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diff --git a/old/60325-0.txt b/old/60325-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 70536d1..0000000 --- a/old/60325-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8248 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Jeremy and Hamlet, by Hugh Walpole - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Jeremy and Hamlet - A Chronicle of Certain Incidents In the Lives Of a Boy, - A Dog, and a Country Town - -Author: Hugh Walpole - -Release Date: September 19, 2019 [EBook #60325] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JEREMY AND HAMLET *** - - - - -Produced by David T. Jones, Al Haines, Alex White & the -online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at -http://www.pgdpcanada.net - - - - - - - - - - - _Books by_ - _HUGH WALPOLE_ - - * * * * * - - _Novels_ - - THE WOODEN HORSE - MR. PERRIN AND MR. TRAILL - THE DARK FOREST - THE SECRET CITY - THE CATHEDRAL - - _The London Novels_ - - FORTITUDE - THE DUCHESS OF WREXE - THE GREEN MIRROR - THE CAPTIVES - THE YOUNG ENCHANTED - - _Fantasies_ - - MARADICK AT FORTY - THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE - PORTRAIT OF MAN WITH RED HAIR (_In Preparation_) - - _Books About Children_ - - THE GOLDEN SCARE CROW - JEREMY - JEREMY AND HAMLET - - _Belles-Lettres_ - - JOSEPH CONRAD: A CRITICAL STUDY - - - - - Jeremy and Hamlet - - A Chronicle of - Certain Incidents - In the Lives - Of a Boy, - A Dog, and a - Country Town - - By - HUGH WALPOLE - - - - - CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED - London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne - - - - - First published 1923 - - - - - _Printed in Great Britain._ - - - - - To - MY FATHER AND MOTHER - - FROM - THEIR DEVOTED FRIEND - THEIR SON - - - - - It is not growing like a tree - In bulk, doth make man better be; - Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, - To fall a log at last, dry, bald and sear; - A lily of a day - Is fairer far in May - Although it fall and die that night—— - It was the plant and flower of light. - In small proportions we just beauties see, - And in short measures life may perfect be. - —BEN JONSON. - - - - - CONTENTS - - 1. COME OUT OF THE KITCHEN - 2. CONSCIENCE MONEY - 3. THE DANCE - 4. SALADIN AND THE BLACK BISHOP - 5. POODLE - 6. THE NIGHT RAIDERS - 7. YOUNG BALTIMORE - 8. THE RUFFIANS - 9. THE PICTURE-BOOK - 10. UNCLE PERCY - 11. THE RUNAWAYS - 12. A FINE DAY - - - - - Jeremy and Hamlet - - - - - CHAPTER I - COME OUT OF THE KITCHEN . . . - - - I - -There was a certain window between the kitchen and the pantry that was -Hamlet’s favourite. Thirty years ago—these chronicles are of the year -1894—the basements of houses in provincial English towns, even of large -houses owned by rich people, were dark, chill, odourful caverns hissing -with ill-burning gas and smelling of ill-cooked cabbage. The basement of -the Coles’ house in Polchester was as bad as any other, but this little -window between the kitchen and the pantry was higher in the wall than -the other basement windows, almost on a level with the iron railings -beyond it, and offering a view down over Orange Street and, obliquely, -sharp to the right and past the Polchester High School, a glimpse of the -Cathedral Towers themselves. - -Inside the window was a shelf, and on this shelf Hamlet would sit for -hours, his peaked beard interrogatively a-tilt, his leg sticking out -from his square body as though it were a joint-leg and worked like the -limb of a wooden toy, his eyes, sad and mysterious, staring into -Life. . . . - -It was not, of course, of Life that he was thinking; only very high-bred -and in-bred dogs are conscious philosophers. - -His ears were stretched for a sound of the movements of Mrs. Hounslow -the cook, his nostrils distended for a whiff of the food that she was -manipulating, but his eyes were fixed upon the passing show, the -pageantry, the rough-and-tumble of the world, and every once and again -the twitch of his Christmas-tree tail would show that something was -occurring in this life beyond the window that could supervene, for a -moment at any rate, over the lust of the stomach and the lure of the -clattering pan. - -He was an older dog than he had been on that snowy occasion of his first -meeting with the Cole family—two years older in fact. Older and fatter. -He had now a round belly. His hair hung as wildly as ever it had done -around his eyes, but beneath the peaked and aristocratic beard there was -a sad suspicion of a double chin. - -_He had sold his soul to the cook._ - -When we sell our souls we are ourselves, of course, in the main -responsible. But others have often had more to do with our catastrophe -than the world in general can know. Had Jeremy, his master, not gone to -school, Hamlet’s soul would yet have been his own; Jeremy gone, Hamlet’s -spiritual life was nobody’s concern. He fell down, deep down, into the -very heart of the basement, and nobody minded. - -He himself did not mind; he was very glad. He loved the basement. - -It had happened that during the last holidays Jeremy had gone into the -country to stay with the parents of a school friend—Hamlet had had -therefore nearly nine months’ freedom from his master’s influence. Mr. -and Mrs. Cole did not care for him very deeply. Helen hated him. Mary -loved him but was so jealous of Jeremy’s affection for him that she was -not sorry to see him banished, and Barbara, only two and a half, had as -yet very tenuous ideas on this subject. - -Mrs. Hounslow, a very fat, sentimental woman, liked to have something or -someone at her side to give her rich but transient emotions—emotions -evoked by a passing band, the reading of an accident in the newspaper, -or some account of an event in the Royal family. The kitchen-maid, a -girl of no home and very tender years, longed for affection from -somebody, but Mrs. Hounslow disliked all kitchen-maids on -principle—therefore Hamlet received what the kitchen-maid needed, and -that is the way of the world. - -Did there run through Hamlet’s brain earlier stories of an emotion purer -than the lust for bones, of a devotion higher and more ardent than the -attachment to a dripping saucepan? - -Did he sometimes, as he sat reflectively beside the kitchen fire, see -pictures of his master’s small nose, of woods when, at his master’s -side, he sniffed for rabbits, of days when he raced along shining sands -after a stone that he had no real intention of finding? Did he still -feel his master’s hand upon his head and that sudden twitch as that hand -caught a tuft of hair and twisted it? . . . - -No one can tell of what he was thinking as he sat on the shelf staring -out of his window at old Miss Mulready, burdened with parcels, climbing -Orange Street, at the lamplighter hurrying with his flame from post to -post, of old Grinder’s war-worn cab stumbling across the cobbles past -the High School, the old horse faltering at every step, at the green -evening sky slipping into dusk, the silver-pointed stars, the crooked -roofs blackening into shadow, the lights of the town below the hill -jumping like gold jack-in-the-boxes into the shadowy air. - -No one could tell of what he was thinking. - - - II - -He was aware that in the upper regions something was preparing. He was -aware of this in general by a certain stir that there was, of agitated -voices and hurrying footsteps and urgent cries; but he was aware more -immediately because of the attentions of Mary, Jeremy’s younger sister. - -He had always hated Mary. Are dogs, in their preferences and avoidances, -guided at all by physical beauty or ugliness? Was Helen of Troy adored -by the dogs of that town and did Sappho command the worship of the -hounds of Greece? We are told nothing of it and, on the other hand, we -know that Lancelot Gobbo had a devoted dog and that Charon, who cannot -have been a handsome fellow, was most faithfully dog-attended. I do not -think that Hamlet minded poor Mary’s plainness, her large spectacles, -her sallow complexion, colourless hair and bony body. His dislike arose -more probably from the certainty that she would always stroke him the -wrong way, would poke her fingers into his defenceless eyes, would try -to drag him on to her sharp, razor-edged knees and would talk to him in -that meaningless sing-song especially invented by the sentimental of -heart and slow of brain for the enchantment of babies and animals. - -She was talking to him in just that fashion now. He had slipped -upstairs, attracted by a smell in the dining-room. Watching for the -moment when he would be undetected, he had crept round the dining-room -door and had stood, his nose in air, surrounded by a sea of worn green -carpet, sniffing. Suddenly he felt a hand on his collar and there -followed that voice that of all others he most detested. “Why, here’s -Hamlet! Helen, here’s Hamlet! . . . We can get him ready now, Helen; -there’s only two hours left anyway, and Jeremy will care much more about -that than anything. I’d like to leave him downstairs, but Jeremy will be -sure to ask where he is. Which colour shall I use for the ribbon, Helen? -I’ve got blue and red and orange.” - -A pause. Then again: - -“Which shall I use? Do say.” - -Then from a great distance: - -“Oh, don’t bother, Mary. Can’t you see I’m busy?” - -A heavy sigh. “Oh, well, you might. Never mind. I think the blue’s -best.” All this time Hamlet was desperately wriggling, but the hand, -with knuckles that pressed into the flesh and hurt, had firm hold. - -“Oh, do keep still, Hamlet. Can’t you see that your master’s coming home -and you’ve got to be made nice? Oh, bother! I’ve gone and cut the piece -too short. . . . Helen, have you got another piece of blue?” - -A pause. Then again: “Oh, Helen, you might say. I’ve cut the piece too -short. Haven’t you got another bit of blue?” - -Then again from a long distance: - -“Don’t _bother_, Mary. Can’t you _see_ that I’m so busy?” - -“Oh, very well, then.” A terribly deep sigh that made Hamlet shiver with -discomfort. “Come here, Hamlet. On to my lap, where I can tie it better. -There, that’s right. Oh, _do_ keep your head still—and how fat you are -now!” - -Insult upon insult heaped. He raised his eyes to heaven, partly in -indignation, partly because the entrancing smell could be caught more -securely now from the elevation of Mary’s lap! But the discomfort of -that lap, the hard boniness, the sudden precipitate valley, the -shortness of its surface so that one was for ever slipping two legs -over, the moist warmth of the surrounding hand, the iron hardness of the -fingers at the neck! He played his best game of wriggle, slipping, -sliding, lying suddenly inert, jerking first with his paws, then with -his hind legs, digging his head beneath his captor’s arm as the flamingo -did in “Alice.” - -Mary, as so often occurred, lost her patience. “Oh, do keep still, -Hamlet! How tiresome you are, when I’ve got such a little time too! -Don’t you like to have a ribbon? And you’ll have to be brushed too. -Helen, where’s the brush that we used to have for Hamlet?” - -No answer. - -“Oh, do keep still, you naughty dog!” She dug her knuckles into his -eyes. “Oh, Helen, do say! Don’t you know where it is?” - -Then from a great distance: “Oh, don’t bother, Mary. No, I don’t know -where it is. How stupid you are! Can’t you see I’m busy?” - -He wriggled, Mary slapped him. He turned and bit her. She dropped him. - -“Oh, Helen, he’s bit me!” - -“It’s bitten, not bit. - -“No, it isn’t; it’s bit. . . . Perhaps he’s mad or something, and I’ll -suddenly bark like a dog. I know they do. I read about it in ‘Hopes and -Fears.’ You’re a horrid dog and I don’t care whether Jeremy sees you or -not. Oh, Helen, you might help. It’s four o’clock and Jeremy will be -nearly here.” - -Hamlet was free, free of Mary, but not of the room. The door behind him -was closed. He sat there thinking, the piece of blue ribbon hanging -loosely round his neck. Something was stirring within him—something -that was not an appetite nor a desire nor a rebellion. A memory. He -shook his head to escape from his ribbon. The memory came closer. From -that too he would like to escape. He gazed at the door. Had he never -smelt that alluring smell? . . . - -He slipped beneath the dining-room table, and, lying flat, resting his -head on his paws, stared resentfully in front of him. The memory came -closer. - - - III - -Two hours later he was sitting in a ridiculous position two steps from -the bottom of the hall stairs—ridiculous because the stair was not -broad enough for his figure, because the blue ribbon was now firmly tied -and ended in a large blue bow, because Mary’s hand was upon him, -restraining him from his quite natural intention of disappearing. - -They were grouped about the stair, Helen and Mary, Barbara and the -nurse, Mr. and Mrs. Cole and Aunt Amy in the hall below. Helen, Mary and -Barbara were wearing cocked hats made of coloured paper and carried -silver tissue wands in their hands. Barbara was eating her tissue paper -with great eagerness and a vivid, absorbed attention. Helen looked -pretty and bored; Mary was in a state of the utmost nervousness, -clutching Hamlet with one hand while in the other she held a toy trumpet -and a crumpled piece of paper. - -Everyone waited, staring at the door. Mr. Cole said: - -“Five minutes late. I must go back to my sermon in a moment.” - -Aunt Amy said: “I hope nothing can have happened.” - -Mrs. Cole said tranquilly: “We should have heard if it had.” - -The front door bell rang; a maid appeared from nowhere and opened the -door. From the dusk there emerged a small, heavily coated figure. Mr. -and Mrs. Cole moved forward. There were embraces. Mr. Cole said: “Well, -my boy.” A husky voice was heard: “Oh, I say, mother, that old squeak of -a cabman——” - -The short, thick-set figure turned towards the staircase. - -Instantly Mary blew on her trumpet. Barbara, suddenly disliking the -tissue paper, began to cry. Hamlet barked. - -Through the din the quavering voice of Mary could be heard reading the -poem of welcome: - - “Thee, returning to your home, - Back from school and football too, - Coming to us all alone, - Mary, Helen and Barbara welcome you. - Hail to thee, then, Jeremy dear, - Over you we shed a tear - Just because you are so dear. - Welcome to your home.” - -There should then have followed a blast on the trumpet and three rousing -cheers. Alas! the welcome was a complete and devastating failure. - -Jeremy could be heard to say: - -“Thanks awfully.... By Jove, I _am_ hungry. How soon’s tea, mother?” - -Barbara’s howls were now so terrible as to demand immediate attention -from everyone. Hamlet had slipped from control and was barking at Aunt -Amy, whom he delighted to annoy. Mrs. Cole said: “Now that’s enough, -children dear. I’m sure Jeremy’s tired now.” No one had heard Mary’s -verses; no one noticed the cocked hats; no one applauded the silver -wands. The work of weeks was disregarded. No one thought of Mary at all. -She crept away to her room at the top of the house, flung herself upon -her bed and howled, biting the counterpane between her teeth. - -But are not these home-comings always most disappointing affairs? For -weeks Jeremy had been looking to this moment. On the frayed wallpaper -just above his bed in the school dormitory he had made thick black marks -with a pencil, every mark standing for a day. Hard and cynical during -his school-day, a barbarian at war with barbarians, at nights, when the -lights were out, when the dormitory story-teller’s (unhappy Phipps -minor) voice had died off into slumber, in those last few minutes before -he too slept, he was sentimental, full of home-sick longings, painting -to himself that very springing from the cab, his mother’s kiss, Hamlet’s -bark, yes, and even the embraces of his sisters. On the morning of -departure, after the excitement of farewells, the strange, almost -romantic thrill of the empty schoolrooms, the race in the wagonette -(_his_ wagonette against the one with Cox major and Bates and Simpson) -to the station, the cheeking of the station-master, the crowding into -the railway carriage and leaning (five on top of you) out of the -carriage window, the screams of “Bags I the corner,” the ensuing fights -with Cox major, after all this gradual approach to known country, the -gathering-in as though with an eager hand of remembered places and -stations and roads, the half-hour stop at Drymouth (leaving now almost -all your companions behind you—only young Marlowe and Sniffs major -remaining), the crossing over into Glebeshire, then the beat of the -heart, the tightening of the throat, as Polchester gradually -approached—all this, yes and more, much more, than this, to end in that -disappointment! Everyone looking the same as before, the hall the same, -the pictures the same, father and mother and Aunt Amy the same, Mary and -Helen the same only stupider! What did they dress up and make fools of -themselves like that for? Mary always did the wrong thing, and now most -certainly she would be crying in her bedroom because he had not said -enough to her. . . . - -In one way there had been too much of a reception, in another not -enough. It was silly of them to make that noise, but on the other hand -there should have been more questions. How had he done in football? He -had played half-back twice for the school. He had told them that in -three different letters, and yet they had asked no questions. And there -was Bates who had stolen jam out of a fellow’s tuck box. One of his -letters had been full of that exciting incident, and yet they had asked -no questions. It was true that they had had but little time for -questions, nevertheless his father, at once after kissing him, had -murmured something about his sermon—as though an old sermon mattered! - -Of course he did not think all this out. He only sat on his bed kicking -his legs, looking at the well-remembered furniture of his room, vaguely -discontented and unhappy. What fun it had been that morning, ragging -Miss Taylor, laughing at the guard of the train, saying good-bye to old -Mumpsey Thompson who recently spoke to him as though he were a man, -asking him whether his parents had decided upon the public school to -which, in two years’ time, he would be going—Eton, Harrow, Winchester, -Craxton, Rugby, Crale and so on. Time to decide, time to decide! - -One’s public! The world widening and widening, growing ever more -terribly exciting—and here Mary, sobbing in her room, and father with -his sermons and the long evenings. At least no work—only a silly -holiday task, a book called “The Talisman,” or some rot. No work. His -spirits revived a little. No work and lots of food, and Hamlet. . . . - -Hamlet! He jumped off his bed. Why, he had never noticed the dog! He had -forgotten. He rushed from the room. - -When he was half-way down the stairs he caught the echo of a voice: -“Tea, Jeremy. All ready in the schoolroom.” But he did not pause. In the -hall he saw the housemaid. “I say, where’s Hamlet?” he cried. - -“In the kitchen, I expect, Master Jeremy,” she answered. - -In the kitchen, she expected! Why should she expect it? Hamlet never -used to be in the kitchen. His heart began to beat angrily. The kitchen? -That was not the place for a dog like Hamlet. He stumbled down the dark -stairs into the basement. Mrs. Hounslow was standing beside the kitchen -table, her sleeves rolled up above her elbows; she was pounding and -pounding. Jeremy cried, at once challenging: - -“I say, where’s my dog?” - -_His_ dog? Mrs. Hounslow, already too scarlet for further colour, -nevertheless crimsoned internally. His dog! She hated little boys. Her -sister, the one that married the postman, had had one. Two indeed. She -loved Hamlet, who had become now, by the rights both of psychology and -environment, hers. - -“’E’s lying there right in front of the fire, Master Jeremy—the poor -little worm,” she added. - -“The poor little worm” was indeed stretched out gnawing at a bone. - -“He oughtn’t to be in front of the fire,” said Jeremy. “It’s bad for -dogs. It gives them rheumatism.” - -She stopped her pounding. They had not met before, but it was one of -those old hostilities born in the air, fostered by the crystal moon, -roughened by the golden sun. - -Jeremy stood, his legs apart, looking down upon his dog. He saw how fat -he was, how deeply engrossed in his bone, how dribbling at the jaws. - -“Hamlet!” he said. He repeated the name three times. At the third call -the dog looked up, then went back to his bone. Mrs. Hounslow sniffed. - -Meanwhile in Hamlet’s soul something was stirring—memories, affections, -sentiments. . . . He licked the bone again. It no longer tasted so sweet -as before. He looked up at Mrs. Hounslow imploringly. - -She declared herself. “He do love the kitchen. If there’s one place -where he loves to be, it’s the kitchen. Only last night I was saying to -my sister, ‘Anne,’ I said, ‘it’s a most curious thing how that dog do -love the kitchen.’ A little kindness goes a long way with animals, poor -things. As I said to my sister——” - -“But he oughtn’t to love the kitchen!” Jeremy burst out indignantly. “He -isn’t a kitchen dog!” - -Mrs. Hounslow had received the Last Insult. Her face darkened _sub -rosa_. She to be reproached, she who had been the only one to show -affection to the poor deserted lamb, she who had protected him and fed -him and given him warm places in which to sleep. A kitchen dog! And her -kitchen the cleanest, shiniest, most bescoured kitchen in Polchester! - -She had, however, her dignity. - -“That’s as may be, Master Jeremy,” she said. “But it’s natural, both in -dogs and humans, that they should go to them as cares for them best and -takes trouble over them.” - -She went on with her pounding, breathing deeply. - -Jeremy looked at her. He had hurt her feelings. He was sorry for that. -After all, she had been kind to the dog—in her own way. She naturally -could not understand the point of view that he must take. - -“Thank you very much,” he said huskily, “for having been so kind to -Hamlet all this time. . . . He’s going to live upstairs now—but it was -very good of you to take so much trouble.” - -Hamlet was deep in his bone once more. When Jeremy put his hand on his -collar he growled. That roused Jeremy’s temper. He dragged the dog -across the floor; Hamlet pushed out his legs, and behind his hair his -eyes glared. The door closed on them both. - - - IV - -Upstairs in his own room he squatted on the floor and drew Hamlet in -between his legs. Hamlet would not look at his master. He sulked as only -dogs and beautiful women can. - -“Hamlet, you _must_ remember. You can’t have forgotten _everything_ so -quickly. You _can’t_ have forgotten the fun we had last year, out at the -farm, and when I rescued you after Mary shut you up, and biting Aunt Amy -and everything. - -“I know I’ve been away, and you must have thought I was never coming -back, but I couldn’t help that. I had to go to school, and I couldn’t -take you with me. And now I’m going to be home for weeks and weeks, and -it will be awfully slow if you aren’t with me. Nobody seems really -excited about my coming back, and Uncle Samuel’s away, and everything’s -rotten—so you must stay with me and go out with me for walks and -everything.” - -Hamlet was staring down at the floor through his hair. His master was -scratching his head in exactly the way that he used to do, in the way -that no one else had ever done. Three, four, five scratches in the -middle, then slowly towards the right ear, then slowly towards the left, -then both ears pulled close together, then a piece of hair twisted into -a peak, then all smoothed down again and softly stroked into -tranquillity. Delicious! His soul quivered with sensuous ecstasy. Then -his master’s hands smelt as they had always done, hard and rough, with -the skin suddenly soft between the fingers. Very good to lick! His -tongue was half out. In another moment he would have rolled over on to -his back, his legs stuck stiffly out, his eyes closed, waiting for his -belly to be tickled. In another moment! But there was a knock on the -door, and Mary appeared. - -Mary’s eyes were red behind her spectacles. She had the sad, resigned -indignation of a Cassandra misunderstood. - -“Jeremy, aren’t you coming down to tea? We’re half finished.” - -He rose to his feet. He knew that he must say something. - -“I say, Mary,” he stammered, “it was most awfully decent of you to make -that poetry up. I did like it.” - -“Did you really?” she asked, gulping. - -“Yes, I did.” - -“Would you like a copy of it?” - -“Most awfully.” - -“I did make a copy of it. But I thought nobody cared—or wanted to -hear. . . .” Fearful lest she should begin to cry again, he said -hurriedly: - -“Here’s Hamlet. He’s always been in the kitchen. He’s not going to be -any longer.” - -Hamlet followed him downstairs, but still with reluctant dignity. The -moment of his surrender had been covered, and he did not know that he -would now surrender after all. He would see. Meanwhile he smelt food, -and where food was he must be. - -Tea was in the schoolroom. Miss Jones, the governess, was away on her -holiday, and Jeremy saw at once that the worst thing possible had -occurred: his Aunt Amy, whom he did not love, was in charge of the -tea-table. He had fantastic thoughts when he saw his aunt, thinking of -her never as a human being, but as an animal, a bird, perhaps. A crow. A -vulture. Something hooked and clawed. But to-day she was determined that -she would be friendly. - -“Sit down, Jeremy dear. You’re very late, but on the first day we’ll say -nothing about it.” - -His mother should have been here. Where was his mother? - -“Have you washed your hands? Mother has callers. . . . There is -blackberry jam and also strawberry. Your welcome home, Jeremy.” - -He would have neither. He loved blackberry. Still more he loved -strawberry. But he would have neither. Because Aunt Amy had asked him. -His eye was on Hamlet, who was sulking by the door. - -“I do hope, dear, that you’re not going to have that dog with you -everywhere again. All the time you were away he was in the kitchen. Very -happy there, I believe.” - -Jeremy said nothing. - -Aunt Amy, who was, I think, to be applauded for her efforts with a sulky -boy, bravely persevered. - -“Do tell us, dear, about this last time at school. We are all so eager -to know. Was it cricket or football, dear, and how did your work go?” - -He mumbled something, blushing to the eyes as he caught his sister -Helen’s ironical supercilious glance. - -“I hope your master was pleased with you, dear.” - -He burst out: “I was whacked twice.” - -Aunt Amy sighed. “The less about that, dear, the better. We want to know -what you did well!” - -How strange that in the train he had eagerly desired this moment—and -now he had nothing to say. - -“I don’t know,” he murmured. “There was a chap called Bates got bunked -for stealing.” - -Aunt Amy sighed again. “Yes, Helen dear, you can go if you’ve really -finished. Wipe your mouth, Mary.” - -Hamlet was watching his master. More than ever now were recollections -stealing upon him. His master was unhappy, just as he used to be -unhappy. He was hating that dark, strange-smelling animal (smelling of -soap, the smell that Hamlet most avoided) whom Hamlet also hated. - -Yes, everything was returning. . . . - - - V - -Later on they were down in the drawing-room. Mrs. Cole was reading “The -Dove in the Eagle’s Nest,” the children grouped about her feet. Jeremy, -his rough bullet head against his mother’s dress, was almost asleep. He -had had a long, exhausting day; he was happy at last, seeing the colours -fold and unfold before his eyes. That other world that was sometimes so -strangely close to him mingled with the world of facts—now he was -racing in the wagonette, leaning over and shouting triumphantly against -those left behind; now the path changed to a pool of gold, and out of it -a bronze tower rose solemn to heaven, straight and tall against the blue -sky, and the windows of the tower opened and music sounded, and his -mother’s voice came back to him like the sudden rushing of the train, -and he saw Mary’s spectacles and the flickering fire and Helen’s -gleaming shoes. - -For the moment he had forgotten Hamlet. The dog lay near the door. It -opened, and Aunt Amy came in. - -At once the dog was through the door, down the stairs, and into the -kitchen. This was habit. Something had acted in him before he could stop -to think. It was natural for him to be in the kitchen at this hour, when -it was brilliantly lit, and the cook and the housemaid and the -kitchenmaid were having their last drop of tea. . . . Always things for -him at this moment, sweet things, fat things, meaty things. He sat -there, and they dropped bits into his mouth, murmuring “Poor worm,” -“Little lamb,” “Sweet pet.” - -Mrs. Hounslow was to-night quite especially affectionate, delighted with -his return to her. She patted him, pulled him into her ample lap, folded -his head against her yet ampler bosom, confided to the maids what that -limb of a boy had dared to say to her—“kitchen dog!” indeed. As though -it weren’t the finest kitchen in Glebeshire, and who’d looked after the -poor animal if she hadn’t—and then—and why—but of course. - -The maids agreed, sipping the tea from their saucers. - -But Hamlet was not happy. He did not care to-night for Mrs. Hounslow’s -embraces. He was not happy. He struggled from her lap on to the floor, -and sat there scratching himself. - -When ten struck he was taken to his warm corner near the oven. She -curled him up, she bent down and kissed him. The lights were turned out, -and he was alone. He could not sleep. The loud ticking of the kitchen -clock, for so many months a pleasant sleepy sound, to-night disturbed -him. - -He was not happy. He got up and wandered about the kitchen, sniffing. He -went to the door. It was ajar. He pushed it with his nose. Something was -leading him. He remembered now—how well he remembered! Up these dark -stairs, under that hissing clock, up these stairs again, along that -passage, the moon grinning at him through the window (but, of course, he -did not know that it was the moon). Up more stairs, along this wall, -then this door! He pushed with his nose; it moved; he squeezed himself -through. - -He hesitated, sniffing. Then—how familiar this was—a spring, and he -was on the bed; a step or two, and he was licking his master’s cheek. - -A cry: “Hamlet! Oh, Hamlet!” He snuggled under his master’s arm, licking -the cheek furiously, planting his paw, but with the nails carefully -drawn in, on his master’s neck. Once more that hand was about his head, -the scratch first to the left, then to the right, then the pulling of -the ears. . . . - -With a sigh of satisfaction he sank into the hollow of his master’s -body, and in another second was asleep. - - - - - CHAPTER II - CONSCIENCE MONEY - - - I - -These Christmas holidays had begun badly. Jeremy’s mood was wrong from -the very start. He had not wished it to be wrong. He had come determined -to find everything right and beautiful. Now nothing was right and -nothing was beautiful. - -For one thing, there was nothing to do. It was not the custom nearly -thirty years ago to invent games, occupations and employments for your -young as it is to-day. Mrs. Cole, loving her children, had nevertheless -enough to do to make the house go round, and Mr. Cole was busy in his -study. The children would amuse themselves—who could doubt it—but at -the same time there were so many things that they must not do that as -the days passed they were more and more restricted and confined. - -“Mary, what are you reading? . . . Oh, I wouldn’t read that quite yet, -dear. A little later, perhaps.” Or, “Helen, you’re sitting in the sun. -Go and get your hat.” Or, “Not on the carpet, dear. It will make your -clothes so dusty. Why don’t you sit down and read a little?” - -Before his departure schoolwards Jeremy had been accustomed to those -inhibitions, and had taken them for granted as inevitable. Then in that -other world he had discovered a new row of inhibitions as numerous and -devastating as the first series, but quite different, covering in no -kind of way the same ground. These new inhibitions were absolute, and -the danger of disobeying them was far graver than in the earlier case. -He fitted, then, his life into those and grew like a little plant, -upwards and outwards, as that sinister gardener, school tradition, -demanded. Then came the return to home, and behold those old early -childish inhibitions were still in force! It was still “Don’t, Jeremy. -You’ll tear your trousers.” Or, “No, not now, dear. Mother’s busy.” Or, -“No, you can’t go into the tower now. Perhaps to-morrow.” Or, “Once is -enough, Jeremy. Don’t be greedy.” - -And, on the other side, there was nothing to do—_Nothing to Do_. - -He could no longer play with Mary or Helen. Mary was too emotional, and -Helen too conceited. And who wanted to play with girls, anyway? Barbara -was rather fascinating, but was surrounded by defences of nurses, -mothers and mysterious decrees. Hamlet was his only resource. Without -him he would surely have fallen sick and died. But a dog is limited -within doors. For Hamlet’s own sake Jeremy longed that they should be -for ever in the open. Oh! why did they not live in the country? Why in -this stupid and stuffy town? - -But then, again, was it stupid and stuffy? Jeremy longed to investigate -it more intimately, but was prevented at every turn. It might be an -enchanting town. Certainly there were sounds and lights and colours -that, now that he was older and knew what life was, suggested themselves -as entrancing. - -He simply was not allowed to discover for himself—hindered, inhibited -everywhere. - -Had only Uncle Samuel been here things would have been better. Uncle -Samuel was queer and strange and said most disconcerting things, but he -did understand Jeremy. As it was, no one understood him. To-day, had -anyone seen a small thick-set boy with a stocky figure and a snub nose -standing half-way down the stairs lost and desolate, there would be a -thousand things to suggest. Then it was not the hour for the afternoon -walk, or the hour was past. Children must not be in the way. - -Matters were not improved by a little conversation that he had with Aunt -Amy. She found him one morning standing before the dining-room window -staring into Orange Street. - -“Well, Jeremy”—she paused in the quick, rattle-rattle walk that she -always had in the morning when she was helping her sister over household -duties—“nothing to do?” - -He neither answered nor turned round. “You should reply when spoken to.” -Then, more softly, because there was something desolate in his attitude -that she could not but feel, “Well, dear—tell me.” - -He turned round, and as he looked at her she was conscious, as she had -often been before, almost with terror, of the strange creatures that -little boys were and how far from her understanding. - -“I want to go out and buy a football,” he said. - -“A football!” she repeated, as though he had said a gorilla. - -“Yes,” he said impatiently. “The little ones are only ten and sixpence, -and I’ve got that over from the pound Uncle Samuel gave me on my -birthday—and father says I mustn’t go out.” - -“Well, that settles it, then,” said Aunt Amy cheerfully. - -“I don’t see why,” said Jeremy slowly. “He’s let me go out alone when I -was ever so small before I went to school.” - -“You can be sure he has his reasons,” said Aunt Amy. She suddenly sat -down on one of the dining-room chairs and said, “Come here, Jeremy.” - -He came to her reluctantly. She put him in front of her and laid her -hands on his shoulders and stared at him. He wriggled uncomfortably, -wishing to escape from her projecting tooth and her eyes that were here -grey and there green. Herself meanwhile felt a sudden warmth of -sentiment. She wanted to be kind to him; why, she knew not. - -“You’re getting a big boy now, Jeremy.” She paused. - -“Yes,” said Jeremy. - -“And you don’t want to be a sulky big boy, do you?” - -“I’m not sulky,” said Jeremy. - -“No, dear, I’m sure you’re not. But you’re not being quite the bright -willing boy we’d like to see you. You know that we all love you, don’t -you?” - -“Yes,” said Jeremy. - -“Well, then, you must repay our love and show us that you are happy and -willing to do what your father and mother wish.” - -Jeremy said nothing. - -“You do love your father and mother, don’t you?” - -“Yes,” said Jeremy. - -“Well, then,” said Aunt Amy triumphantly, as though she had been working -out a problem in Euclid, “you must show it. No more sulking, dear; but -be the bright little boy we all know you can be.” - -She left Jeremy puzzled and confused. Was it true that he was sulky? He -did love his father and mother, but deeply distrusted scenes of -sentiment. Nevertheless, Christmas was approaching, and he felt warm -towards all the world—even Aunt Amy. Often and often he went up to his -bedroom, closed the door behind him, looked under his bed to make quite -sure that no one was in the room, then very cautiously opened the lid of -his play-box and peered inside. At the bottom of the box were a number -of odd-shaped parcels; he picked them up one after another and stroked -their paper, then laid them carefully in their places. He sighed as of a -man who has accomplished a great and serious task. Many times a day he -did this. He had himself unpacked his play-box on his return from -school. No one in the house save only he had beheld those strange -parcels. - - - II - -Christmas approached nearer and nearer—now it was only four days before -Christmas Eve. There was no snow, but frost and a cold, pale blue sky; -the town was like a crystallized fruit, hard and glittering and sharply -coloured. - -The market was open during the whole of Christmas week, and there was -the old woman under her umbrella and the fur-coated man with the wooden -toys, and the fruit stalls with the holly and mistletoe, and the Punch -and Judy under the town clock, where it had been for ever so many years, -and the man with the coloured balloons, and the little dogs on wheels -that you wound up in the back with a key and they jumped