“I expect Baxter didn’t know that tune,” Duckett interrupted. “He an’
his observer cursed the canoe a good deal, an’ then they went in for
swimmin’ stunts all among the sharks, until they fetched up on the
_next_ island when they came to it—it took ’em an hour to swim there—but
the minute they landed the natives all left. ’Seems to me,” said Duckett
thoughtfully, “Baxter and his observer must have spread a pretty healthy
panic scullin’ about All the Pelungas in their shirts.”
“But why shirts?” said Jerry. “Those waters are perfectly warm.”
“If you come to that, why _not_ shirts?” Duckett retorted. “A shirt’s a
badge of civilization——”
“Never mind your shirts. What happened after that?” said The Damper.
“They went to sleep. They were tired by that time—oddly enough. The
natives on _that_ island had left everything standing when they
bunked—fires lighted, chickens runnin’ about, and so forth. Baxter slept
in one of the huts. About midnight some of the bold boys stole back
again. Baxter heard ’em talkin’ just outside, and as he didn’t want his
face trod on, he said ‘Salaam.’ That cleared the island for the second
time. The natives jumped three foot into the air and shoved off.”
“Good Lord!” said Jerry impatiently. “_I’d_ have had ’em eating out of
my hand in ten seconds. ‘Salaam’ isn’t the word to use at all. What he
ought to have said——”
“Well, anyhow, he didn’t,” Duckett replied. “He and his observer had
their sleep out an’ they woke in the mornin’ with ragin’ appetites and a
strong sense of decency. The first thing they annexed was some native
loin-cloths off a bush. Baxter wrote all this home to his people, you
know. I expect he was well brought up.”
“If he was ‘Beloo’ Baxter no one would notice——” The Damper began.
“He wasn’t. He was just a simple, virtuous Naval Officer—like me. He an’
his observer navigated the island in full dress in search of the
natives, but they’d gone and taken the canoe with ’em. Baxter was so
depressed at their lack of confidence that he killed a chicken an’
plucked it and drew it (I bet neither of you know how to draw fowls) an’
boiled it and ate it all at once.”
“Didn’t he feed his observer?” The Damper asked. “I’ve a little brother
what’s an observer up in the air. I’d hate to think he——”
“The observer was kept busy wavin’ his shirt on the beach in order to
attract the attention of local fishin’ craft. That was what _he_ was
for. After breakfast Baxter joined him an’ the two of ’em waved shirts
for two hours on the beach. An’ that’s the sort of thing my Sub prefers
to servin’ with me!—_Me!_ After a bit, the Pelungaloos decided that they
must be harmless lunatics, and one canoe stood pretty close in, an’ they
swam out to her. But here’s a curious thing! Baxter wrote his people
that, when the canoe came, his observer hadn’t any shirt at all. ’Expect
he’d expended it wavin’ for succour. But Baxter’s shirt was all right.
He went out of his way to tell his people so. An’ my Sub couldn’t see
the humour of it one little bit. How does it strike you?”
“Perfectly simple,” said Jerry. “Lootenant Baxter as executive officer
in charge took his subordinate’s shirt owin’ to the exigencies of the
Service. I’d ha’ done the same. Pro-ceed.”
“There’s worse to follow. As soon as they got aboard the canoe and the
natives found they didn’t bite, they cottoned to ’em no end. ’Gave ’em
grub and dry loin-cloths and betel-nut to chew. What’s betel-nut like,
Jerry?”
“Grateful an’ comfortin’. Warms you all through and makes you spit pink.
It’s non-intoxicating.”
“Oh! I’ve never tried it. Well then, there was Baxter spittin’ pink in a
loin-cloth an’ a canoeful of Pelungaloo fishermen, with his shirt dryin’
in the breeze. ’Got that? Well, then his aeroplane, which he thought he
had secured to the reef of the next island, began to drift out to sea.
That boy had to keep his eyes open, I tell you. He wanted the natives to
go in and makee-catchee the machine, and there was a big palaver about
it. They naturally didn’t care to compromise themselves with strange
idols, but after a bit they lined up a dozen canoes—no, eleven, to be
precise—Baxter was awfully precise in his letters to his people—an’
tailed on to the aeroplane an’ towed it to an island.”
“Excellent,” said Jerry Marlett, the complete Lieutenant Commander. “I
was gettin’ worried about His Majesty’s property. Baxter must have had a
way with him. A loin-cloth ain’t uniform, but it’s dashed comfortable.
An’ how did All my Pelungaloos treat ’em?”
“We-ell!” said Duckett, “Baxter was writin’ home to his people, so I
expect he toned things down a bit, but, readin’ between the lines, it
looks as if—an’ _that’s_ why my Sub wants to take up flyin’ of course—it
looks as if, from then on, they had what you might call Garden-of-Eden
picnics for weeks an’ weeks. The natives put ’em under a guard o’ sorts
just for the look of the thing, while the news was sent to the Headman,
but as far as I can make out from my Sub’s reminiscences of Baxter’s
letters, their guard consisted of the entire male and female population
goin’ in swimmin’ with ’em twice a day. At night they had
concerts—native songs _versus_ music-hall—in alternate what d’you call
’em? Anti-somethings. ’Phone, ain’t it?”
“They _are_ a musical race! I’m glad he struck that side of their
nature,” Jerry murmured.
“I’m envious,” Duckett protested. “Why should the Flyin’ Corps get all
the plums? But Baxter didn’t forget His Majesty’s aeroplane. He got ’em
to tow it to his island o’ delights, and in the evenings he an’ his
observer, between the musical turns, used to give the women electric
shocks off the wireless. And, one time, he told his observer to show ’em
his false teeth, and when he took ’em out the people all bolted.”
