Little Mr. Bowles was very happy as long as he was only second mechanic at
the garage of Messrs. Smith Brothers, of High Street, Puddlesby. It was
when he became a member of the Puddlesby Psychical Society that his
troubles began. Up till then he had been as sober and hard-working a little
man as ever stood four foot ten in his shoes and weighed in at seven stone
four. But above all he was an expert in rubber tyres; he knew them, I had
almost said, by instinct.
The Puddlesby Psychical Society believes in the Transmigration of Souls. As
I am not a member myself I'm afraid that that is all I can tell you about
it. It is a little difficult at first sight, perhaps, to see the connection
between Transmigration and rubber tyres, but if you will have patience I
think I can promise to show you _that_ at least.
One night our Mr. Bowles came home late from a meeting of the P.P.S., fell
asleep at once and had what he regarded as a "transmigratory experience in
a retrogressive sense." The world was not the world he knew. He perceived
that it was sundown on the 8th of August, 1215, that he was no longer plain
Bowles, but rather Sir Bors the Bowless, Knight of the Artful Arm, and
known to his intimates as "The Fire-eater"; that he had just been
challenged to fight his seven hundred and forty-seventh fight, and (for the
seven hundred and forty-seventh time) he had accepted. He soon added to the
stock of his information the fact that, as the challenged party, he had the
choice of time, place and weapons.
He was naturally a little perturbed at first, for the most formidable
warrior that he ever remembered fighting was his little sister, whose hair
he had pulled when they were children, and the biggest thing he had ever
killed was undoubtedly the hen that he had run over on the Boodle Road. He
felt inclined, therefore, in the first flush of terror, to propose as the
time 1925, as the place Puddlesby Football Field, and as the weapon,
motor-tyre valve pins, at two hundred yards. He even got as far as
mentioning these conditions to his friend Sir Hugh the Hairy, who, however,
did not seem particularly struck with the suggestion, but made a counter-
proposal of maces on horseback at the neighbouring lists in three days'
time.
Before our hero knew what he was about he found that he had agreed. He got
through a deal of heavy thinking on his way home to his castle, but had
fortunately completed his plan of campaign before he arrived, for the
esquire of his enemy was awaiting him there, demanding to know the details
of the coming contest. He made the conditions suggested by Sir Hugh, merely
adding that the maces must be smooth and not knobbed, as was customary in
the better-class combats of that day.
He then began to make his preparations. At first he was considerably
depressed by the entire absence of all rubber, until dire necessity
compelled him to find a serviceable substitute in the shape of untanned
ox-skins. These he carefully sewed together with his own knightly hands,
coating the stitches over with pitch and resin. He was a good workman and
did not fail to be ready in time.
When the hour of combat arrived he vanished into the painted pavilion
reserved for him at one end of the lists, accompanied only by his faithful
esquire. Hastily he donned his suiting of reinforced ox-hide, which covered
the whole of his person from head to foot, and hung stiffly in folds all
round him. Then, holding out a metal tube which was attached to the front
of the costume, he presented it to his esquire, saying in the vernacular of
those stout times--
"Ho, varlet! Blow me down yon hole till there be no more breath in thy vile
bodie. Blow me hard and leally. Blow an thou burst in ye blowinge."
Whereupon the trusty varlet blew.
Thus it fell out that when the trumpet sounded and the Black Baron of
Beaumaris, his foe, rode forth from his sable pavilion, armed cap-à-pie in
a suit of highly-polished steel and bestriding a black and rather
over-dressed charger, he saw through the chinks of his lowered visor an
object which he would undoubtedly have mistaken for a diminutive
observation balloon if he had lived a few centuries later. In short, Sir
Bowles, having been sufficiently inflated by his now exhausted esquire, had
inserted his valve-pin into the tube (which he had tucked away and laced up
like an association football), and now emerged upon the lists with a
feeling of elation that he had not experienced for several days.
They approached each other. It was with some difficulty that our hero
wielded his mace, owing, first, to the inflated condition of his right arm,
and, secondly, to the unaccustomed weight of the weapon. His hold also upon
his curvetting steed was a little precarious, and he hoped that no one in
the crowd would notice the string that tied his legs together beneath the
horse's belly.
If the Baron was surprised at what he saw he made no sign, but, riding
straight at his strange antagonist, he dealt him a mighty blow on the left
side of the head, which had quite an unlooked-for result. The string which
attached our hero's legs held, it is true, but he naturally lost his
balance, and, being knocked to the right, disappeared temporarily from the
Baron's view. But the force of his swing was such that, at the moment when
he was head downwards under the horse, he still had enough way on to bring
him up again on the other side. No sooner had he regained a vertical
position than the Baron repeated the blow on the same spot and with the
same result.
Then the same thing happened again and again; and indeed Sir Bowles might
have revolved indefinitely, to the intense delight of the distinguished
audience, had not the string broken at the thirty-fourth revolution.
Now the involuntary movements of our hero had accelerated at every turn,
and when finally he parted company with his trusty steed he was going very
fast indeed. Falling near the edge of the lists, he found touch, first
bounce, in the Royal Box, whence some officious persons rolled him back
again into the field of play.
It must not be supposed that poor Sir Bowles was comfortable during these
proceedings. The rather ingenious apparatus whereby he had hoped to catch a
glimpse of his adversary had got out of order at the first onslaught, and
he was in total darkness. Moreover, he soon discovered that the haughty
Baron was taking all sorts of liberties with him; was slogging him round
the lists; in short, was playing polo with him.
But apart from the physical and mental discomfort of his situation he was
not actually hurt, and at length he felt himself come to rest. The Baron,
worn out by his unproductive labours, was thinking.
So was Bowles. He was just saying to himself, "Thank heaven I thought of
choosing _smooth_ maces. A spike would have punctured the cover in no
time," when he felt something which made his hair stand on end.
His enemy was fumbling at the lacing of his tunic!
Then poor little Sir Bowles gave himself up for lost and almost swooned
away. He felt the Baron undo the lace and pull out the tube. There was a
perplexed pause....
And just as the Baron was pulling out the valve pin little Mr. Bowles woke
with a shriek.
* * * * *
I suppose it was the fact that he had come straight from a symposium on
transmigration that made little Bowles imagine he had been recurring to a
previous existence. I myself should have thought that the rules of the game
required the reincarnation of Sir Bors to be a rather more bloodthirsty and
pugnacious person than our hero; and the sequel seems to prove that little
Bowles thought the same. I think he felt he was not quite the man for this
sort of rough work, even in the retrospect of dreams. Anyway, shortly after
his painful experience he withdrew his subscription from the Puddlesby
Psychical Society and ceased for ever to assist at their séances.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Wicket-keeper_ (_by way of shewing sympathy to victim of
demon bowler_). "RUM GAME, CRICKET."]
* * * * *