along the -cobbles as natural as life. - -The children were deeply absorbed over their presents. Mary looked at -Jeremy so often from behind her spectacles in a mysterious and ominous -way that at last he said: - -“All right, Mary, you’ll know me next time.” - -“I was wondering,” she said, with a convulsive choke in her throat, -“whether you’ll like my present.” - -“I expect I will,” he said, busy at the moment with the brushing of -Hamlet. - -“Because,” she went on, “there were two things, and I couldn’t make up -my mind which, and I asked Helen, and she said the first one, because -you might have a cold any time and it would be good in the snow; but we -don’t have snow here much, so I thought the other would be better, -because you do like pictures, don’t you, Jeremy, and sometimes the -pictures are lovely—so I got that, and now I don’t know whether you’ll -like it.” - -Jeremy had no reply to make to this. - -“Oh, now you’ve guessed what it is.” - -“No, I haven’t,” said Jeremy quite truthfully. - -“Oh, I’m so glad,” Mary sighed with relief. “Have you got all your -presents?” - -“Yes, all of them,” said Jeremy, drawing himself up and gazing with -dreamy pride over Hamlet’s head. - -“Shall I like mine?” asked Mary, her eyes glistening. - -“Awfully,” said Jeremy. “You’ll like it,” he said slowly, “better than -anything you’ve ever been given.” - -“Better than the writing-case Uncle Samuel gave me?” - -“Much better.” - -“Oh, Jeremy!” She suddenly flung her arms round his neck and kissed him. -Hamlet barked and escaped the brush and comb, then seized Mary’s hair -ribbon, that had, as usual, fallen to the floor, and ran with it to a -distant corner. Incidents followed that had nothing to do with presents. - -Then when Christmas Day grew very near indeed, those parcels at the -bottom of his play-box became an obsession. He went up a hundred times a -day to look at them, to take them out and stroke them, to feel their -knobs and protruding angles, to replace them, first in this way and then -in that. Sometimes he laid them all out upon the bed, sometimes he -spread them in a long line across the carpet. He brought up Hamlet and -made him look at them. Hamlet sniffed each parcel, then wanted to tear -the paper wrappings; finally, he lay on the carpet and rattled in his -throat, wagging his tail and baring his teeth. - -Christmas Eve arrived, a beautiful, clear, frosty day. - - - III - -Jeremy came in from his morning walk, his cheeks crimson, looking very -nautical in his blue reefer coat. He went straight up to his room, -locked the door, and opened the play-box. The parcels were all there. He -counted them, felt them, sighed a sigh of satisfaction and pride, then -closed the play-box again. - -He took off his coat and went downstairs. Helen, meeting him in the -hall, cried: - -“Oh, Jeremy, father wants to see you.” - -“Where?” - -“In the study.” - -Jeremy paused. The word “study” had always a strangely disagreeable -sound. Their father never wished to see any of them there unless for -some very unpleasant purpose. He threw his mind back. What had he been -doing? What sin had he within the last day or two committed? He could -think of nothing. His parcels had kept him quiet. Both he and Hamlet had -been very good. - -Only Aunt Amy had spoken to him about sulking. But that had been over a -week ago. No, he had been very good. There could be nothing. -Nevertheless, he walked down the hall with slow and hesitating step. -Hamlet wanted to come with him. He had to stop him. Hamlet sat down near -the door and watched him enter with anxious eyes. He did not like Mr. -Cole. - -The study was a close, dark room lined with book-shelves, rows and rows -of theological works all dusty and forlorn. In the middle of the left -wall between the book-shelves hung a large photograph of the Forum, -Rome, and on the similar space on the other wall a photograph of the -Parthenon. Behind a large desk sat Mr. Cole, very thin, very black, very -white. His small son stood on the other side of the desk and looked at -him. - -“Well, my boy, what is it?” - -“Helen said you wanted me.” He shifted from one foot to the other and -looked anxiously at the Forum. - -“Did I? Ah, let me see. . . . What was it? Hum, ha. Ah, yes. Of course. -It’s your journey-money. I should have asked you many days ago. I -thought your mother had taken it. She had apparently forgotten.” - -Journey-money? Of what was he talking? Journey-money? - -“What journey-money, father?” Even as he spoke his voice faltered, -because, although he still did not know in the least of what his father -was speaking, danger hovered suddenly near him like a large black bird, -the wings obliterating the dusty light. Mr. Cole, who had much to do, -grew a little impatient. - -“Yes, yes. The money that we sent to your master for your journey home. -Your mother fancied, from what Mr. Thompson wrote to her, that she had -not sent quite enough on earlier occasions, that the former sum had not -been quite sufficient. This time we sent at least a pound more than the -fare demanded.” - -The bird came closer. Even now he did not understand, but his throat was -dry and his heart was beating violently. - -“The money that Mr. Thompson gave me the day before the end of term?” - -“Yes, yes, my boy.” - -“He gave me fifteen shillings and the ticket.” - -“Well, let me have it.” - -“I spent it.” - -There was a pause. Mr. Cole stared at his son. - -“What do you say?” - -“I spent it, father.” - -“What?” - -“I spent it.” - -Fright now was upon him—terror, panic. But behind the panic, like the -resolution under torture not to betray one’s friend, was the resolve -never, never to say upon what the money had been spent. - -“_What?_” - -“I haven’t got it, father. I thought it was for me.” - -“You thought it was for you?” - -“Yes. Mr. Thompson didn’t say anything about it—only that it was for -the journey.” - -“And did you spend it on the journey?” - -There was no answer. - -“Will you kindly tell me how, having already your ticket, you managed to -spend one pound between your school and your home?” - -He felt the tears rising, and desperately beat them back. How he hated -those tears that came always, it seemed, when one least wished to cry. - -“It wasn’t a pound.” One tear came, hesitated and fell. “It was—fifteen -shillings.” - -“Very well, then. Will you kindly explain to me how you spent fifteen -shillings?” - -No answer. - -“Jeremy, how old are you?” - -“Ten—and a—half.” - -“Ten and a half. Very well. You have been a year and a half at school. -You are quite old enough to understand. Do you know what you have done?” - -Tears now were falling fast. - -“You have stolen this money.” - -No word. - -“Do you know what they call someone who steals money?” - -No answer. - -“They call him a thief.” - -Through convulsive sobs there came: - -“I didn’t steal it.” - -“Do not add lying to the rest.” Mr. Cole got up. “Come with me to your -room.” - -They walked into the hall. Hamlet was waiting, and sprang forward. At -once he saw in the sobbing figure of his master trouble and disaster. -His head fell, his tail crept between his legs. He slowly followed the -procession, only looking at Mr. Cole’s black legs with longing. Upstairs -they went, up through the tranquil and happy house. Barbara was being -bathed; gurgling and applause and the splash of water came from the -bathroom. They were in Jeremy’s room, the door closed—Hamlet on the -other side. - -Jeremy stood, the tears drying on his face, his sobs coming in -convulsive spasms. - -“I am determined to know what you have done with this money—on what you -have spent it.” - -There was no answer. - -“It is of no use to be obstinate, Jeremy. Tell me—on what have you -spent this money?” - -He looked about him. There must be something in the room that would show -him. Not many things here. The little case with some books, the pictures -of “Napoleon on the _Bellerophon_” and “The Charge of the Light -Brigade,” the white bed and wash-hand stand, the chest of drawers. . . . -Then his eye fell on the play-box. He went to it and opened it. - -Jeremy gave a long, convulsive sigh. Then, between his sobs: -“Father—please. I’ll get the money. I will really. I didn’t know it was -wrong. Those are mine—they break, two of them. I’ll get the money. I -will really. Please, father.” - -A word here is needed in defence of Mr. Cole. A word is not in truth -necessary. His action was inevitable. He truly loved his son, and -because of that very love he was now shocked to the depth of his soul. -His son was a thief. His son had lied and stolen. He was old enough to -know what he was about. To himself, who had been brought up in a poverty -that was martyrdom and an honesty that was fanatical, no sin could be -worse than this save only the sins of the flesh. For more than two years -now he had been troubled by Jeremy, seeing many signs in him of a nature -very different from his own, signs of independence, rebellion and, as it -seemed to him, hardness of heart and selfishness. Now the boy was a -thief, deliberately spending money that did not belong to him in the -hopes that his parents would forget. . . . - -He bent over his play-box, saw the parcels so neatly laid out there, -took one up in his hand. He looked back at his son. - -“What _is_ this, Jeremy?” - -There was no answer. - -“Did you get these things with the money?” - -“Yes, father.” Then he said, “They’re presents for Christmas.” - -“Presents!” - -Mr. Cole took up first one parcel, then another, holding them up to the -light. Then, very slowly, with that deliberation with which he did -everything, he undid the parcels. Jeremy said nothing, only stood there, -his face white and dirty where the tears had left marks, his legs apart, -his fists clenched. - -One after another they were laid bare and placed upon the bed; rather -pitiful they looked. A white-backed hair brush, a coral necklace, a -little brooch of silver-gilt, a pair of woollen gloves, a baby’s coral, -a story book, a dog collar, two handkerchiefs, a work-box, a cheap copy -in a cheap frame of “Dignity and Impudence,” a tea caddy. Obviously all -the servants had been included in this—no one had been forgotten. Had -not Mr. Cole been so wholly and so truly shocked by his son’s wickedness -he must have been touched by the thought that had plainly gone to the -buying of each gift. But imagination was not Mr. Cole’s strongest part. - -Jeremy watched him. Suddenly he broke out: - -“Father, don’t take them away. Let me give them to-morrow. You can -punish me any way you like. You can beat me or take away my pocket money -for ever or anything you like—but let me give them to-morrow. Please, -father. Please, father.” - -“That must be part of your punishment, my son,” Mr. Cole said very -sorrowfully and finding it difficult to balance the things one upon -another in his arms. - -In another second of time, Jeremy was upon him, screaming, beating with -his fists, scratching with his hands, crying: - -“You shan’t take them! You shan’t take them! They’re mine! You’re -wicked! You’re wicked! They’re my things! You shan’t take them!” - -He was mad, wild, frantic. His hands were round his father’s thigh, his -head beating against his father’s chest, his legs kicking against his -father’s calves. - -He screamed like something not human. - -For a moment Mr. Cole was almost carried off his balance. The things -that he was carrying—the hair brush, the necklace, the picture—went -tumbling on the floor. - -Then Jeremy was picked up and, still kicking and breathless, flung on to -the bed. - -Then the door closed and the boy was alone. - - - IV - -The first real agony of Jeremy’s young life followed. Two years before, -just at this time, he had been in disgrace for telling a lie. His misery -had been acute for an hour or two, and then, with the swift memory of -eight years old, it had been forgotten and covered up. This was another -business. When, after lying stunned for a long time, thoughts came to -him, his first emotion was one of blind, mad rage—an emotion quite new -to him, never felt before. Injustice! Injustice! That was a new word -written on the pages of his life’s book, never again to be eradicated. -There came before him at once, as though it were being presented to him -by some new friend who was with him in the room for the first time, the -picture of the afternoon when he had bought the presents. The group of -boys who had gone into the little neighbouring town to buy things that -they were “taking home,” his consciousness of the fifteen shillings as -absolutely his own, his first thought that he would buy sweets with some -of it and keep the rest for the holidays, then the sudden flash of -inspiration, presents for everybody, Christmas presents for everybody; -and with that the sudden flooding of his heart with love for home, for -Polchester, for everyone, even Aunt Amy and the kitchenmaid, and then -his delighted discovery in the general shop where they were, that there -were so many different things to buy and so many so cheap. - -The half-hour that he had and the wonderful excitement of taking back -his parcels, himself packing them in his play-box—and it ends in this! - -He hadn’t _known_ that the money was not for him; he hadn’t thought for -a moment that it was not! - -He sat up on the bed and looked about the room and saw the things -scattered about the floor—the brush, the necklace. The glass of the -picture was broken. At the sight of that he suddenly began to cry again, -kneeling on the bed, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. He felt -sick—his head was aching, his eyes were red hot—and he felt anger, -furious, rebellious anger. He hated his father, hated him so that it -made him sick to think of him. What would his father do to him? He -didn’t care. He would like to be terribly punished, beaten to within an -inch of his life, because then he could with more justice than ever -devote his life to hating his father. He would hate him for ever, for -ever and ever. And all this time he was crying in a snivelling sort of -way, like a little animal whose limb is broken. - -The house was utterly silent about him. No sound at all. Then he caught -a thin, feeble scratching at the door. He climbed off the bed and went -to it. Opening it cautiously, he peered out. Hamlet was there wagging -his tail. He pulled him into the room, shut the door, dragging him on to -the bed, folded him into himself, suffering himself to be licked from -one ear to the other. - - - V - -How terrible the time that followed! None of the Cole children could -remember anything at all like it. Even Helen, who was nearly grown up -now because she was at the Polchester High School and had won last term -a prize for callisthenics, was impressed with the tragedy of it all. How -awful that Christmas Day, never by any of them to be forgotten for the -rest of their lives! - -Jeremy came downstairs and there was a pretence of gaiety. Presents were -distributed on Christmas evening. Turkey and plum pudding were eaten. A -heavy cloud enveloped everyone. - -The fanatic that then was in Mr. Cole began now to flower. For the first -time his son appeared to him as a conscience-developing individual; for -the first time he really loved him; and for the first time he felt that -there was a soul to be saved and that he must save it. For the first -time also in their married lives a serious difference of opinion divided -the father and mother. Mrs. Cole yearned over her boy who was now in -some strange way escaping her. She was no psychologist, and indeed -thirty years ago parents never conceived of analysing their children. -She was only discovering, what every mother discovers, that a year’s -absence had taken her boy away from her, had given him interests that -she could not share, taught him ambitions, confided to him secrets, -delivered him over to hero-worshippings that would never be hers. Not -for ten years would he return to her. To be a mother you must have -infinite patience. - -Secretly she rebelled against her husband’s policy; outwardly she -submitted to it. - -During all the week following Christmas the Coles were a miserable -family, and in the middle of them Jeremy moved, a figure of stone. They -wished him to be an outcast; very well then, he would be an outcast. -They thought him a criminal and not fit for their society; very well -then, he would be apart and of himself. The presents were there, at the -bottom of his play-box. His only definite punishment was that he should -receive no pocket-money throughout the holidays—but he was a -pariah—and a pariah he would be. - -Once his mother talked to him, drawing him to her, putting her arms -around him. - -“Jeremy, dear, just go to father and say you’re sorry and then it will -all be over.” - -“I’m not sorry.” - -“Well, if you’re not sorry about spending the money, because you didn’t -know that you oughtn’t to, say you’re sorry because you kicked father.” - -“I’m not sorry I kicked father.” - -“But father loves you. He was only doing what he thought was right.” - -“Father doesn’t love me or he would have known I didn’t steal the -money.” - -“But, Jeremy dear, father wants you to realize that you mustn’t spend -other people’s money as though it were your own. You’re too young to -understand now——” - -“I’m not too young to understand.” - -Mrs. Cole sighed. This Jeremy was utterly strange to her, so old, so -oddly different from the boy of a year ago, so hard and so hostile. She -was very unhappy. And Jeremy, too, was unhappy—desperately unhappy. It -was no fun being a rebel. Sometimes he was on the very edge of -surrender, longing to go and submit to his father, fling his arms round -his mother, listen to Mary’s silly stories, play and shout and sing and -laugh as he used to do. - -Something kept him back. It was as though he were in a nightmare, one of -those nightmares when you can’t speak, a weight is on your chest, you -move against your will. - -He was so unhappy that he told Hamlet that he was going to run away to -sea. He had serious thoughts of this. - -Then suddenly Uncle Samuel returned from Paris. - - - VI - -It was a wet, windy evening. The rain was blowing in streaky gusts up -Orange Street, sending the lamps inebriated, and whipping at windows as -though it would never find outlet sufficient for its ill temper. Out of -the storm came Uncle Samuel in a black cape and a floppy black hat, -straight from that mysterious, unseen, unfathomed country, Paris. As -usual, he was casual and careless enough in his greetings, kissed his -sister quickly, nodded to his brother-in-law, grinned at the children, -and was in a moment transported to that strange region at the back of -the house where was his studio, that magical place into which none of -the children had even entered. He did not that evening apparently notice -Jeremy’s desolate figure. - -On the following afternoon Jeremy, Hamlet at his heels, was hanging -disconsolately about the passage when his uncle suddenly appeared. - -“Hallo!” he said. - -“Hallo!” said Jeremy. - -Uncle Samuel was in his blue painting smock. Whereas the other members -of the family were so well known to