“But that’s in Rider Haggard. It’s in ‘King Solomon’s Mines’,” The
Damper remarked.
“P’raps that’s what put it into Baxter’s head then,” said Duckett. “Or
else,” he suggested warily, “Baxter wanted to crab his observer’s
chances with some lady.”
“Then he was a fool,” The Damper snarled. “It might have worked the
other way. It generally does.”
“Well, one can’t foresee everything,” said Duckett. “Anyhow, Baxter
didn’t complain. They lived there for weeks and weeks, singin’ songs
together and bathin’ an’—oh, yes!—gamblin’. Baxter made a set of dice
too. He doesn’t seem to have neglected much. He said it was just to pass
the time away, but I wonder what he threw for. I wish I knew him. His
letters to his people are too colourless. What a life he must have led!
Women, dice and song, an’ your pay rollin’ up behind you in perfect
safety with no exertion on your part.”
“There’s a dance they dance on moonlight nights,” said Jerry, “with just
a few banana leaves—Never mind. Go ahead!”
“All things bright and beautiful—fineesh,” Duckett mourned. “Presently
the Headman of All the Pelungas came along——”
“’My friend? I hope it was. A first-class sportsman,” said Jerry.
“Baxter didn’t say. Anyhow, he turned up and they were taken over to the
capital island till they could be sent back to their own ship. The
Headman did ’em up to the nines in every respect while they were with
him (Baxter’s quite enthusiastic over it, even in writin’ to his own
people), but, o’ course, there’s nothing like first love, is there? They
must have felt partin’ with their first loves. _I_ always do. And then
they were put into the full uniform of All the Pelungaloo Army. What’s
that like, Jerry? You’ve seen it.”
“It’s a cross between a macaw an’ a rainbow-ended mandrill. Very tasty.”
“Just as they were gettin’ used to that, and they’d taught the Headman
and his Court to sing: ‘Hello! Hello! Who’s your lady friend?’ they were
embarked on a dirty common sailin’ craft an’ taken over the ocean and
returned to the _Cormorang_, which, o’ course, had reported ’em missing
and dead months before. They had one final kick-up before returnin’ to
duty. You see, they’d both grown torpedo-beards in the Pelungas, and
they were both in Pelungaloo uniform. Consequently, when they went
aboard the _Cormorang_ they weren’t recognized till they were half-way
down to their cabins.”
“And then?” both Captains asked at once.
“That’s where Baxter breaks off—even though he’s writin’ to his own
people. He’s so apologetic to ’em for havin’ gone missin’ and worried
’em, an’ he’s so sinful proud of havin’ taught the Headman music-hall
songs, that he only said that they had ‘some reception aboard the
_Cormorang_.’ It lasted till midnight.”
“It is possible. What about their machine?” said Jerry.
“The _Cormorang_ ran down to the Pelungas and retrieved it all right.
But _I_ should have liked to have seen that reception. There is nothing
I’d ha’ liked better than to have seen that reception. And it isn’t as
if I hadn’t seen a reception or two either.”
“The leaf-signal is made, sir,” said the Quartermaster at the door.
“Twelve-twenty-four train,” Duckett muttered. “Can do.” He rose, adding,
“I’m going to scratch the backs of swine for the next three days.
G’wout!”
The well-trained servant was already fleeting along the edge of the
basin with his valise. _Stephanotis_ and _Phlox_ returned to their own
ships, loudly expressing envy and hatred. Duckett paused for a moment at
his gang-way rail to beckon to his torpedo-coxswain, a Mr. Wilkins, a
peacetime sailor of mild and mildewed aspect who had followed Duckett’s
shady fortunes for some years.
“Wilkins,” he whispered, “where _did_ we get that new starboard fender
of ours from?”
“Orf the dredger, sir. She was asleep when we came in,” said Wilkins
through lips that scarcely seemed to move. “But our port one come orf
the water-boat. We ’ad to over’aul our moorin’s in the skiff last night,
sir, and we—er—found it on ’er.”
“Well, well, Wilkins. Keep the home fires burning,” and
Lieutenant-in-Command H. R. Duckett sped after his servant in the
direction of the railway station. But not so fast that he could outrun a
melody played aboard the _Phlox_ on a concertina to which manly voices
bore the burden:
When the enterprisin’ burglar ain’t aburglin’—ain’t aburglin’,
When the cut-throat is not occupied with crime—’pied with crime.
He loves to hear the little brook agurglin’——
Moved, Heaven knows, whether by conscience or kindliness, Lieutenant
Duckett smiled at the policeman on the Dockyard gates.
“STALKY”
_This happens to be the first story that was written concerning the
adventures and performances of three schoolboys—“Stalky,” McTurk and
“Beetle.” For some reason or other, it was never put into the book,
called “Stalky & Co.,” that was made out of the stories. A certain
amount of it, I am sorry to say, is founded on fact, though that is no
recommendation; and the only moral that I can see in it is, that when
for any reason you happen to get into a tight place, you have a better
chance of coming out of it comfortably if you keep your head than if you
get excited and don’t stop to think._
“And then,” it was a boy’s voice, curiously level and even, “De Vitré
said we were beastly funks not to help, and _I_ said there were too many
chaps in it to suit us. Besides, there’s bound to be a mess somewhere or
other, with old De Vitré in charge. Wasn’t I right, Beetle?”