Jeremy that they were almost like -the wallpaper or the piano, Uncle Samuel’s appearance was always new and -exciting. With his chubby face, the grey hair that stood up rather -thinly about his crimson pate, his fat stumpy body, ironical blue eyes -and little, rather childish, mouth, he always seemed nearer to Jeremy -than the others—younger, more excitable, more easily surprised. He had -the look of an old baby, Jeremy sometimes thought. He looked at Jeremy -consideringly. - -“Got anything to do?” - -“No.” - -“Come on into the studio.” - -“Oh, may I?” - -“Well, I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t want you. . . . Yes, you may bring -the dog.” - -Jeremy’s excitement was intense. Once, long ago, his uncle had said that -he might go into the studio, but he had never dared to venture. He -walked carefully like Agag. The door was opened, a curtain pulled aside. -A long, empty room with wide high windows overlooking meadow and hill, a -low bookcase running the length of the room, a large sofa with cushions, -two rugs, some pictures with their faces to the wall, some other -pictures hanging, funny ones, a girl with a green face, a house all -crooked, a cow (or was it a horse?) . . . - -Uncle Samuel went to the sofa and sat down. He called Jeremy over to him -and pulled him in between his knees. - -“Been having a row?” he said. - -“Yes,” said Jeremy. - -“Kicked your father?” - -“Yes.” - -“What was it all about?” - -Jeremy told him. Uncle Samuel listened attentively, his eyes no longer -ironical. He put his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, and the boy, feeling the -unexpected kindness, burst into tears. The misery of the last week -overflowed from his heart. - -“I didn’t—know. . . . I didn’t really—I wanted to give them the -things—I wasn’t wicked.” - -The man bent down and picked the boy up and held him tight. Then he -talked to him. - -“Look here, you’ve not got to mind this. You were wrong, too, you know. -Your father was right from _his_ way of seeing things. His way isn’t -yours, that’s all. When you get older you’ll find people often don’t see -things the way you do, won’t like the work you’re proudest of, simply -won’t understand it. There are as many different opinions as can be in -this old world, and you’ve simply got to face it. You’ve just got to be -ready for anything—not to get angry and kick. Don’t let yourself be too -sensitive. You’ll go up and you’ll go down, and when you’re up people -will say you ought to be down, and when you’re down there’ll be a few -kind souls will help you up again. Misunderstood! Why, bless my soul, -you’ll be misunderstood a million times before you’re done. If you’ve -got work you like, a friend you can trust and a strong stomach you’ll -have enough to be thankful for. - -“You won’t understand all I’m saying yet, but you soon will. You come -along in here and be kind to your old uncle, who’s never had anything -right all his life—largely through his own fault, mind you. There, -there! Bless me, you’re as soppy as a shower of rain. Fond of your -uncle?” - -Jeremy hugged him. - -“That’s right. Well, mind you keep it up. I can do with some. Will you -say you’re sorry to your father?” - -Jeremy nodded his head. - -“That’s right. . . . Now listen. This studio is for you to be in when -you like. Not your beastly sisters, mind you; but you—_and_ your dog, -if he’ll behave himself. . . .” - -Hamlet promised. Jeremy ceased to cry. He looked about him. - -When they had come in the room had been in dusk. Now it was too dark to -see. He felt for his uncle’s hand and held it. Nothing so wonderful as -this had yet happened in his life. He did not know, however, how -wonderful in reality that evening would afterwards seem to him. All his -after life he would look back to it, the dark room, the dog quiet at -their feet, the cool strength of his uncle’s hand, the strange, heating -excitement, the happiness and security after the week of wild loneliness -and dismay. It was in that half-hour that his real life began; it was -then that, like Alice in her looking-glass, he stepped over the brook -and entered into his inheritance. - - - - - CHAPTER III - THE DANCE - - - I - -A fortnight after Christmas a bomb, partly of apprehension, partly of -delight, fell upon the Cole family—an invitation to a dance in the -house of Mrs. Mulholland, of Cleek. - -The invitation arrived at breakfast, and the children would in all -probability have known nothing at all about it had it not been in an -envelope addressed to “Miss Cole.” Helen, therefore, opened it, and, -never having received anything like it before, thought at first that it -was a grown-up invitation to a grown-up tea party. - -┌───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ -│ Miss Cole │ -│ Miss Mary Cole │ -│ Master Jeremy Cole │ -│ │ -│ Mrs. James Mulholland │ -│ At Home, January 10, 1895 │ -│ The Manor House, │ -│ Dancing, 6.30-10. Cleek. │ -└───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘ - -She was flattered by this, of course, but it was not until the word -“_Dancing_” caught her eye that she realized the true significance of -the invitation. - -“Dancing!” She adored it. At the High School she was recognized as the -best dancer of all the younger girls. She was! She knew she was! She was -adorable, fascinating, wonderful when she danced. She was! She knew she -was! - -She gave her mother the invitation and in a voice trembling with emotion -said: “Oh, mother, may we go? May we?” - -Mary and Jeremy, who saw that they also were concerned in this -mysterious affair, stopped eating. - -Mrs. Cole looked at the card. “Mrs. Mulholland! How good of her! And she -really hardly knows us! We’ve only exchanged calls.” - -“Mrs. Mulholland! That’s the woman out at Cleek,” said Aunt Amy, who -always liked to feel that she was the real directress of the Cole family -affairs. “Has she asked the children to a party?” - -“Yes—to a dance on the tenth!” - -“Well, of course they can’t go,” said Aunt Amy decisively. “Cleek’s much -too far.” - -Now it happened that on that particular morning Mr. Cole was feeling -considerably irritated by his sister-in-law. He often felt like this and -spent many half-hours in wondering why his sister-in-law and his -brother-in-law—neither of them at all sympathetic to him—occupied his -house. And then he remembered that his sister-in-law at least shared in -the expenses of the family, and that without that share finances would -be difficult. - -But this morning even this thought did not overcome his dislike of his -sister-in-law. He was ready to contradict anything that she said. - -He looked over the top of his egg at his wife. “I don’t see why they -shouldn’t go. We can have a cab from Poole’s.” - -Aunt Amy, who, like Mrs. Norris, was very careful with other people’s -money, burst out: - -“But think, Herbert—all the expense of a cab! And it will have to wait -to take them back again. And Poole’s charges go up and up. I’m sure the -children will do very nicely at home.” - -How gladly at that moment would Helen, Mary and Jeremy have put poison -in Aunt Amy’s tea or stabbed her in the back with a bread-knife! -However, little as they realized it, she was doing everything to help -their cause. - -Mr. Cole, looking at Aunt Amy very severely, said: - -“Thank you, Amy, but that’s my affair. Poor as we are, we can still -afford a cab. I think it will be good for the children to go. Mrs. -Mulholland’s kindness must not be rejected.” - -At that moment in came Uncle Samuel, late and unshaven as usual, and the -conversation was not continued. The affair was settled by the kindness -of a neighbour, Mrs. Carstairs, who, having been also invited to take -her small boy, offered to share a cab and chaperon the Cole children. - -No child of to-day can possibly conceive what it was to us children in -the old days in Polchester to be invited to a dance. For the grown-ups -in Polchester there were a great many balls—more, perhaps, than there -are to-day—but for the children there was very little—some afternoon -parties, perhaps one pantomime, little more. - -To the Cole children an evening dance—a dance out of Polchester with a -drive at both ends of it—was wonder beyond wonder. Life was instantly -at the merest murmur of its name transformed into something exquisite, -rainbow-coloured, fantastical. - -Helen’s transports were all selfish. She was not a bad girl did you -grant her her devastating egotism; she cared for her family, she was -neither vindictive nor mean, not too greedy, and not too vain; but she -drove towards her purpose with the cold, clean-cut assurance of a steel -knife cutting paper—and that purpose was the aggrandizement and public -splendour of Helen Cole. - -Mary was the romantic one of the family, and this ball was as marvellous -to her as were ever the coach and wand to Cinderella. Full of tremors, -she nevertheless allowed her imagination full play. Soon Mrs. -Mulholland, her house, her grounds, her family, her servants, were -scattered with star-dust ablaze with diamonds, glittering with pearls -and rubies. She sat for hours, motionless, picturing it. - -Jeremy’s attitude was mixed. He was deeply excited, but hid his emotion -from everyone save Uncle Samuel, of whom in the strictest privacy he -asked many searching questions. He had a habit just at this time, which -was found irritating by his elders, of asking questions and himself -answering them. As, for instance, “Will it be the same cab both ways? -Yes.” “Will it be mostly girls that will be there? No.” - -“If you know the answers to the questions, what do you ask them for?” -said Uncle Samuel. - -But he didn’t know the answers to his questions; it was a habit into -which he had fallen. He would try and stop it. Uncle Samuel gave him his -view of dances in general; it was a poor one. Jeremy, who was adoring -his uncle just now, tried to feel superior. - -“Uncle Samuel says dances are rotten,” he announced to Helen. - -“Mother says you’re not to use that word,” said Helen. - -Nevertheless in his heart he was excited—desperately. - - - II - -The Day arrived—which for a whole week it had seemed that it would -never have strength sufficient to do. All the afternoon they were being -dressed. The young assistant of Mr. Consett, the hairdresser, came up to -attend to Helen and Mary. This had never happened before. The dresses of -Helen and Mary were alike, white silk, with pink ribbons. Helen looked -lovely with her black hair, big black eyes and thick eyelashes, her -slender white neck, tall slim body and lovely ankles. She was one upon -whom fine clothes settled with a sigh of satisfaction, as though they -knew that they were in luck. With Mary it was precisely the opposite; -the plainer you dressed her the better. Fine clothes only accentuated -her poor complexion, dusty hair and ill-shaped body. Yes, Helen looked -lovely. Even Jeremy would have noticed it had he not been absorbed by -his own clothing. For the first time in his life he was wearing a white -waistcoat; he was, of course, uncomfortably clean. He hated the sticky -feeling in his hair, the tightness of his black shoes, the creaking of -his stiff white shirt—but these things must be. Had he only known it, -his snub nose, his square, pugnacious face, and a certain sturdy -soundness of his limbs gave him exactly the appearance of a Sealyham -puppy—but Sealyhams were not popular thirty years ago. Hamlet smelt the -unusual cleanliness of his master and was excited by it. He stuck -closely to his heels, determining that if his master were going away -again, this time he would not be left behind, but would go too. When, -however, Poole’s cab really arrived, he was given no chance, being held, -to his infinite disgust, in the bony arms of Aunt Amy. - -All the grown ups were there to watch them go, and Mrs. Hounslow and -Minnie the parlour-maid in the background. Mr. Cole was smiling and -looking quite cheerful. He felt that this was all his doing. - -“Now, children,” cried Aunt Amy, as though it were _her_ family, _her_ -cab and _her_ party, “mind you enjoy yourselves and tell Mrs. Carstairs -that mother doesn’t want you to stay too late. . . .” - -They were to pick up Mrs. Carstairs, who lived higher up the terrace, -who was a nice rosy-faced woman, a widow with a small boy called -Herbert. Because Herbert was their father’s name it had a solemn, -grown-up air to the children, and they felt the contrast to be very -funny indeed when a small, pale-faced mouse of a boy was piloted into -the cab. He was so deeply smothered in shawls and comforters that there -was little to be seen but a sharply peaked nose. He was, it seemed, a -serious-minded child. Soon after getting into the cab he remarked: - -“I do hope that we all enjoy ourselves this evening, I’m sure.” - -Mrs. Carstairs, although she was stout and jolly, was so nervous about -the health of her only child that she made all the children nervous too. - -“You aren’t feeling cold, Bertie darling, are you? . . . You haven’t got -a headache, have you? Lean against mother, darling, if you’re tired. Are -you tired?” - -To all of which Herbert answered very solemnly: - -“I am not, mother.” - -He was, however, it seemed, a child with a considerable sense of humour, -because he suddenly pinched Jeremy in the fatty part of his thigh, and -then looked at him very severely as though challenging him to say -anything about it, and it suddenly occurred to Jeremy that you had a -great advantage if you looked old and solemn, because no one would ever -believe anything wicked of you. - -His thoughts, however, of young Herbert were soon lost in the excitement -of the adventure of the cab. Nothing that he had ever known was more -wonderful than this, the rolling through the lighted town, the -background so dark like the inside of a box, the tearing through the -market-place now so silent and mysterious, down through North Street, -over the Pol bridge, and so out into the country. The silence of the -high road, rhythmed by the clamp-clamp of the horse’s hoofs, the -mysterious gleam of white patches as the road was illumined by the light -from the carriage lamps, the heavy thick-set hedges, watching as though -they were an army of soldiers drawn up in solemn order to let the -carriage pass through, the smell of the night mingled with the smell of -the cab, the rattle of the ill-fitting windows, the excited, -half-strangled breathing of Mary—all these together produced in -Jeremy’s breast a feeling of exaltation, pride and adventure that was -never to be forgotten. - -They were all packed very closely together and bounced about like -marionettes without self-control. - -Jeremy said in a voice hoarse with bumping and excitement: “Shall I put -my gloves on yet?” He had never had white gloves before. - -Mrs. Carstairs said: “You might try them on, dear, and see. Be careful -not to split them”—which, of course, he immediately did; not a very bad -split and between the thumb and finger of the left hand, so that perhaps -it would not be seen. - -While with some concern he was considering this, they drove through park -gates and along a wide drive. To Jeremy’s excited fancy silver birds -seemed to fly past the windows and sheets of stars bend down and flash -to the ground and rise swinging up to heaven again. They passed a -stretch of water on their right, dark like a blind mirror, but with a -crack of light that crossed it and then faded into splashing gold where -the lamps and shining windows of the house reflected in it. They were -there; other carriages also; children like ghosts passing up the stone -steps, the great house so strangely indifferent. - -He saw as he got out of the carriage dark spaces beyond the splash of -light where the garden was hidden, cold and reserved and apart. It was -like him to notice that, the only child that evening who saw. - -Inside the house there was a sudden noise of laughter and voices and -people moving, and two large footmen with white powdered hair waiting to -take your coats. Without his coat, waiting for a moment alone, he felt -shivery and shy and very conscious of his white waistcoat. Then he saw -young Ernest, son of the Dean of Polchester, and Bill Bartlett and the -Misses Bartlett, children of one of the canons, and Tommy Winchester, -son of the precentor. He winked; at Tommy, who was a fat, round boy with -a face like an apple, but pretended not to see when Ernest caught his -eye, because he hated Ernest, and having fought him once nearly two -years ago, hoped very much to have the pleasure of fighting him again -soon and licking him. He advanced into the big, shining, dazzling room, -behind his two sisters, as on to a field of battle. - -“The Misses Cole and Master Cole,” shouted a large stout man with a face -like an oyster; and then Jeremy found himself shaking hands with a -beautiful lady, all white hair, black silk and diamonds, and an old -gentleman with an eyeglass; and then, before he knew it, he was standing -against the wall with Mary and Helen surveying the scene. - -As he watched, a sudden desperate depression fell upon him. It was all -like a painted picture that he was outside; he was an outcast and Mary -was an outcast and Helen. They had arrived at an interval between the -dances, and the gleaming floor was like a great lake stretching from -golden shore to golden shore. From the ceiling hung great clusters of -light, throwing down splashes like dim islands, and every once and again -someone would cross the floor very carefully, seeming to struggle to -reach the islands, to pause there for a moment as though for -safety. . . . - -Against the wall, right round the ballroom, figures were ranged, some -like Chinese idols, silent and motionless, others animated and excited. -Voices rose like the noise of wind or rain. - -Everyone, even the Chinese idols, seemed to be at home and at their -ease; only Jeremy and his sisters were cared for by no one. Then -suddenly a stout, smiling woman appeared as though out of the floor, and -behind her a very frightened boy. She spoke to Helen. - -“You’re Helen Cole, are you not? Well, dear, here’s Harry Preston wants -you to have a dance with him.” Then, turning to Mary: “Are you dancing -the next, dear? No? We must alter that. Here’s Willie Richmond—Willie,” -catching hold of a long and gawky boy, “you’re not dancing the next, are -you? I’m sure Miss Cole will be delighted,”—then departed like a train -that has picked up its passengers and is hurrying on to its next -station. - -The small boy gazed distressfully at Helen, but she was quite equal to -him, smiling with that sweet smile that was kept entirely for strangers -or important visitors and saying: - -“What is it? Oh, a polka. . . . That will be lovely. I do like polkas, -don’t you?” - -At that moment the band struck up, and in another instant the floor was -covered with figures. The tall, gawky boy dragged off Mary, who had said -not a word, but stared at him with distressed eyes through her -spectacles. - -Helen took absolute charge of her partner, moving away with such grace -and elegance that Jeremy was suddenly proud of her and seemed to see her -as she really