“And, anyhow, it’s a silly biznai, bung through. What’ll they _do_ with
the beastly cows when they’ve got ’em? You can milk a cow—if she’ll
stand still. That’s all right, but drivin’ ’em about——”
“You’re a pig, Beetle.”
“No, I ain’t. What _is_ the sense of drivin’ a lot of cows up from the
Burrows to—to—where is it?”
“They’re tryin’ to drive ’em up to Toowey’s farmyard at the top of the
hill—the empty one, where we smoked last Tuesday. It’s a revenge. Old
Vidley chivied De Vitré twice last week for ridin’ his ponies on the
Burrows; and De Vitré’s goin’ to lift as many of old Vidley’s cattle as
he can and plant ’em up the hill. He’ll muck it, though—with Parsons,
Orrin and Howlett helpin’ him. They’ll only yell, an’ shout, an’ bunk if
they see Vidley.”
“_We_ might have managed it,” said McTurk slowly, turning up his
coat-collar against the rain that swept over the Burrows. His hair was
of the dark mahogany red that goes with a certain temperament.
“We should,” Corkran replied with equal confidence. “But they’ve gone
into it as if it was a sort of spadger-hunt. I’ve never done any
cattle-liftin’, but it seems to me-e-e that one might just as well be
stalky about a thing as not.”
The smoking vapours of the Atlantic drove in wreaths above the boys’
heads. Out of the mist to windward, beyond the grey bar of the
Pebble-Ridge, came the unceasing roar of mile-long Atlantic rollers. To
leeward, a few stray ponies and cattle, the property of the Northam
potwallopers, and the unwilling playthings of the boys in their leisure
hours, showed through the haze. The three boys had halted by the
Cattle-gate which marks the limit of cultivation, where the fields come
down to the Burrows from Northam Hill. Beetle, shock-headed and
spectacled, drew his nose to and fro along the wet top-bar; McTurk
shifted from one foot to the other, watching the water drain into either
print; while Corkran whistled through his teeth as he leaned against a
sod-bank, peering into the mist.
A grown or sane person might have called the weather vile; but the boys
at that School had not yet learned the national interest in climate. It
was a little damp, to be sure; but it was always damp in the Easter
term, and sea-wet, they held, could not give one a cold under any
circumstances. Mackintoshes were things to go to church in, but
crippling if one had to run at short notice across heavy country. So
they waited serenely in the downpour, clad as their mothers would not
have cared to see.
“I say, Corky,” said Beetle, wiping his spectacles for the twentieth
time, “if we aren’t going to help De Vitré, what are we here for?”
“We’re goin’ to watch,” was the answer. “Keep your eye on your Uncle and
he’ll pull you through.”
“It’s an awful biznai, driving cattle—in open country,” said McTurk,
who, as the son of an Irish baronet, knew something of these operations.
“They’ll have to run half over the Burrows after ’em. ’S’pose they’re
ridin’ Vidley’s ponies?”
“De Vitré’s sure to be. He’s a dab on a horse. Listen! What a filthy row
they’re making. They’ll be heard for miles.”
The air filled with whoops and shouts, cries, words of command, the
rattle of broken golf-clubs, and a clatter of hooves. Three cows with
their calves came up to the Cattle-gate at a milch-canter, followed by
four wild-eyed bullocks and two rough-coated ponies. A fat and freckled
youth of fifteen trotted behind them, riding bareback and brandishing a
hedge-stake. De Vitré, up to a certain point, was an inventive youth,
with a passion for horse-exercise that the Northam farmers did not
encourage. Farmer Vidley, who could not understand that a grazing pony
likes being galloped about, had once called him a thief, and the insult
rankled. Hence the raid.
“Come on,” he cried over his shoulder. “Open the gate, Corkran, or
they’ll all cut back again. We’ve had no end of bother to get ’em. Oh,
won’t old Vidley be wild!”
Three boys on foot ran up, “shooing” the cattle in excited and amateur
fashion, till they headed them into the narrow, high-banked Devonshire
lane that ran uphill.
“Come on, Corkran. It’s no end of a lark,” pleaded De Vitré; but Corkran
shook his head. The affair had been presented to him after dinner that
day as a completed scheme, in which he might, by favour, play a minor
part. And Arthur Lionel Corkran, No. 104, did not care for
lieutenancies.
“You’ll only be collared,” he cried, as he shut the gate. “Parsons and
Orrin are no good in a row. You’ll be collared sure as a gun, De Vitré.”
“Oh, you’re a beastly funk!” The speaker was already hidden by the fog.
“Hang it all,” said McTurk. “It’s about the first time we’ve ever tried
a cattle-lift at the Coll. Let’s——”
“Not much,” said Corkran firmly; “keep your eye on your Uncle.” His word
was law in these matters, for experience had taught them that if they
manœuvred without Corkran they fell into trouble.
“You’re wrathy because you didn’t think of it first,” said Beetle.
Corkran kicked him thrice calmly, neither he nor Beetle changing a
muscle the while.
“No, I ain’t; but it isn’t stalky enough for me.”
“Stalky,” in their school vocabulary, meant clever, well-considered and
wily, as applied to plans of action; and “stalkiness” was the one virtue
Corkran toiled after.
“’Same thing,” said McTurk. “You think you’re the only stalky chap in
the Coll.”
Corkran kicked him as he had kicked Beetle; and even as Beetle, McTurk
took not the faintest notice. By the etiquette of their friendship, this
was no more than a formal notice of dissent from a proposition.
“They haven’t thrown out any pickets,” Corkran went on (That school
prepared boys for the Army). “You ought to do that—even for apples.
Toowey’s farmyard may be full of farm-chaps.”
“’Twasn’t last week,” said Beetle, “when we smoked in that cartshed
place. It’s a mile from any house, too.”
Up went one of Corkran’s light eyebrows. “Oh, Beetle, I _am_ so tired o’
kickin’ you! Does that mean it’s empty _now_? They ought to have sent a
fellow ahead to look. They’re simply bound to be collared. An’ where’ll
they bunk to if they have to run for it? Parsons has only been here two
terms. _He_ don’t know the lie of the country. Orrin’s a fat ass, an’
Howlett bunks from a guv’nor” [vernacular for any native of Devon
engaged in agricultural pursuits] “as far as he can see any. De Vitré’s
the only decent chap in the lot, an’—an’ _I_ put him up to usin’
Toowey’s farmyard.”
“Well, keep your hair on,” said Beetle. “What are we going to do? It’s
hefty damp here.”
“Let’s think a bit.” Corkran whistled between his teeth and presently
broke into a swift, short double-shuffle. “We’ll go straight up the hill
and see what happens to ’em. Cut across the fields; an’ we’ll lie up in
the hedge where the lane comes in by the barn—where we found that dead
hedgehog last term. Come on!”
He scrambled over the earth bank and dropped onto the rain-soaked
plough. It was a steep slope to the brow of the hill where Toowey’s
barns stood. The boys took no account of stiles or foot-paths, crossing
field after field diagonally, and where they found a hedge, bursting
through it like beagles. The lane lay on their right flank, and they
heard much lowing and shouting in that direction.
“Well, if De Vitré isn’t collared,” said McTurk, kicking off a few
pounds of loam against a gate-post, “he jolly well ought to be.”
“We’ll get collared, too, if you go on with your nose up like that.
Duck, you ass, and stalk along under the hedge. We can get quite close
up to the barn,” said Corkran. “There’s no sense in not doin’ a thing
stalkily while you’re about it.”
They wriggled into the top of an old hollow double hedge less than
thirty yards from the big black timbered barn with its square
outbuildings. Their ten-minutes’ climb had lifted them a couple of
hundred feet above the Burrows. As the mists parted here and there, they
could see its great triangle of sodden green, tipped with yellow
sand-dunes and fringed with white foam, laid out like a blurred map
below. The surge along the Pebble Ridge made a background to the wild
noises in the lane.
“What did I tell you?” said Corkran, peering through the stems of the
quickset which commanded a view of the farmyard. “Three
farm-chaps—getting out dung—with pitchforks. It’s too late to head off
De Vitré. We’d be collared if we showed up. Besides, they’ve heard ’em.
They couldn’t help hearing. What asses!”
The natives, brandishing their weapons, talked together, using many
times the word “Colleger.” As the tumult swelled, they disappeared into
various pens and byres. The first of the cattle trotted up to the
yard-gate, and De Vitré felicitated his band.
“That’s all right,” he shouted. “Oh, won’t old Vidley be wild! Open the
gate, Orrin, an’ whack ’em through. They’re pretty warm.”
“So’ll you be in a minute,” muttered McTurk as the raiders hurried into
the yard behind the cattle. They heard a shout of triumph, shrill yells
of despair; saw one Devonian guarding the gate with a pitchfork, while
the others, alas! captured all four boys.
“Of all the infernal, idiotic, lower-second asses!” said Corkran. “They
haven’t even taken off their house-caps.” These dainty confections of
primary colours were not issued, as some believe, to encourage
House-pride or esprit-de-corps, but for purposes of identification from
afar, should the wearer break bounds or laws. That is why, in time of
war, any one but an idiot wore his inside out.
“Aie! Yeou young rascals. We’ve got ’e! Whutt be doin’ to Muster
Vidley’s bullocks?”
“Oh, we found ’em,” said De Vitré, who bore himself gallantly in defeat.
“Would you like ’em?”
“Found ’em! They bullocks drove like that—all heavin’ an’ penkin’ an’
hotted! Oh! Shameful. Yeou’ve nigh to killed the cows—lat alone stealin’
’em. They sends pore boys to jail for half o’ this.”
“That’s a lie,” said Beetle to McTurk, turning on the wet grass.
“I know; but they always say it. ’Member when they collared us at the
Monkey Farm that Sunday, with the apples in your topper?”
“My Aunt! They’re goin’ to lock ’em up an’ send for Vidley,” Corkran
whispered, as one of the captors hurried downhill in the direction of
Appledore, and the prisoners were led into the barn.
“But they haven’t taken their names and numbers, anyhow,” said Corkran,
who had fallen into the hands of the enemy more than once.
“But they’re bottled! Rather sickly for De Vitré,” said Beetle. “It’s
one lickin’ anyhow, even if Vidley don’t hammer him. The Head’s rather
hot about gate-liftin’, and poachin’, an’ all that sort of thing. He
won’t care for cattle-liftin’ much.”
“It’s awfully bad for cows, too, to run ’em about in milk,” said McTurk,
lifting one knee from a sodden primrose-tuft. “What’s the next move,
Corky?”
“We’ll get into the old cartshed where we smoked. It’s next to the barn.
We can cut across over while they’re inside and climb in through the
window.”
“S’pose we’re collared?” said Beetle, cramming his house-cap into his
pocket. Caps may tumble off, so one goes into action bare-headed.
“That’s just it. They’d never dream of any more chaps walkin’ bung into
the trap. Besides, we can get out through the roof if they spot us. Keep
your eye on your Uncle. Come on,” said Corkran.
A swift dash carried them to a huge clump of nettles, beneath the
unglazed back window of the cartshed. Its open front, of course, gave on
to the barnyard.