was for the first time in his life. - -Then he realized that he was alone, absolutely alone, stuck against the -wall, a silly gawk, for all the world to look at and despise. - - - III - -He set his chin, squared his shoulders, and tried to look as though he -were there by preference. No one now paid any attention to him; the -music swung on, and although he had never danced in his life, his toes -kept time inside his shoes. He gazed haughtily around him, stared at the -dancers as they passed him, and was miserable. - -Then the stout lady who had carried off Mary and Helen suddenly appeared -again and said: - -“What! Not dancing? You’re Jeremy Cole, aren’t you? Come along. I’ll -find you a partner.” - -He was led away and precipitated at the feet of a very stout lady who -stared at him in a frozen way and a frightened little girl. He had a -programme in his hand and was going to ask her for some future polka, -when the mountainous lady said in a deep bass voice: - -“You’d better take her now. She’s been waiting long enough,” staring at -the genial introducer as she spoke. - -Jeremy led away his victim. He was acutely miserable, but the agony of -stumbling, bumping and incoherent whirling did not last long because the -band suddenly stopped, and before he knew it he was sitting on the steps -of a staircase with his partner and staring at her. - -She said not a word; then he saw that she was terrified and pity held -him. - -“Do you like dances?” he asked hoarsely. - -“I’ve never been to one before,” she answered in a convulsive whisper, -looking as though she were about to cry. - -“Where do you live?” he asked. - -“Five, Pemberton Terrace, Polchester,” she answered breathlessly. - -“Was that your mother?” - -“No. Auntie.” - -“How many aunts have you?” - -“Five.” - -“What a lot! I’ve only one, and it’s quite enough. How many uncles have -you?” - -“I haven’t got an uncle.” - -“I have—a splendid one. Do any of your aunts paint?” - -“Auntie Maude does.” - -“What does she paint?” - -“I don’t know.” - -He felt this conversation so stupid that he looked at her in disgust. -What was it about girls? Why was there something the matter with all of -them? If this was what dances were, he didn’t want any more of them. And -it was just then, at that most distressing moment, that the wonderful, -the never-to-be-forgotten event occurred. Someone was coming down from -the stairs above them and wanted to pass them. - -A voice said softly: “Do you mind? Thank you so much.” - -Jeremy rose and then looked up. He was staring at the most beautiful -lady he had ever conceived of—indeed, far more than he had ever -conceived of, because his dreams had not hitherto been of beautiful -ladies. He had never thought of them at all. She was very tall and -slender, dressed in white; she had black hair and a jewel blazing in the -front of it. But more than everything was her smile, the jolliest, -merriest, twinkliest smile he had ever seen. He could only smile too, -standing against the banisters to let her pass. Perhaps there was -something in his snub nose, and the way his mouth curled at the corners -that struck her. She stopped. - -“Enjoying yourself?” she asked. - -“Yes,” he answered, staring at her with all his soul. - -“Well, come on,” she said. “There’s the music beginning again.” - -That appeal may have been made to the general stair-covered company, but -he felt that it was to him. - -“Come on,” he said to his partner. At the door of the ballroom he found, -to his relief, the massive aunt. “Thank you so much for the delightful -dance,” he said, bowing as he had seen others do; then he bolted. - -Heaven was on his side because just inside the room, and standing for a -moment alone, gazing happily about her, was the lovely lady. Could he? -Did he dare? His heart was beating in his breast. His knees trembled. He -felt as he did when he was summoned to old Thompson’s study. But the -fear lest she should move away or someone should come and speak to her, -drove him forward. He was at her side. - -“I say,” he muttered huskily, “is anybody dancing with you just now?” - -She swung round and looked down at him. - -“Hallo!” she said. “It’s you!” - -“Yes,” he answered, still choking. “I would like to dance with you.” - -“Well, you shall,” she said, and suddenly picked him up and whisked him -round. What happened after that he never knew. Once, years before, he -had escaped from home, gone to the Polchester Fair and ridden on the -merry-go-round, ridden on a wonderful coal-black horse all alone under -the stars. Something like that earlier experience was this exquisite -happiness, delicious movement in which the golden walls, the blazing -lights, the glittering, shining floor had their parts. His feet kept no -time, they seemed scarcely to touch the floor, but as the music dipped -and swung, so he also, floating like a bird, falling like the dying -strain of a song, rising like the flight of a star. Suddenly it ceased; -he came to earth, breathless, hot and most wonderfully happy. She led -him away, holding his hand, to a corner where there was a palm and a -little tinkling fountain; they seemed to be quite by themselves. - -“Was that all right?” she asked, laughing and fanning herself with a -great fan of white feathers. - -He could not speak; he gulped and nodded. - -“What’s your name?” she asked. - -He told her. - -She smiled. “Jeremy. That’s a pretty name.” He blushed with pleasure. -“Do you go to school yet? I expect you’re good at football.” - -How wonderful of her to know that, to ask about the one game that was -near his heart. He told her eagerly about it, how he had played -half-back twice for the school and had been kicked in the eye and hadn’t -cared, and how next year he hoped to be the regular half-back because -Trefusis, who had been half for three years, was going to Eton, and he -was very young to be half; he’d only be eleven then—and if he stayed on -until he was thirteen—— - -I’m afraid that he boasted a little. - -“Have you got any brothers and sisters?” she asked him. - -He told her all about Mary and Helen, and his mother and father and Aunt -Amy and Uncle Samuel—especially about Uncle Samuel. And while he talked -he stared and stared and stared, never taking his eyes from her face for -a single moment. She was laughing all the time and suddenly she said: - -“Shall I tell you something, Jeremy?” - -He nodded his head. - -“This is the very happiest day of my life. I’m so happy that it’s all I -can do not to sing.” - -“I’m very happy too,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d like dances till you -came, but now they’re splendid.” - -The cruel music suddenly began, and there, standing in front of them, -was a tall, dark man, very fine and straight. The lady rose. - -“This is Jeremy,” she said. “And this is Major——” - -Jeremy didn’t catch the name. He would wish to hate him for taking her -away had he not looked so fine, just, in short, what Jeremy would like -to look when he grew up. - -“I tell you what,” the lady said, turning round. “Jeremy, you shall take -me down to supper. Yes, he shall, Michael. After all, it’s their -evening, not ours. Four dances from this. That’s right. Number eleven. -Got it? Good-bye.” - -She was gone, and Jeremy was staring around him as though in a dream. - - - IV - -Four dances from now! What should he do meanwhile? To dance with anyone -else would be desecration. Suddenly Tommy Winchester appeared. - -“I say,” he wheezed in his funny voice like a miniature organ-blower’s. -“Have you been down to supper yet? I’ve been down four times. You should -see the ices they’ve got.” - -Ices after the experience he’d been having! Nevertheless he was -interested. - -“Where are they?” he asked. - -“Down there,” said Tommy, pointing to some stairs. “That’s the back -stairs, and you can go down as often as you please and nobody sees.” - -At that moment there came round the corner the supercilious figure of -the Dean’s Ernest. He was very elegant, more elegant—as Jeremy was -forced to confess—than himself would ever be. - -“Hallo, you fellows,” said Ernest. He was twelve, and was going next -year to Rugby. It was irritating the way that he was always a year ahead -of Jeremy in everything. “I call it pretty rotten,” he said, smoothing -his gloves. “The band’s not first class and the floor’s awful.” - -“Well, I think it’s splendid,” said Jeremy. - -“Oh, do you?” said Ernest scornfully. “_You_ would! Ever been to a dance -before?” - -“Yes, lots,” said Jeremy, and it is to be hoped that Heaven will forgive -him that lie. - -“Well, it’s my belief that it’s his first,” said Ernest confidentially -to Tommy. “What a kid like that’s doing away from his nurse I can’t -think.” Nevertheless he moved away, because Jeremy had grown remarkably -thick and sturdy during the last year, and had already in Polchester a -pugnacious reputation. - -“I say,” said Tommy, who seemed to have been long ago forced by his -appearance of good-natured chubbiness into the rôle of perpetual -peacemaker, “you can get to the supper down there,” pointing to the -stairs. “You should see the ices they’ve got. I’ve been four times.” - -“Have they?” said the Dean’s Ernest, his sallow countenance freshening. -“Can you get down that way?” - -“You bet!” said Tommy. - -“Come on, then.” They disappeared. - -Jeremy was rather distressed by this encounter. Ernest had had the last -word. He wished that he had been able to say “Sucks to you!” which, in -addition to being the cry of the moment, was applicable to almost every -occasion. Never mind. The opportunity would undoubtedly return. Such an -episode should not cloud his happiness. - -He seemed to be moving, clouded by the great white fan that she had -used. That hid him from the rest of the world. He did indeed dance with -Helen (and would have danced with Mary could he have found her); he -danced also with a little girl with spots; but in these dances he was -blinded and stunned with the light from Juno’s eyes. It was an utterly -new experience to him. He could compare it with nothing at all save the -day when Stevens, the football captain, had said he “had stood it well -over his eye,” and once when he had gone to have a tooth out and the -dentist hadn’t taken it after all. And this again was different from -those. It was like hot coffee and summer lightning and chestnuts -bursting as they fell from the autumn trees; not that he made those -comparisons consciously, of course. - -Most of all it was like a dream, the most wonderful of all his nights. -The third dance was over. He must go and find her. - - - V - -He stepped along the floor, looking about him from side to side; he -thought he saw her, started forward, and felt someone touch him on the -arm. He turned round. Mary was at his shoulder. - -“Hallo!” he said. “I’m in a hurry.” - -“Oh, Jeremy, do wait a moment.” She looked at him piteously. - -“Well, what is it?” - -“Come out here for a moment. Please do.” - -He did not want to hurt her, but this pause was an agony to him. - -“What is it?” he asked crossly when they were in the hall outside the -ballroom. - -“Oh, Jeremy, it’s all so horrid. Do dance with me. One little boy danced -with me and then his mother tried to make him dance again and he -wouldn’t, and I’m sure it wasn’t my fault, because I danced much better -than he did. And then Herbert said he could dance and he couldn’t, and -we fell down and he didn’t seem to mind at all; but _I_ minded because -everyone laughed and I tore my dress. And there hasn’t been anybody to -dance with for ever so long, and Helen’s been dancing all the -time. . . . Oh, Jeremy, do dance with me! I do love dancing so, and you -haven’t danced with me all the evening.” - -It was true that he had not, but oh! how he wished her at the other end -of England at that moment! She looked so foolish with her hair all over -the place and her dress untidy, her sash pulled round the wrong way and -her stockings wrinkled. And every moment was precious. _She_ would be -looking for him, wondering where he was, thinking him mean thus to break -his promise when she had given him so especial a favour. - -At that thought he started away. - -“No, no, Mary. Later on we’ll have a dance, two if you like. But not -now. I can’t, really.” - -But Mary was desperate. - -“Oh, Jeremy, you must! I can’t sit there any more and be looked at by -everyone. Oh, please, Jeremy. I’ll give you my mother-of-pearl box, if -you will.” - -“I don’t want your old box,” he said gruffly. He looked at her, looked -away, looked back at her, said: - -“All right, then. Come on.” - -His heart was like lead. The evening was ruined for him, and not only -the evening, but perhaps his whole life. And yet what was he to do? Mary -would cry if he left her. She had had a miserable evening. Something in -him was touched, as it always was, by her confident belief that he, and -he alone in all the world, could always put things right. It was just -his cursed luck! His evening was ruined; he hoped that after this they -would go home. - -They had what seemed to him the most miserable of dances, but he could -see that Mary was what Uncle Samuel called “seventh heavened.” She -bounced about, stamping her heels on Jeremy’s toes, bumping into him, -suddenly pushing back her wild hair from her frenzied face, giving -little snorts of pleasure, humping her shoulders, tossing her head. -Round and round they went, dancing what they imagined to be a polka, -Jeremy with his face grimly set, agonized disappointment in his heart. -When it was over they sat out on the stairs and Mary panted her thanks. - -“That was—lovely, Jeremy—we do dance—well together—don’t we? That -was the nicest—I’ve ever had—I do hope—we’ll have another.” - -“I expect it’s awfully late,” said Jeremy gloomily. “We’ll be going home -soon.” - -Soon the music began again and at the bottom of the stairs, to Jeremy’s -immense relief, they met Mrs. Carstairs with the serious-faced Herbert. - -“That’s right, Mary, dear,” Mrs. Carstairs said. “I’ve been looking for -you. It’s time we went down to supper. Herbert shall take us down. Have -you had supper, Jeremy?” - -He muttered some excuse and was off. With beating heart he searched the -crowds. Nowhere. Nowhere. He searched the fast-emptying ballroom, then -the hall; then, with tears in his eyes and a choked, strangling in his -throat, was turning back, when he caught sight of the diamond star high -above the other heads, and the lovely soft black hair and the jolly -smile. - -“Traitor!” she said. “You forgot, after all.” - -“No, I didn’t forget. It was my sister.” - -But there was no time for explanation. - -“Did you go with someone else to supper?” - -“Yes; I’ve had supper.” - -“Oh!” He half turned away. A tear was near its fall. “I suppose you -couldn’t——” - -“Yes, I could.” She twirled him round. “I can have any number of -suppers. I can have supper all day and supper all night. Come along. You -shall take me down in style. I put my arm through yours like that—see? -No, the right. Now we lead the way. Who’s coming down to supper?” - -His pride and his happiness! Who shall describe them? His back was so -straight as they walked down the stairs that he almost fell backwards. -The supper-room was a clatter of noise, but he was not so proud but that -he was suddenly hungry—wildly, savagely hungry. She piled his plate -with things, watching him, laughing at him. - -“Nobody’s cut the cake yet,” she cried. “You shall cut it, Jeremy!” - -An old stout servant with white hair, who had been watching her with -smiling eyes, brought a huge castle, with towers and battlements and -flags, and placed it in front of her. She made Jeremy stand on his -chair. She gave him a great knife and showed him where to cut. Everyone -at the other tables stopped eating and turned round to see. Then they -shouted and clapped. - -“One, two, three!” he cried, and cut into the cake. - -Then they all cheered. - -“Bravo,” she said. “You did that very well. Now Janet will cut the rest. -You must have a piece and I must have a piece. Perhaps one of us will -get the ring or the thimble.” - -And, miracle of miracles, he got the ring, the silver ring! She put it -on his finger herself. He flushed, his lip trembled. He felt that he -wanted everything to end just then, at that moment—for nothing more -ever to happen again. - -When he had had three ices, one after the other, she decided that supper -was over. They walked out of the room as they had walked into it, in -stately fashion, her arm through his. - -Then at the top of the stairs there was Mrs. Carstairs. - -“Come, Jeremy dear,” she said. “It’s time to go home. The carriage is -there.” - -He saw that the tall major was also there. - -“Hullo, young ’un,” he said. “Had a good supper?” - -He nodded his head. But he had eyes only for her. - -“I’m glad I got that ring,” he whispered, “because you put it on my -finger. And I’ll never take it off till I die.” - -“Not even when you wash?” she asked, laughing. - -“I won’t wash that finger,” he said. - -The major put his hand on his shoulder. - -“Here, I’ve got a secret for you. Shut your eyes.” Jeremy shut them. The -major’s hands were at his white waistcoat pocket. “Now don’t you look -till you’re on your way home. And I’ll tell you something. You’ve shown -excellent taste to-night. You couldn’t have shown better if you were a -hundred.” - -She bent down and kissed him. - -“Good night,” she said. “Will you write and tell me about the football?” - -“You bet your life,” he answered, staring at her. That was the favourite -oath just then at Thompson’s. - -She laughed again. Then, bending down, whispered in his ear -dramatically: “If I’m ever in trouble and need you, will you come, -wherever you are, whatever you’re doing?” - -“Yes,” he said, his eyes never leaving her face. - -She kissed him again. - - - VI - -They were all in the cab rolling homewards. He felt in his pocket; -something there in paper. He could tell by the feel of it that it was a -sovereign or a shilling. Cautiously he lifted it to the light of the -lodge gates. - -It was _Gold_. He sighed with satisfaction—but the real thing was the -silver ring. He sat there, making calculations. - -“Mrs. Carstairs,” he said suddenly, “if I have threepence a week for -eight years, and save it all, could I have enough to be married?” - -There was no answer. She was apparently sleeping—so he added sotto -voce: - -“And perhaps father will give me sixpence a week after I’m fifteen.” - - - - - CHAPTER IV - SALADIN AND THE BLACK BISHOP - - - I - -The old town, like human beings, had its moods of excited reminiscence. -Why should it not? Now brooding, now suddenly waking into lightning -flashes of dramatic history, so that everyone in the place, scarcely -knowing why, began to dream of the old days when armoured men fought all -the way down the High Street and up again, and the Black Bishop rode on -his great horse to the edge of the rock where the cloisters now are and -saw the beggarly heretics flung over far down into the waters below; and -the peasants had their fair up on the hill above the Pol (and were all -so be-drunken that they set the town on fire, so that three-quarters of -it was