They scrambled through, dropped among the carts, and climbed up into the
rudely boarded upper floor that they had discovered a week before when
in search of retirement. It covered a half of the building and ended in
darkness at the barn wall. The roof-tiles were broken and displaced.
Through the chinks they commanded a clear view of the barnyard, half
filled with disconsolate cattle, steaming sadly in the rain.
“You see,” said Corkran, always careful to secure his line of retreat,
“if they bottle us up here, we can squeeze out between these rafters,
slide down the roof, an’ bunk. They couldn’t even get out through the
window. They’d have to run right round the barn. Now are you satisfied,
you burbler?”
“Huh! You only said that to make quite sure yourself,” Beetle retorted.
“If the boards weren’t all loose, I’d kick you,” growled Corkran. “’No
sense gettin’ into a place you can’t get out of. Shut up and listen.”
A murmur of voices reached them from the end of the attic. McTurk
tiptoed thither with caution.
“Hi! It leads through into the barn. You can get through. Come along!”
He fingered the boarded wall.
“What’s the other side?” said Corkran the cautious.
“Hay, you idiot.” They heard his boot-heels click on wood, and he had
gone.
At some time or other sheep must have been folded in the cartshed, and
an inventive farm-hand, sooner than take the hay round, had displaced a
board in the barn-side to thrust fodder through. It was in no sense a
lawful path, but twelve inches in the square is all that any boy needs.
“Look here!” said Beetle, as they waited for McTurk’s return. “The
cattle are coming in out of the wet.”
A brown, hairy back showed some three feet below the half-floor, as one
by one the cattle shouldered in for shelter among the carts below,
filling the shed with their sweet breath.
“That blocks our way out, unless we get out by the roof, an’ that’s
rather too much of a drop, unless we have to,” said Corkran. “They’re
all bung in front of the window, too. What a day we’re havin’!”
“Corkran! Beetle!” McTurk’s whisper shook with delight. “You can see
’em; I’ve seen ’em. They’re in a blue funk in the barn, an’ the two
clods are makin’ fun of ’em—horrid. Orrin’s tryin’ to bribe ’em an’
Parsons is nearly blubbin’. Come an’ look! I’m in the hayloft. Get
through the hole. Don’t make a row, Beetle.”
Lithely they wriggled between the displaced boards into the hay and
crawled to the edge of the loft. Three years’ skirmishing against a hard
and unsympathetic peasantry had taught them the elements of strategy.
For tactics they looked to Corkran; but even Beetle, notoriously
absent-minded, held a lock of hay before his head as he crawled. There
was no haste, no betraying giggle, no squeak of excitement. They had
learned, by stripes, the unwisdom of these things. But the conference by
a root-cutter on the barn floor was deep in its own affairs; De Vitré’s
party promising, entreating, and cajoling, while the natives laughed
like Inquisitors.
“Wait till Muster Vidley an’ Muster Toowey—yis, an’ the policemen come,”
was their only answer. “’Tis about time to go to milkin’. What’ull us
do?”
“Yeou go milk, Tom, an’ I’ll stay long o’ the young gentlemen,” said the
bigger of the two, who answered to the name of Abraham. “Muster Toowey,
he’m laike to charge yeou for usin’ his yard so free. Iss fai! Yeou’ll
be wopped proper. ’Rackon yeou’ll be askin’ for junkets to set in this
week o’ Sundays to come. But Muster Vidley, he’ll give ’ee the best
leatherin’ of all. He’m passionful, I tal ’ee.”
Tom stumped out to milk. The barn doors closed behind him, and in the
fading light a great gloom fell on all but Abraham, who discoursed
eloquently on Mr. Vidley, his temper and strong arm.
Corkran turned in the hay and retreated to the attic, followed by his
army.
“No good,” was his verdict. “I’m afraid it’s all up with ’em. We’d
better get out.”
“Yes, but look at these beastly cows,” said McTurk, spitting on to a
heifer’s back. “It’ll take us a week to shove ’em away from the window,
and that brute Tom’ll hear us. He’s just across the yard, milkin’.”
“Tweak ’em, then,” said Corkran. “Hang it, I’m sorry to have to go,
though. If we could get that other beast out of the barn for a minute we
might make a rescue. Well, it’s no good. Tweakons!”
He drew forth a slim, well-worn homemade catapult—the “tweaker” of those
days—slipped a buckshot into its supple chamois leather pouch, and
pulled to the full stretch of the elastic. The others followed his
example. They only wished to get the cattle out of their way, but seeing
the backs so near, they deemed it their duty each to choose his bird and
to let fly with all their strength.
They were not prepared in the least for what followed. Three bullocks,
trying to wheel amid six close-pressed companions, not to mention three
calves, several carts, and all the lumber of a general-utility shed, do
not turn end-for-end without confusion. It was lucky for the boys that
they stood a little back on the floor, because one horned head, tossed
in pain, flung up a loose board at the edge, and it came down lancewise
on an amazed back. Another victim floundered bodily across the shafts of
a decrepit gig, smashing these and oversetting the wheels. That was more
than enough for the nerves of the assembly. With wild bellowings and a
good deal of left-and-right butting, they dashed into the barnyard,
tails on end, and began a fine free fight on the midden. The last cow
out hooked down an old set of harness; it flapped over one eye and
trailed behind her. When a companion trod on it, which happened every
few seconds, she naturally fell on her knees; and, being a Burrows cow,
with the interests of her calf at heart, attacked the first passer-by.
Half-awed, but wholly delighted, the boys watched the outburst. It was
in full flower before they even dreamed of a second shot. Tom came out
from a byre with a pitchfork, to be chased in again by the harnessed
cow. A bullock floundered on the muck-heap, fell, rose and bedded
himself to the belly, helpless and bellowing. The others took great
interest in him.
Corkran, through the roof, scientifically “tweaked” a frisky heifer on
the nose, and it is no exaggeration to say that she danced on her hind
legs for half a minute.
“Abram! Oh, Abram! They’m bewitched. They’m ragin’. ’Tes the milk fever.
They’ve been drove mad. Oh, Abram! They’ll horn the bullock! They’ll
horn _me_! Abram!”
“Bide till I lock the door,” quoth Abraham, faithful to his trust. They
heard him padlock the barn door; saw him come out with yet another
pitchfork. A bullock lowered his head, Abraham ran to the nearest
pig-pen, where loud squeakings told that he had disturbed the peace of a
large family.
“Beetle,” snapped Corkran. “Go in an’ get those asses out. Quick! We’ll
keep the cows happy.”
A people sitting in darkness and the shadow of monumental lickings, too
depressed to be angry with De Vitré, heard a voice from on high saying,
“Come up here! Come on! Come up! There’s a way out.”
They shinned up the loft-stanchions without a word; found a boot-heel
which they were bidden to take for guide, and squeezed desperately
through a hole in darkness, to be hauled out by Corkran.
“Have you got your caps? Did you give ’em your names and numbers?”
“Yes. No.”
“That’s all right. Drop down here. Don’t stop to jaw. Over the
cart—through that window, and bunk! Get _out_!”
De Vitré needed no more. They heard him squeak as he dropped among the
nettles, and through the roof-chinks they watched four slight figures
disappear into the rain. Tom and Abraham, from byre and pig-pen,
exhorted the cattle to keep quiet.
“By gum!” said Beetle; “that _was_ stalky. How did you think of it?”
“It was the only thing to do. Anybody could have seen that.”
“Hadn’t we better bunk, too, now?” said McTurk uneasily.
“Why? _We_’re all right. _We_ haven’t done anything. I want to hear what
old Vidley will say. Stop tweakin’, Turkey. Let ’em cool off. Golly! how
that heifer danced! I swear I didn’t know cows could be so lively. We’re
only just in time.”
“My Hat! Here’s Vidley—and Toowey,” said Beetle, as the two farmers
strode into the yard.
“Gloats! oh, gloats! Fids! oh, fids! Hefty fids and gloats to us!” said
Corkran.
These words, in their vocabulary, expressed the supreme of delight.
“Gloats” implied more or less of personal triumph, “fids” was felicity
in the abstract, and the boys were tasting both that day. Last joy of
all, they had had the pleasure of Mr. Vidley’s acquaintance, albeit he
did not love them. Toowey was more of a stranger, his orchards lying
over-near to the public road.
Tom and Abraham together told a tale of stolen cattle maddened by
overdriving; of cows sure to die in calving, and of milk that would
never return; that made Mr. Vidley swear for three consecutive minutes
in the speech of north Devon.
“’Tes tu bad. ’Tes tu bad,” said Toowey, consolingly; “let’s ’ope they
’aven’t took no great ’arm. They be wonderful wild, though.”
“’Tes all well for yeou, Toowey, that sells them dom Collegers seventy
quart a week.”
“Eighty,” Toowey replied, with the meek triumph of one who has
under-bidden his neighbour on public tender; “but that’s no odds to me.
Yeou’m free to leather ’em saame as if they was yeour own sons. On my
barn floor shall ’ee leather ’em.”
“Generous old pig!” said Beetle. “De Vitré ought to have stayed for
this.”
“They’m all safe an’ to rights,” said the officious Abraham, producing
the key. “Rackon us’ll come in an’ hold ’em for yeou. Hey! The cows are
fair ragin’ still. Us’ll have to run for it.”
The barn being next to the shed, the boys could not see that stately
entry. But they heard.
“Gone an’ hided in the hay. Aie! They’m proper afraid,” cried Abraham.
“Rout un out! Rout un out!” roared Vidley, rattling a stick impatiently
on the root-cutter.
“Oh, my Aunt!” said Corkran, standing on one foot.
“Shut the door. Shut the door, I tal ’ee. Rackon us can find un in the
dark. Us don’t want un boltin’ like rabbits under our elbows.” The big
barn door closed with a clang.
“My Gum!” said Corkran, which was always his War oath in time of action.
He dropped down and was gone for perhaps twenty seconds.
“And _that’s_ all right,” he said, returning at a gentle saunter.
“Hwatt?” McTurk almost shrieked, for Corkran, in the shed below, waved a
large key.
“Stalks! Frabjous Stalks! Bottled ’em! all four!” was the reply, and
Beetle fell on his bosom. “Yiss. They’m so’s to say, like, locked up. If
you’re goin’ to laugh, Beetle, I shall have to kick you again.”
“But I must!” Beetle was blackening with suppressed mirth.
“You won’t do it here, then.” He thrust the already limp Beetle through
the cartshed window. It sobered him; one cannot laugh on a bed of
nettles. Then Corkran stepped on his prostrate carcass, and McTurk
followed, just as Beetle would have risen; so he was upset, and the
nettles painted on his cheek a likeness of hideous eruptions.
“’Thought that ’ud cure you,” said Corkran, with a sniff.
Beetle rubbed his face desperately with dock-leaves, and said nothing.
All desire to laugh had gone from him. They entered the lane.
Then a clamour broke from the barn—a compound noise of horse-like kicks,
shaking of door-panels, and fivefold yells.