burnt to the ground in 1457, as everyone knows, and the cathedral -itself only saved by a miracle); and the meeting of the maidens in the -market-place, who brought a flag which they had worked to send to -Monmouth in Bridgewater; and the last drowning of a witch—old Mother -Huckepinch—in the Pol in 1723; and so farther and farther and farther. -History, history, history—it lay thick as dust about the town, and only -needed a little stirring of the town’s soil to send the dust up into -people’s eyes, making them think of times dead and gone and ghosts -closer still about them, perhaps, than they cared to think. - -It must have been during one of these moods of the town that Jeremy was -caught. He was, as all readers of these reminiscences of his early days -will have discovered, a two-sided boy, and he had already a strange, -secret interior life within his very healthy and normal exterior one. -There is nothing harder, perhaps, in our own experience than to look -back and discover when it was that that secret life was as it were first -confirmed and strengthened by something in the real world that -corresponded to it. For some of us that actual moment was so dramatic, -so strangely concrete and definite, so friendly (as though it were -someone suddenly appearing out of the dark and speaking to us and -showing us that we were not alone, either in experience or desire as we -had supposed) that we cannot possibly forget its precise time and -colour. With others, two or three occasions can claim to have worked the -miracle; with others again that confirmation was gradual, arising out of -no definite incident, but rather creeping forward like a finger of the -rising sun, slowly lighting one’s path and showing one where to go. - -With Jeremy there had been already definite signs—his adventure years -ago with the sea captain, his days on the beach at Rafiel, his -friendship with Uncle Samuel; but his actual realization of something -strange and mysterious, ancient and yet present, friendly and yet -hostile, reassuring and yet terrifying, active and yet quiescent, his -recognition of “that life beyond the wall,” dated quite definitely from -his discovery of Saladin and his strange adventure in the cathedral. - -As I have already said on that particular week—the last week of his -Christmas holidays—the town was up to its tricks. Had it not been, -Jeremy would surely never have felt the spirit of adventure so strongly, -never gone into the old bookshop, never—but you shall hear. - -He was very quiet and behaving beautifully during that last week—yes, -beautifully, until the last three days when the devil (who is always on -the wait for young gentlemen when they are about to return to school), -or the town, or Uncle Samuel or something or somebody suddenly got hold -of him and led him the strangest dance. It must have been the devil that -led to the adventure of the night raiders (and that is quite another -story); but again it _might_ have been the old town—nobody knows. How -can anybody know thirty years after it was all over and done with? - -Until those last three days Jeremy behaved like an angel—that is, he -listened to Aunt Amy and washed his hands when she told him to; he did -not tease his little sister Barbara, nor hide Helen’s hair ribbons; he -allowed Mary to go walking with him and gave Miss Jones a present when -she returned from her holiday. He felt, perhaps, that as the holidays -had begun so awfully with that terrible disaster of the Christmas -presents, it was up to him to see that they ended properly. And then he -was truly a good little boy who wanted things to go well and everyone to -be comfortable and happy, only so strangely moods _would_ creep in, and -desires and ambitions, and grown-up people would have such an amazing -point of view about boys and misunderstand their natural impulses so -dreadfully—what he meant was that if he were grown up and had a boy “he -wouldn’t be such an ass!” - -The trouble of these last three days all began by his suddenly -remembering that he had never read his holiday task. He did not remember -of himself, but was reminded by Bill Bartlett, whom he met in the High -Street, who said that the last two days had been miserable for him by -having to swot at his rotten holiday task and that he didn’t know -anything about it now! - -Jeremy had completely forgotten his. He hurried home and dragged it -forth from its deserted corner. “The Talisman: A Tale of the Crusades,” -by Sir Walter Scott, Bart. - -It was a horrible-looking book with a dark green cover, no pictures, and -rows of notes at the end. Jeremy was not as yet a very great reader of -anything, being slow and lazy about it and very eager to skip the -difficult words. - -His favourite two books were “Robinson Crusoe” and “The Swiss Family -Robinson,” simply because, in those books, people invented things in a -jolly way. And after all, any day one might be on a desert island, and -it was useful to know what to do. Of “Sir Walter Scott, Bart.,” he had -never in his life heard, nor did he wish to hear of him. Nevertheless, -something must be done. Old Thompson took holiday tasks very seriously -indeed. Jeremy’s report last term had not been a very good one, and -father’s eye was upon him. - -His first idea was that he would get Uncle Samuel to tell him the story; -but when he showed his uncle the book, that gentleman waved his -paint-brush in the air and said that “Walter was a fine old gentleman -who died game, but a rotten writer, and it was a shame to make kids wade -through his abominable prose.” There was, then, no hope here. Jeremy -looked at the book, read half a page, and then threw it at Hamlet. - -But the stern truth of the matter was that in such a matter as this, and -indeed in most of the concerns of his daily life, he resembled a spy -working his way through the enemy’s camp, surrounded on every side by -foes, compelled to consider every movement, doomed to death and -dishonour if he were caught. It had come to it now that there was in -practical fact nothing that he desired to do that he was not forbidden -to do, and because his school life had given him rules and standards -that did not belong to his home life, he criticized at every turn. There -was, for instance, this affair of walking in the town by himself. He -could understand that Helen and Mary should not go by themselves because -there was apparently something mysterious and precious in girls that was -destroyed were they left alone for a single moment. But a boy! a boy who -had travelled by himself all those miles to a distant county; a boy who, -in all probability would be the half-back for the school next term, a -boy who in another two years would be at a public school! - -What it came to, of course, was that he was continually giving his -elders the slip; was, indeed, like the spy in the enemy’s country, -because every move had to be considered and, at the end, all the excuses -ranged in a long row and the most serviceable carefully chosen. And -threadbare by now they were becoming! - -On this particular afternoon—the first of the last three days of the -holidays—he gave Miss Jones and Helen the slip in the market-place. -This was to-day easy to do, because it was market day; he knew that -Helen was too deeply concerned with herself and her appearance to care -whether he were there or no, and that Miss Jones, delighted as she -always was with the shops (knowing them by heart and yet never tired of -them), would optimistically trust that he would very soon reappear, and -at any rate he knew his way home. - -He was always delighted with the market on market days. Never, although -so constantly repeated, did it lose its savour for him. He adored -everything—the cattle and the sheep in their pens, the farmers with -their thick broad backs and thick broad sticks talking in such solemn -and serious clusters, the avenue down the middle of the market-place -where you walked past stall after stall—stalls of vegetables, stalls of -meat, stalls of cups and saucers, stalls of china ornaments, stalls of -pots and pans, and, best—far best of all—the flower-stalls with their -pots of beautiful flowers, their seeds and their tiny plants growing in -rows in wooden boxes. But it was not the outside market that was the -most truly entrancing. On the right of the market-place there were -strange mysterious passages—known to the irreverent as the -Catacombs—and here, in a dusk that would, you would have supposed, have -precluded any real buying or selling altogether—the true business of -the market went on. - -It was here, under these dark ages, that in his younger days the -toy-shop had enchanted him, and even now, although he would own it to no -one alive, the trains and the air-guns seemed to him vastly alluring. -There was also a football—too small for him; not at all the football -that he wanted to buy—but nevertheless better than nothing at all. He -looked at it. The price was eight and sixpence, and he had in his pocket -precisely fivepence halfpenny. He sighed, fingered the ball that was -hanging in mid-air, and it revolved round and round in the most -entrancing manner. The old woman with the moustache who had, it was -reputed, ever since the days of Genesis managed the toy-shop, besought -him in wheedling tones to purchase it. He could only sigh again, look at -it lovingly, twirl it round once more and pass on. He was in that mood -when _he must buy something_—an entrancing, delicious and intoxicating -mood, a mood that Helen and Mary were in all the time and would continue -to remain in it, like the rest of their sex, until the end, for them, of -purses, money and all earthly hopes and ambitions. - -Next to the toy-stall was a funny old bookstall. Always hitherto he had -passed this; not that it was uninteresting, because the old man who kept -the place had coloured prints that he stuck, with pins, into the wooden -sides of his booth, and these prints were delightful—funny people in -old costumes, coaches stuck in the snow, or a number of stout men -tumbling about the floor after drinking too much. But the trouble with -Mr. Samuel Porter was that he did not change his prints often enough, -being, as anyone could see, a man of lazy and indifferent habits; and -when Jeremy had seen the same prints for over a year, he naturally knew -them by heart. - -On this particular day, however, old Mr. Samuel had changed his prints, -and there were some splendid new ones in purples and reds and greens, -representing skating on the ice, going up in a balloon, an evening in -Vauxhall and the fun of the fair. Jeremy stared at these with open -mouth, especially at the fun of the fair, which was most amusing because -in it a pig was running away and upsetting everybody, just as it might -quite easily do here in the market-place. He stood looking, and Mr. -Porter, who wore a faded green hat and large spectacles and hated little -boys because they never bought anything, but only teased him and ran -away, looked at him out of the corner of his eye and dared him to be -cheeky. He had no intention whatever of being cheeky; he stared at the -books, all so broken and old and melancholy, and thought what a dreary -thing having to read was, and how unfortunate about his holiday task, -and how silly of him to have thought of it just at that moment and so -spoiled his afternoon. - -He would then have passed on had it not been by the strangest -coincidence that at that very instant his eye fell on a little pile of -books at the front of the stall, and the book on the top of the pile had -the very name of his holiday task: “The Talisman,” by Sir Walter Scott, -Bart. It was the strangest looking book, very different indeed from the -book at home. - -He stared at it as though it was a lucky charm. How strange that it -should be there and appearing so oddly different from the book at home. -It was dressed in shabby and faded yellow covers; he picked it up. On -the outside he read in large letters: “Stead’s Penny Classics!” Penny! -Could it be that this book was only a penny? Why, if so, he could buy it -and four others like it! This sudden knowledge gave him a new -proprietary interest in the book, as when you discover that a stranger -at an hotel lives, when at home, in your own street! Opening the little -book he saw that the print was very small indeed, that the lines were -crooked and irregular, here very black and there only a dim grey. But in -the very fact of this faint print there was something mysterious and -appealing. No notes here, of course, and no undue emphasis on this -“Scott, Bart.” man, simply “The Talisman,” short and sweet. - -Old Mr. Porter, observing the unusual sight of a small boy actually -taking a book in his hands and reading it, was interested. He had seen -the small boy often enough, and although he would never admit it to -himself, had liked his look of sturdy independence and healthy -self-assurance. He had not thought that the boy was a reader. He leaned -forward: - -“Only a penny,” he wheezed (he suffered terribly from asthma, and the -boys of the town used to call after him “Old Barrel Organ”), “and just -the story for a boy like you.” - -“I’ll have it,” said Jeremy with sudden pride. He was of half a mind to -buy some of the others—he saw that one more was by “Scott, Bart.”—but -no. He would see how this one was before he ventured any farther. - -He walked off with his prize. - - - II - -That night he did what he had never done before, he read in bed. - -He was doing as he well knew what was absolutely forbidden, and the -novelty of the event, the excitement of his disobedience, the strange -wobbly light that the candle flung as it shifted when his movements were -very impetuous, in its insecure china saucer, the way the lines of the -printed page ran tumultuously together, all these things helped his -sense of the romantic. - -He had found every line a difficulty in the other edition, now the sense -of indulging the forbidden carried him across the first page or two, and -then he was fairly inside it! The little book was very difficult to -read; not only was it vilely printed, but also the words ran in a kind -of cascade down into the very binding of the book, and you had to pull -the thing apart as wide as it would go and then peer into the very -depths of darkness and obscurity. Nevertheless it was his book, bought -with his own money, and he read and read on and on. . . . And in the -morning he read again, and in the evening . . . and on the fourth day, -late in the night, the candle very low in its china socket, the room lit -with sudden flashes of bizarre brilliance, the book was finished. - - - III - -He was dazzled, bewildered. He could think of nothing else at all. The -very first meeting of the knights in the desert had marvellously caught -his fancy. He had never imagined anything like that, so courteous, so -amiable and so fierce! Just so would he entertain the Dean’s Ernest did -he meet him in the desert, sharing his food and drink with him, -complimenting him on his armour and his horse (he would be very showy -would the Dean’s Ernest), and the next day sticking his spear through -his vitals. Yes, that would be intensely pleasing, but the trouble would -be that the Dean’s Ernest would most certainly not play fair, but would -seize some mean advantage (steal all Jeremy’s dates when he wasn’t -looking, or give him one in the back). - -Then the visit to the hermit’s cave and the silence of the chapel and -the procession of the wonderful ladies and the dropping of the rose at -Sir Kenneth’s feet. - -From that point forward Jeremy dwelt under enchantment. Nothing could -take him from it. And he believed every word of it! Just as true to him -these men and deeds of the Eastern desert as were the men and deeds of -Orange Street, Polchester. Truer indeed! He never quite believed in -Uncle Samuel and Aunt Amy and Barbara—but in Sir Kenneth and King -Richard and Edith and Saladin—how could he not utterly believe? - -Saladin! His was the figure that ultimately emerged from the gilded -background of the picture. Saladin! He became at once Jeremy’s ideal of -everything that was beautiful and “like a man” and brave. He haunted -Jeremy’s dreams, he followed him in his walks, came before him as he ate -and drank. He must know more about him than “Scott, Bart.,” told you; -and once again Uncle Samuel was sought. Jeremy had formed a habit now of -dropping into Uncle Samuel’s studio whenever it pleased him. - -The other children watched him with eyes of wonder and desire. Even Aunt -Amy was surprised. She said a little but sniffed a lot, and told her -brother that he “would regret the day.” He laughed and told her that -Jeremy was “the only artist among the lot of them,” at which Aunt Amy -went to Jeremy’s father and told him to be careful because her brother -“was filling the child’s head with all sorts of notions that could do -him no possible good.” - -Jeremy behaved like a saint in his uncle’s studio. He had his own corner -of the shabby sofa where he would sit curled up like a dog. He chattered -on and on, pouring out the whole of his mind, heart and soul, keeping -nothing back, because his uncle seemed to understand everything and -never made you feel a fool. He attacked him at once about Saladin and -would not let him alone. In vain Uncle Samuel protested that he knew no -history and that Saladin was a coloured devil as wicked as sin—Jeremy -stuck fast to his ideal—so that at length Uncle Samuel in sheer -self-defence was compelled to turn to a subject about which he did know -something, namely the history of the town Polchester in which they were -living. - -Never to any living soul had Uncle Samuel confided that he cared in the -least about the old town; in his heart, nevertheless, he adored it, and -for years had he been studying its life and manners. To his grave his -knowledge would have gone with him had not Jeremy, in the secrecy of the -studio, lured him on. - -Then, as though they were dram-drinking together, did the two sit close -and talk about the town, and under the boy’s eyes the streets blossomed -like the rose, the fountains played, the walls echoed to the cries and -shouts of armoured men, and the cathedral towers rose ever higher and -higher, gigantic, majestic, wonderful, piercing the eternal sky. - -Best of all he liked to hear about the Black Bishop, that proud priest -who had believed himself greater than the High God, had defeated all his -enemies, lived in the castle on the hill above the town like a king, and -was at last encircled by a ring of foes, caught in the Cathedral Square, -and died there fighting to the end. - -Jeremy would never forget one afternoon when he sat on the floor, his -head against the shabby sofa, and Uncle Samuel, who was doing something -to his paint-box, became carried away with the picture of his story. He -drew for Jeremy the old town with the gabled roofs and the balconies and -the cobbled roads, and the cathedral so marvellously alive above it all. -As he talked the winter sun poured into the room in a golden stream, -making the whitewashed walls swan-colour, turning some