“They’ve found it out,” said Corkran. “How strange!” He sniffed again.
“Let ’em,” said Beetle. “No one can hear ’em. Come on up to Coll.”
“What a brute you are, Beetle! You only think of your beastly self.
Those cows want milkin’. Poor dears! Hear ’em low,” said McTurk.
“Go back and milk ’em yourself, then.” Beetle danced with pain. “We
shall miss call-over, hangin’ about like this; an’ I’ve got two black
marks this week already.”
“Then you’ll have fatigue-drill on Monday,” said Corkran. “Come to think
of it, I’ve got two black marks _aussi_. Hm! This is serious. This is
hefty serious.”
“I told you,” said Beetle, with vindictive triumph. “An’ we want to go
out after that hawk’s nest on Monday. We shall be swottin’ dum-bells,
though. _All_ your fault. If we’d bunked with De Vitré at first——”
Corkran paused between the hedgerows. “Hold on a shake an’ don’t burble.
Keep your eye on Uncle. Do you know, _I_ believe someone’s shut up in
that barn. I think we ought to go and see.”
“Don’t be a giddy idiot. Come on up to Coll.” But Corkran took no notice
of Beetle.
He retraced his steps to the head of the lane, and, lifting up his
voice, cried as in bewilderment, “Hullo? Who’s there? What’s that row
about? Who are you?”
“Oh, Peter!” said Beetle, skipping, and forgetting his anguish in this
new development.
“Hoi! Hoi! ’Ere! Let us out!” The answers came muffled and hollow from
the black bulk of the barn, with renewed thunders on the door.
“Now play up,” said Corkran. “Turkey, you keep the cows busy. ’Member
that we’ve just discovered ’em. _We_ don’t know anything. Be polite,
Beetle.”
They picked their way over the muck and held speech through a crack by
the door-hinge. Three more genuinely surprised boys the steady rain
never fell upon. And they were so difficult to enlighten. They had to be
told again and again by the captives within.
“We’ve been ’ere for hours an’ hours.” That was Toowey. “An’ the cows to
milk, an’ all.” That was Vidley. “The door she blewed against us an’
jammed herself.” That was Abraham.
“Yes, we can see that. It’s jammed on this side,” said Corkran. “How
careless you chaps are!”
“Oppen un. Oppen un. Bash her oppen with a rock, young gen’elmen! The
cows are milk-heated an’ ragin’. Haven’t you boys no sense?”
Seeing that McTurk from time to time tweaked the cattle into renewed
caperings, it was quite possible that the boys had some knowledge of a
sort. But Mr. Vidley was rude. They told him so through the door,
professing only now to recognize his voice.
“Humour un if ’e can. I paid seven-an’-six for the padlock,” said
Toowey. “Niver mind _him_. ’Tes only old Vidley.”
“Be yeou gwaine to stay a prisoneer an’ captive for the sake of a lock,
Toowey? I’m shaamed of ’ee. Rowt un oppen, young gen’elmen! ’Twas a
God’s own mercy yeou heard us. Toowey, yeou’m a borned miser.”
“It’ll be a long job,” said Corkran. “Look here. It’s near our
call-over. If we stay to help you we’ll miss it. We’ve come miles out of
our way already—after you.”
“Tell yeour master, then, what keeped ’ee—an arrand o’ mercy, laike.
I’ll tal un tu when I bring the milk to-morrow,” said Toowey.
“That’s no good,” said Corkran; “we may be licked twice over by then.
You’ll have to give us a letter.” McTurk, backed against the barn wall,
was firing steadily and accurately into the brown of the herd.
“Yiss, yiss. Come down to my house. My missus shall write ’ee a beauty,
young gen’elmen. She makes out the bills. I’ll give ’ee just such a
letter o’ racommendation as I’d give to my own son, if only yeou can
humour the lock!”
“Niver mind the lock,” Vidley wailed. “Let me get to me pore cows, ’fore
they’m dead.”
They went to work with ostentatious rattlings and wrenchings, and a good
deal of the by-play that Corkran always loved. At last—the noise of
unlocking was covered by some fancy hammering with a young boulder—the
door swung open and the captives marched out.
“Hurry up, Mister Toowey,” said Corkran; “we ought to be getting back.
Will you give us that note, please?”
“Some of yeou young gentlemen was drivin’ my cattle off the Burrowses,”
said Vidley. “I give ’ee fair warnin’, I’ll tell yeour masters. I know
_yeou_!” He glared at Corkran with malignant recognition.
McTurk looked him over from head to foot. “Oh, it’s only old Vidley.
Drunk again, I suppose. Well, we can’t help that. Come on, _Mister_
Toowey. We’ll go to your house.”
“Drunk, am I? I’ll drunk ’ee! How do I know yeou bain’t the same lot?
Abram, did ’ee take their names an’ numbers?”
“What _is_ he ravin’ about?” said Beetle. “Can’t you see that if we’d
taken your beastly cattle we shouldn’t be hanging round your beastly
barn. ’Pon my Sam, you Burrows guv’nors haven’t any sense——”
“Let alone gratitude,” said Corkran. “I suppose he _was_ drunk, Mister
Toowey; an’ you locked him in the barn to get sober. Shockin’! Oh,
shockin’!”
Vidley denied the charge in language that the boys’ mothers would have
wept to hear.
“Well, go and look after your cows, then,” said McTurk. “Don’t stand
there cursin’ us because we’ve been kind enough to help you out of a
scrape. Why on earth weren’t your cows milked before? _You_’re no
farmer. It’s long past milkin’. No wonder they’re half crazy.