old stuffs that -he had hanging over the door and near the window into wine-red shadow -and purple light; and the trees beyond the high windows were stained -copper against the dusky sky. - -Uncle Samuel’s voice stopped and the room slided into grey. Jeremy -stared before him and saw Saladin and the Black Bishop, gigantic figures -hovering over the town that was small and coloured like a musical box. -The cathedral was a new place to him, no longer somewhere that was -tiresome and dreary on Sunday and dead all the rest of the week. He -longed to go there by himself, alone, nobody to see what he would do and -hear what he would say. He would go! He would go! He nodded to himself -in the dark. - - - IV - -All very well, but he must be quick about it if these holidays were to -see him bring it off. Only three days! - -Then Aunt Amy announced that she intended on this fine afternoon to pay -a call on Miss Nightingale who lived in the Precincts, and to her great -surprise Jeremy suggested that he should accompany her. - -She was rather flattered, and when it was discovered that Miss Jones and -Helen were also going that way and could pick Jeremy up and bring him -home, she agreed to the plan. Jeremy and she were old, old enemies; he -had insulted her again and again, played jokes upon her, had terrible -storms of temper with her; but once, when a wretched little boy had -laughed at her, he had fought the little boy and she had never forgotten -that. As he grew older something unregenerate in her insisted on -admiring him; he was such a thorough boy, so sturdy and manly. She -adored the way that his mouth went up at the corners when he laughed; -she liked his voice when it was hoarse with a serious effort to persuade -somebody of something. Then, although he had so often been rude to her, -she could not deny that he was a thorough little gentleman in all that -she meant by that term. His manners, when he liked, could be beautiful, -quite as good as Helen’s and much less artificial. If you cared for boys -at all—which Aunt Amy must confess that she did not—then Jeremy was -the sort of boy to care for. She had, in fact, both a family and an -individual pride in him. - -He was very funny to-day walking up the High Street; she could not -understand him at all. - -“Would you jump, Aunt Amy, if you suddenly saw the Black Bishop on his -coal black horse, with his helmet and suit of mail, riding along down -the High Street?” - -“The Black Bishop? What Black Bishop?” - -Was the boy being impertinent to dear Bishop Crozier, whose hair was in -any case white, who had certainly never ridden a coal-black horse. . . . - -Jeremy carefully explained. - -“Oh! the one in the cathedral! Oh! but he was dead and buried long ago!” - -“Yes; but if _he should_ come to life! He was strong enough for -anything.” - -“What an idea!” She couldn’t think where the boy got those strange -irreligious ideas from—from her brother Samuel, she supposed! - -“The dead don’t come back like that, Jeremy dear,” she explained gently. -“How do you do, Miss Mackenzie? Oh, much better, thank you. It was only -a little foolish toothache. It isn’t right of us to suppose they do. God -doesn’t mean us to.” - -“I don’t believe God could stop the Black Bishop coming back if he -wanted to,” said Jeremy. - -Aunt Amy would have been terribly shocked had she not seen a most -remarkable hat in Forrest’s window that was only thirteen and eleven. - -“What did you say, dear? With a little bit of blue at the side. . . . -Oh, but you mustn’t say that, dear. That’s very wicked. God can do -everything.” - -“Saladin didn’t believe in God,” said Jeremy, winking at Tommy -Winchester who was in charge of his mother on the other side of the -street. “At least not in your God, or father’s. His God. . . .” - -“Oh, there’s Mrs. Winchester! Take off your hat, Jeremy. I’m sure it’s -going to snow before I get back. Perhaps Miss Nightingale will be out -and I’m sure I shan’t be sorry. You mustn’t say that, Jeremy. There’s -only one God.” - -“But if there’s only one God——” he began, then broke off at the sight -of a dog, strangely like Hamlet. Not so nice though—not nearly so nice. - -He was returning to his consideration of the Deity, the Black Bishop and -Saladin, when, behold, they were already in the Precincts. - -“Now, you’ll be all right, Jeremy dear, won’t you, just for a minute or -two? Miss Jones can’t be long.” - -All right! Of course he would be all right! - -“If you like to wait here and just see, perhaps Miss Nightingale won’t -be in, and then we could go back together.” - -No, he thought he wouldn’t wait because he had promised Miss Jones who -would be on the other side of the cathedral. Very well, then. - -He watched his aunt ring Miss Nightingale’s very neat little door bell, -and saw her then admitted into Miss Nightingale’s very neat little -house. At that moment the cathedral chimes struck a quarter past four. -He stepped across the path, pushed up the heavy leather flap of the -great door and entered. Afternoon service, which began at half past -three, was just ending. Some special saint’s day. Far, far away in the -distance the canon’s voice beautifully echoed. The choir responded. “The -peace of God that passeth all understanding. . . . Passeth all -understanding! Passeth all understanding,” repeated the thick pillars -and the high-arched roof, dove-coloured now in the dusk, and the deep, -black-stained seats. “Passeth all understanding! All understanding!” The -flag-stones echoed deep, deep into the ground. The organ rolled into a -voluntary; white flecks of colour splashed for a moment against the -screen and were gone. Two or three people, tourists probably, came -slowly down the nave, paused for a moment to look at the garrison window -with the Christ and the little children, and went out through the west -end door. The organ rolled on, the only sound now in the building. - -Jeremy was suddenly frightened. Strange that a place which had always -seemed to him the last word in commonplace should now terrify him. It -was different, alive, moving in the heart of its shadows, whispering. - -He walked down the side aisle looking at every tablet, every monument, -every window, with a new interest. The aliveness of the church walked -with him; it was as though, as he passed them, they gathered themselves -and followed in a long, grey, silent procession after him. He reached -the side chapel where was the tomb of the Black Bishop. There he lay, -safely enclosed behind the golden grill, his gauntleted hands folded on -his chest, his spurs on his heels, angels supporting his head, and grim -defiance in his face. - -Jeremy stared and stared and stared again. About him and around him and -above him the cathedral seemed to grow vaster and vaster. Clouds of dusk -filled it; the colour from the windows and the tombs and the great gold -trumpeting angels stained the shadows with patches of light. - -Jeremy was cold and shivered; he looked up, and there, opposite him, -standing on the raised steps leading to the choir, was the Black Bishop. -He was there just as Jeremy had fancied him, standing, his legs a little -apart, one mailed fist resting on his sword, his thick black beard -sweeping his breast-plate. He was staring at Jeremy and seemed to be -challenging him to move. - -The boy could only stare back. Some spirit in him seemed to bid him -remember that this was true, whatever soon might disprove it, that the -past was the present and the present the past, that nothing ever died, -that nothing must frighten him because it survived, and that he must -take his share in his inheritance. - -All that he really thought was: “I wonder if he’ll come nearer.” But he -did not. Jeremy himself moved and suddenly the whole cathedral stirred, -the mist breaking, steps sounding on the flags, voices echoing. No -figure was there—only shadow. But here was that horrid fat man, the -precentor, who sometimes came to their house to tea. - -“Why, my boy, what are you doing here?” he asked in his big superior -voice. - -“I came in,” said Jeremy, still staring at the steps of the choir, “just -for a moment.” - -The precentor put his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “That’s right, my lad,” -he said. “Study our great church and all its history. You cannot begin -too young. Father well, and mother well?” - -“Yes,” said Jeremy, looking back behind him as he turned away. Oh! but -his face had been fine! So strong, like a rock, his sword had shone and -his gauntlets! How tall he had been, and how mighty his chest. - -“That’s right! That’s right. Remember me to them when you get home. You -must come up and play with my little girls one of these afternoons.” - -“I’m going back to school,” Jeremy said, “day after to-morrow.” - -“Well, well. That’s a pity, that’s a pity. Another day, perhaps. Good -day to you. Good day.” - -Chanting, he went along, and Jeremy stood outside the cathedral staring -about him. Lights were blowing in the wind; the dusk was blue and grey. -The air was thick with armoured men marching in a vast procession across -the sky. The wind blew, they flashed downwards in a cloud, wheeling up -into the sky again as though under command. - -The air cleared; the huge front of the cathedral was behind him, and -before him, under the Precinct’s lamp, Miss Jones and Helen. - -“Why, Jeremy, where have you been? We’ve been looking for you -everywhere. We were just going home.” - -“Come on,” Jeremy growled. “It’s late.” - - - - - CHAPTER V - POODLE - - - I - -I hate to confess it, but truth forces me—Hamlet was a snob. With other -dogs. Not with humans. With humans you never could tell—he would cling -to the one and cleave from the other without any apparent just reason. -He loved the lamplighter of Orange Street, although he was a dirty, -dishevelled rabbit of a man; he hated Aunt Amy, who was as decent and -cleanly a spinster as England could provide. But with dogs he was a -terrible snob. This, of course, he had no possible right to be, himself -an absolute mongrel with at least five different breeds peeping now -here, now there out of his peculiar body—nevertheless he did like a dog -to be a gentleman, and openly said so. It may have been that there was -in it more of the snobbery of the artist than of the social striver. -What he wanted was to spend his time with dogs of intelligence, dogs -with _savoir faire_, dogs of enterprise and ambition. What he could not -abide was your mealy-mouthed, lick-spittle, creeping and crawling kind -of dog. And he made his opinion very clear indeed. - -Since his master’s return for the holidays and his own subsequent -restoration to the upper part of the house, I am sorry to say that his -conceit, already sufficiently large, was considerably swollen. His -master was the most magnificent, stupendous, successful, all-knowing -human to be found anywhere, and he was the favourite, best-beloved, most -warmly-cherished object of that master’s affections. It followed then -that he was a dog beyond all other dogs. - -When he had been a kitchen dog he had affected a superiority that the -other kitchen dogs of the neighbourhood had found quite intolerable. - -He would talk to none of them, but would strut up and down inside the -garden railings, looking with his melancholy, contemptuous eyes at those -who invited him without, suffering himself to be lured neither by lust -of food nor invitation to battle nor tender suggestions of love. When he -became an upstairs dog again, the other upstairs dogs did not, of -course, allow him to forget his recent status. - -But Hamlet was not like other dogs; he had a humour and sarcasm, a gift -of phrase, an enchanting cynicism which very few dogs were able to -resist. He was out of doors now so frequently with Jeremy that he met -dogs from quite distant parts of the town, and a little while before -Christmas made friends with a fine, aristocratic fox-terrier who lived -in one of the villas beyond the high school. This fox-terrier found -Hamlet exactly the companion he desired, having himself a very pretty -wit, but being lazy withal and liking others to make his jokes for him. - -His name was Pompey, which, as he confided to Hamlet, was a silly name; -but then his mistress was a silly woman, her only merit being that she -adored him to madness. He had as fine a contempt for most of the other -dogs of the world as Hamlet himself. It passed his comprehension that -humans should wish to feed and pet such animals as he found on every -side of him. - -He saw, of course, at once, that Hamlet was a mongrel, but he had, I -fancy, an idea that he should play Sancho Panza to his own Quixote. He -often told himself that it was absurdly beneath his dignity to go about -with such a fellow, but for pretty play of wit, agility in snatching -another dog’s bone and remaining dignified as he did so, for a handsome -melancholy and gentle contempt, he had never known Hamlet’s equal. - -Hamlet counted it as one of his most successful days when he brought -Pompey into the Orange Street circle. There was not a dog there but -recognized that Pompey was a cut above them all, a dog who had won -prizes and might win prizes yet again (although, between you and me, -self-indulgence was already thickening him). All the sycophants in -Orange Street (and there, as elsewhere, there were plenty of these -creatures) made up at once to Pompey and approached Hamlet with -disgusting flatteries. A pug, known as Flossie, slobbered at Hamlet’s -feet, telling him that she had long been intending to call on him, but -that her mistress was so exacting that it was very difficult to find -time “for all one’s social duties.” Hamlet regarded the revolting object -(glistening with grease and fat) with high contempt, his beard assuming -its most ironical point. - -“I had a very nice bone waiting for you in the kitchen,” he said. - -Flossie shivered. “A bone with you anywhere would be a delight,” she -wheezed. - -Hamlet was, of course, in no way deceived by these flatteries. He knew -his world. He watched even his friend Pompey with a good deal of irony. -He would have supposed that his friend was too well-bred to care what -these poor creatures should say to him; nevertheless Pompey was more -pleased than he should have been. He sat there, round the corner, just -by the monument, and received the homage with a pleasure that was most -certainly not forced. He was himself a little conscious of this. “Awful -bore,” he explained afterwards to Hamlet, “having to listen to all they -had to say. But what’s one to do? One can’t be rude, you know. One -doesn’t want to be impolite. And I must say they were very kind.” - -Hamlet was now restored into the best Orange Street society—all -received him back—all with one very important exception. This was a -white poodle, the pride and joy of a retired military colonel who lived -at 41 Orange Street, and his name was Mephistopheles—Mephisto for -short. Ever since Hamlet’s first introduction to the Cole family he and -this dog had been at war. Mephisto was not a dog of the very highest -breed, but his family was quite good enough. And then, being French, he -could say a good deal about his origins and nobody could contradict him. -He did not, as a fact, say very much. He was too haughty to be -talkative, too superior to be familiar. He had no friends. There _was_ a -miserable Dachs, Fritz by name, who claimed to be a friend, but everyone -knew how Mephisto laughed at Fritz when he was not there, calling him -opprobrious names and commenting on his German love of food. - -From the very first Mephisto had seemed to Hamlet an indecent dog. The -way that he was here naked and there over-hairy had nothing to be said -for it. His naked part was quite pink. - -Then Mephisto had the French weakness of parsimony. Never was there a -meaner dog. He stored bones as no dog had a right to do, and had never -been known to give anything to anybody. Then he had the other French -weakness of an incapacity for friendship. The domestic life might -perhaps appeal to him strongly (no one knew whether he were married or -not), but friendship meant nothing to him. - -He was as are all the French, practical, unsentimental, seeing life as -it really is and allowing no nonsense. If he had those French defects he -had also the great French virtue of courage. He was afraid of nothing -and of no one. No dog was too big for him, and he once had a fight with -a St. Bernard who happened to stroll down his way that was historic. - -He was no coward, as Hamlet very well knew—but how Hamlet hated him! -All his fur bristled if Mephisto was within half a mile. Mephisto’s -superior smile, his contempt at the rather sentimental enthusiasms to -which Hamlet occasionally gave vent (that went, as they often do, with -his cynicism), these made a conflict inevitable. - - - II - -The actual cause of the conflict was Pompey. We all know how very trying -it is to make a fine friend, to introduce him into our own circle, and -then to discover him, when he is nicely settled, making more of others -than of ourselves—neglecting us, in fact. - -This was exactly what Pompey did. He grew a little weary of Hamlet’s -humour (he became very quickly tired of experiences), and he was not at -all sure that Hamlet was not laughing at himself. He was flattered by -Mephisto’s attitude that at last he had found a dog in the town worthy -to be his companion. He did not care very much for Mephisto—he found -his French conceit very trying—but it _was_ true that Hamlet was a -mongrel of the mongrels, and that it was absurd that he, a dog who had -taken prizes, should be with him so continually in public. - -Obviously, it was impossible that he should be friends _both_ with -Mephisto and Hamlet, so quite simply he chose Mephisto. - -Hamlet was most deeply hurt. He was hurt not only for himself (he had a -sensitive and affectionate nature), but also that so well-bred a dog as -Pompey should take up with a French animal who had all the faults of his -race and very little of its intelligence. He had one short, sharp -altercation with Pompey, told him one or two home truths, and left him. - -For a week or two he avoided the company of his kind and devoted himself -to his master. All this occurred at Christmas-time, when Jeremy was in -disgrace for the buying of Christmas presents with money not really his -own. Jeremy thought, of course, that Hamlet had noticed his misfortunes, -and was trying in his own way to express his sympathy for them. Master -and dog were very close together during those weeks. While Hamlet sat at -his master’s feet, pressing his thick body close up against his master’s -leg, staring in front of him, half asleep, half awake, seeing bones and -cats and rabbits, and near these Mephisto with his naked patches and the -treacherous Pompey, Jeremy thought that he was considering only his -master’s unhappiness. He was thinking a little of that, but for the most -part he was meditating revenge. - -He must fight Mephisto. For a long time now it had been coming to that. -He was compelled to confess that at the first positive thought of the -definite fact he shivered with