Disreputable old bog-trotter, you are. Brush your hair, sir.... I _beg_
your pardon, Mister Toowey. ’Hope we’re not keeping you.”
They left Vidley dancing on the muck-heap, amid the cows, and devoted
themselves to propitiating Mr. Toowey on their way to his house.
Exercise had made them hungry; hunger is the mother of good manners; and
they won golden opinions from Mrs. Toowey.
* * * * *
“Three-quarters of an hour late for Call-over, and fifteen minutes late
for Lock-up,” said Foxy, the school Sergeant, crisply. He was waiting
for them at the head of the corridor. “Report to your housemaster,
please—an’ a nice mess you’re in, young gentlemen.”
“Quite right, Foxy. Strict attention to dooty does it,” said Corkran.
“Now where, if we asked you, would you say that his honour Mister Prout
might, at this moment of time, be found prouting—eh?”
“In ’is study—as usual, Mister Corkran. He took Call-over.”
“Hurrah! Luck’s with us all the way. Don’t blub, Foxy. I’m afraid you
don’t catch us this time.”
* * * * *
“We went up to change, sir, before comin’ to you. That made us a little
late, sir. We weren’t really very late. We were detained—by a——”
“An errand of mercy,” said Beetle, and they laid Mrs. Toowey’s
laboriously written note before him. “We thought you’d prefer a letter,
sir. Toowey got himself locked into a barn, and we heard him
shouting—it’s Toowey who brings the Coll. milk, sir—and we went to let
him out.”
“There were ever so many cows waiting to be milked,” said McTurk; “and
of course, he couldn’t get at them, sir. They said the door had jammed.
There’s his note, sir.”
Mr. Prout read it over thrice. It was perfectly unimpeachable; but it
said nothing of a large tea supplied by Mrs. Toowey.
“Well, I don’t like your getting mixed up with farmers and potwallopers.
Of course you will not pay any more—er—visits to the Tooweys,” said he.
“Of course not, sir. It was really on account of the cows, sir,” replied
McTurk, glowing with philanthropy.
“And you came straight back?”
“We ran nearly all the way from the Cattle-gate,” said Corkran,
carefully developing the unessential. “That’s one mile, sir. Of course,
we had to get the note from Toowey first.”
“But it was because we went to change—we were rather wet, sir—that we
were _really_ late. After we’d reported ourselves to the Sergeant, sir,
and he knew we were in Coll., we didn’t like to come to your study all
dirty.” Sweeter than honey was the voice of Beetle.
“Very good. Don’t let it happen again.” Their housemaster learned to
know them better in later years.
They entered—not to say swaggered—into Number Nine form-room, where De
Vitré, Orrin, Parsons, and Howlett, before the fire, were still telling
their adventures to admiring associates. The four rose as one boy.
“What happened to _you_? We just saved Call-over. Did you stay on? Tell
us! Tell us!”
The three smiled pensively. They were not distinguished for telling more
than was necessary.
“Oh, we stayed on a bit and then we came away,” said McTurk. “That’s
all.”
“You scab! You might tell a chap anyhow.”
“’Think so? Well, that’s awfully good of you, De Vitré. ’Pon my sainted
Sam, that’s awfully good of you,” said Corkran, shouldering into the
centre of the warmth and toasting one slippered foot before the blaze.
“So you really think we might tell you?”
They stared at the coals and shook with deep, delicious chuckles.
“My Hat! We _were_ stalky,” said McTurk. “I swear we were about as
stalky as they make ’em. Weren’t we?”
“It was a frabjous Stalk,” said Beetle. “’Much too good to tell you
brutes, though.”
The form wriggled under the insult, but made no motion to avenge it.
After all, on De Vitré’s showing, the three had saved the raiders from
at least a public licking.
“It wasn’t half bad,” said Corkran. “Stalky _is_ the word.”
“_You_ were the really stalky one,” said McTurk, one contemptuous
shoulder turned to a listening world. “By Gum! you _were_ stalky.”
Corkran accepted the compliment and the name together. “Yes,” said he;
“keep your eye on your Uncle Stalky an’ he’ll pull you through.”
“Well, you needn’t gloat so,” said De Vitré, viciously; “you look like a
stuffed cat.”
Corkran, henceforth known as Stalky, took not the slightest notice, but
smiled dreamily.
“My Hat! Yes. Of course,” he murmured. “Your Uncle Stalky—a doocid good
name. Your Uncle Stalky is no end of a stalker. He’s a Great Man. I
swear he is. De Vitré, you’re an ass—a putrid ass.”
De Vitré would have denied this but for the assenting murmurs from
Parsons and Orrin.
“You needn’t rub it in, then.”
“But I do. I does. You are such a woppin’ ass. D’you know it? Think over
it a bit at prep. Think it up in bed. Oblige me by thinkin’ of it every
half hour till further notice. Gummy! _What_ an ass you are! But your
Uncle Stalky”—he picked up the form-room poker and beat it against the
mantelpiece—“is a Great Man!”
“Hear, hear,” said Beetle and McTurk, who had fought under that general.
“Isn’t your Uncle Stalky a great man, De Vitré? Speak the truth, you
fat-headed old impostor.”
“Yes,” said De Vitré, deserted by all his band. “I—I suppose he is.”
“’Mustn’t suppose. _Is_ he?”
“Well, he is.”
“A Great Man?”
“A Great Man. _Now_ won’t you tell us?” said De Vitré pleadingly.
“Not by a heap,” said “Stalky” Corkran.
Therefore the tale has stayed untold till to-day.