apprehension. After all, no one is truly -brave who has not known fear, and Hamlet, sitting staring into the -schoolroom fire, knew fear in no half measure. Then the thoughts of the -insults he had received stirred him—let him only be angry enough and he -would forget his fear—and the very thought of Mephisto made him angry. - -He had one staunch, unfaltering little friend among the dogs of the -neighbourhood. This was an unimportant nondescript little fox-terrier, -the property of the hairdresser at the bottom of Orange Street. His name -was Bobby. There was nothing at all to distinguish Bobby from all the -dogs in the world—he was one of those ill-bred, colourless fox-terriers -who are known to their masters only by sterling character. He had -suffered every sort of indignity in his time: stones had been thrown at -him, kettles had been tied to his tail, cats had scratched his eyes, his -master (who often drank too much) kicked and abused him; but he had an -indomitable spirit, an essential gaiety of heart that no troubles could -quench. He was not admitted into the hierarchy of Orange Street -dogs—even Flossie did not permit herself to be aware of his -existence—but he hung about always in a good humour, always ready to do -anyone a good turn, and often just rolling over and over in the road at -the sheer joy of life. At the first glimpse of Hamlet he had lost his -heart to him. Hamlet had not been so kind to him as he should have been, -but he had not rebuffed him as the other dogs had done, and had gone -with him once all the way down to the hairdresser’s to see the -hairdresser’s baby, of whose strength and appearance Bobby was -inordinately proud. Now, in these days of Hamlet’s trouble Bobby showed -the true mettle of his pasture. He longed that Pompey might speak to him -so that he might show him what he thought of him. - -“You mustn’t let this worry you too much,” he said to Hamlet. “I’ve been -through far worse things than this. It simply shows that Pompey, in -spite of his high breeding, is worth nothing at all.” - -“I’m going to fight Mephisto,” said Hamlet. - -Bobby’s eyes opened wide at that and he looked up from the old and very -dirty bone that he was investigating. - -“Fight Mephisto!” he repeated. “That’s a tall order.” - -“Never mind,” said Hamlet firmly. “It’s got to be done, and you’ve got -to help me.” - - - III - -When Fate intends something to occur she very quickly provides the -opportunity. The opportunity in this instance was Bobby. - -His was a most sociable soul. We all know dogs whose whole interest in -life is social; they are not as a rule very popular with their masters, -it being said of them that they care for one as much as another, and -will leap with friendly gestures upon the hostile burglar as eagerly as -they will upon the most important person in the household. - -Bobby was not that kind of dog; he really did care for his hairdresser -and his hairdresser’s wife and baby and for Hamlet more than any other -humans or any other dog in the world. But he was miserable when he was -alone; he must have company. His only family was a very busy and -preoccupied one, and he did not wish to bore Hamlet with too much of his -own society. - -The Orange Street dogs had their most accustomed meeting-place at a -piece of deserted garden just behind the monument at the top of the -hill. Here it was shady in hot weather and comfortable and cosy in -chill; they were secure from rude boys and tiresome officials, and there -was no large house near enough to them for servants to come out and -chase them away. It was, it was true, on the whole the second-class dogs -who gathered there; Mephisto but seldom put in an appearance, and -therefore those sycophants, Flossie and Fritz, hinted that it was a -commonplace crowd and beneath them. Moreover, it was never very easy for -Mephisto to escape far from his own home, as his master, the colonel, -was so proud of him and so nervous of losing him that he could not bear -to let him out of his sight. - -It happened, however, one fine morning, a few days after Christmas, that -the colonel was in bed with a catarrh (he was a very hypochondriacal -gentleman), and Mephisto, meeting Pompey in the street, they wandered -amicably together in the direction of the monument. Mephisto was very -ready to show himself in public, having been to the barber’s only the -day before. He was inordinately proud of the second tuft at the end of -his tail, at the gleaming white circle of hair round his neck, and the -more the pink skin showed through in his naked parts the happier he was. -He really thought there was not such another dog in the world as himself -this fine morning, being a provincial and narrow-minded dog in spite of -his French origin. - -Mephisto and Pompey trotted up Orange Street together, and Flossie, who -was always on the look-out from behind her garden railing for the -passing of Mephisto, was graciously allowed to join them. She wheezed -along with them, puffing herself up and swelling with self-importance. -The conversation chanced to turn upon Hamlet. Mephisto said that now -that he and Pompey were friends, he would really like to ask him a -question that had been often in his mind, and that was how it came about -that Pompey could ever have allowed himself such a common, vulgar friend -as Hamlet. Pompey replied that he felt that that was a just and fair -question for his friend to ask him, and he could only reply that the -fellow had seemed at first to have a coarse sort of humour that was -diverting for the moment. One tired naturally of the thing very quickly, -and the trouble was with these coarse-grained creatures that when you -tired of them, having given them a little encouragement at first out of -sheer kindness, it was exceedingly difficult to shake them off again. -The fellow had seemed lonely, and Pompey had taken pity upon him; he -would see to it that it should be a long time before he did such a thing -again. Mephisto said that he was glad to hear this. For himself, he had -never been able to abide the creature, and he could only trust that he -would soon be ridden over by a cart or poisoned by a burglar or thrown -into the river by a couple of boys. - -When they arrived at the monument they found several dogs among the -trees flattering and amusing an elegant creature called Trixie, who was -young and handsome and liked flirtations. Bobby also was there, rolling -about on the grass, performing some of his simple tricks, like snapping -at three imaginary flies at once, tossing into the air a phantom bone, -and lying stiff on his back with his four legs stiffly in the air. He -had been happy until the two aristocrats arrived; now he knew that his -good time was over. He should have gone away, but something kept him—he -did so hate to be alone—and so he sat on, a silly grin on his rather -foolish face, listening to the conversation. - -While several of the dogs continued to wander about after the idiotic -Trixie, who was as arch and self-conscious as a dog could very well be, -the conversation of the rest belaboured poor Hamlet. It is well for us -that we do not hear the criticism that goes on behind our backs; one and -all of us, we are in the same box. Did we hear we should watch the -gradual creation of so strange and unreal a figure that we should rub -our eyes in amazement, crying, “Surely, surely this cannot be us!” - -Not the tiniest shred of character was soon left to Hamlet. He was a -thief, a drunkard, a wanton and upstart, a coward and a mongrel. Bobby -listened to all of this, growing with every word of it more -uncomfortable. He hated them all, but it would need immense pluck to -speak up for his friend, and he did not know whether by so venturing he -might not effect more harm than good. - -The sight, however, of Mephisto’s contemptuous supercilious face, his -tufted tail, his shining patches drove him on. He burst out, barking -that Hamlet was the bravest, the finest of all the dogs in the town, -that he was honourable to a fault, loyal and true, that he was worth all -the dogs there together. - -When he had finished there was an explosion of derisive barks; as he -heard them internally he trembled. For a large fortune of bones he would -have wished to sink his pride and run. He stood his ground, however. -With one directing bark from Mephisto they set upon him. They rolled him -over. Their teeth were in his ears, his eyes, his belly. He gave himself -up for lost. At that very instant Hamlet appeared upon the scene. - - - IV - -He had not intended to go that way, but finding that his master was -occupied with those two supremely unattractive and uninteresting humans, -his sisters, he thought that he would pursue an interesting smell that -he had noticed in the direction of the High School during the last two -days. Far behind him were his childish times when he had supposed that -rabbit lurked round every corner, and he had succeeded now in analysing -almost every smell in his consciousness. As we are raised to the heights -of our poor imagination by great poetry, great music and great pictures, -so is the dog aroused to his divine ecstasy by smell. With him a dead -mouse behind the wainscot may take the place that Shelley’s “Skylark” -assumes with us, and Bach’s fugues are to us what grilled haddock was to -Hamlet—_Tot homines tot_. . . . - -He had not, however, gone far towards the High School when he recognized -Bobby’s bark, and Bobby’s bark appealing for help. When he turned the -corner he saw that his fate was upon him. Mephisto was a little apart, -watching the barking and struggling heap of dogs, himself uttering no -sound, but every once and again pretending to search for a fly in the -tuft of his tail that he might show to all the world that he was above -and beyond vulgar street rows. - -And at sight of him Hamlet knew that what he had hoped would be was. The -sight of Mephisto’s contempt, combined with the urgency of poor Bobby’s -appeals, roused all the latent devil in him. Twitching his beard, -feeling no fear, knowing nothing but a hatred and loathing for his -enemy, he walked across the grass and approached Mephisto. The poodle -paused for a moment from his search for the fly, looked round, saw whom -it was (he had, of course, known from the first) and resumed his search. - -Hamlet went up to him, sniffed him deliberately and with scorn, then bit -his tail in its tenderest and most naked part. The other dogs, even in -the most dramatic moment of their own scuffle, were at once aware that -something terrible had occurred. They allowed Bobby to rise, and turned -towards the new scene. Mephisto was indeed a fearful sight; every hair -on his head seemed to be erect, the naked patches burned with a curious -light, his legs were stiff as though made of iron, and from his throat -proceeded the strangest, most threatening growl ever uttered by dog. - -And now Hamlet, pray to the gods of your forefathers, if indeed you know -who any of them were! Gather to your aid every principle of courage and -fortitude you have ever collected, and, better than they, summon to -yourself all the tricks and delicacies of warfare that during your short -life you have gained by your experience, for indeed to-day you will need -them all! Think not of the meal that only an hour ago you have, in the -event, most unwisely eaten, pray that your enemy also may have been -consuming food; remember that you are fighting for the weak and the -undertrodden, for the defenceless and humble-hearted, and better still -than that, you are fighting for yourself because you have been insulted -and the honour of your very nondescript family called in question! - -The other dogs recognized at once that this was no ordinary contest, and -it was difficult for them to control their excitement. This they showed -with little snappy barks and quiverings of the body, but they realized -that too much noise would summon humans on to the scene and stop the -fight. Of them all Bobby was the most deeply concerned. Bleeding though -he was in one ear, he jumped from foot to foot, snivelling with terror -and desire, yapping hysterically to encourage his friend and hero, -watching every movement with an interest so active that he almost died -of unnatural repression. - -To Hamlet, after the first moment of contact, impressions were confused. -It was, unfortunately, the first important fight of his life, and he had -not, alas, very much experience to guide him. But somewhere in his mixed -and misty past there had been a bulldog ancestor, and his main feeling -from the beginning to the end was that he must catch on with his teeth -somewhere and then hold and never let go again. This principle at first -he found difficult to follow. Tufts of white hair disgustingly choked -him, his teeth slipped on the bare places, and it seemed strangely -difficult to stand on his own feet. The poodle pursued a policy of snap, -retreat, and come again. He was always on the stir, catching Hamlet’s -ear, wrenching it, then slipping away and suddenly seizing a hind leg. -He was a master of this art, and it seemed to him that his victory was -going to be very easy. First he had one of his enemy’s ears, then the -other, now a foot, now the hair of his head, now one of his eyes. . . . -His danger was, as he knew, that he was not in good condition, being -over-fed by his master the colonel, and loving a soft and lazy life. He -recognized that he had been in a far better state two years before when -he had fought the St. Bernard. - -But poor Hamlet’s case was soon very bad indeed. He was out of breath -and panting; the world was swinging round him, the grass seeming to meet -the sky, and the audience of dogs to float in mid-air. All his attacks -missed; he could no longer see; blood was flowing from one eye and one -ear; he suddenly realized that the poodle meant to kill and it did not -seem at all impossible but that he should achieve that. The love of life -was strong upon him. Behind his fighting there was his dear master and -his love for him, the world with its hunts and smells and soft slumbers -and delicious food, the place where he slept, the rooms of the house -where he lived, the lights and the darks, the mists and the flashing -stars—all these things ranged through his sub-conscious mind, only -consciously forming behind his determination not to die and, in any -case, to hold on to the last, if only, yes, if only he could find -something on to which he might hold. - -The poodle’s teeth were terribly sharp, and Hamlet seemed to be bitten -in a thousand places. Worst of all, something had happened to one of his -hind-legs so that it trembled under him, and he was afraid lest soon he -should not be able to stand. Once down, he knew that it would be all -over with him. His throat was dry, his head a burning fire, his heart a -recording hammer, and the world was now, in very truth, reeling round -and round like a flying star. He knew that Mephisto was now certain of -victory; he could feel the hot breath of that hated triumph upon his -face. Worst of all there was creeping upon him a terrible lassitude, so -that he felt as though nothing mattered if only he might lay him down -and sleep. Sleep . . . sleep. . . . His teeth snapped feebly. His body -was one vast pain. . . . Now he was falling. . . . His legs were -trembling. He was done, finished, beaten. - -At that last moment he heard, as though from an infinite distance, -Bobby’s encouraging bark. - -“Go on! Go on!” the bark cried. “You’re not finished yet. He’s done too. -One more effort and you’ll bring it off.” - -He made one more effort, something colossal, worthy of all the heroes, -bracing the whole of his body together, beating down his weakness, -urging all the flame and fire of his spirit. He launched out with his -body, snapped with his teeth, and at last, at last they fastened upon -something, upon something wiry and skinny, but also soft and yielding. - -If this time his teeth had slipped it would indeed have been the end, -but they held. They held, they held, _they held_—and it was the -poodle’s tail that they were holding. - -He felt Mephisto’s body swing round—so weak was he that he swung round -with it. His teeth clenched, clenched and clenched. Mephisto screamed, a -curious, undoglike, almost human scream. Hamlet’s teeth clenched and -clenched and clenched; tighter and tighter they held. They met. -Something was bitten through. - -Mephisto’s whole body seemed to collapse. His fund of resistance was -gone. Something white was on the ground. The end of the tail, with its -famous, magnificent, glorious, superb, white tuft was no longer attached -to Mephisto’s body. - -The poodle gave one cry, a dreadful, unearthly, ghostly cry of terror, -shame and abandonment, then, his tail between his legs, ran for his very -life. - - - V - -Ten minutes later Jeremy, looking out of the schoolroom window, beheld, -tottering up the garden, a battered, dishevelled dog. A little trail of -blood followed his wavering course. - -Hamlet looked up at the window, saw his master, feebly wagged his tail -and collapsed. - -But as he collapsed he grinned. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - THE NIGHT RAIDERS - - - I - -It will be always difficult to understand what drove Jeremy into this -adventure. That on the very last night but one of his Christmas -holidays, when he had every good reason for placating the powers and -when he did, of his own nature, desire that he should leave everything -behind him in the odour of sanctity, that at such a time he should take -so wild and unnecessary a risk will always and for ever be a deep -mystery. - -The end of these holidays he especially desired to clothe in -tranquillity because of the painful manner in which they had begun. He -really did wish to live at peace with his fellow men, and especially -with his mother and father. His mother was easy, but his father! - -How were they ever to see the same way about anything? And yet he -detected in himself a strange pathetic desire to be liked by his father -and himself to like in return; had he only known it, his father felt -precisely the same towards himself—but the gulf of two generations was -between them. - -Indeed, on that very morning Mr. Cole had had a conversation with his -brother-in-law Samuel about his son Jeremy. Mr. Cole was never at ease -with his brother-in-law. He distrusted artists in general—his idea was -that they were wasting the time that God had given them—and he -distrusted his brother-in-law in particular because he thought that he -often laughed at him, which indeed he often did. - -“I’m unhappy about Jeremy,” he said, looking at Samuel’s blue smock with -dissatisfaction. He did wish that Samuel wouldn’t wear his painting -clothes at breakfast-time. - -“Why?” asked Samuel. - -“I don’t think the boy’s improving. School seems to be doing him no -good.” - -“Take him away, then,” said Samuel. - -“Really,” said Mr. Cole, “I wish you wouldn’t joke about these things. -He must go to school.” - -“Send him to another school if this one isn’t satisfactory.” - -“No. Thompson’s is a good school. I’m afraid it’s in the boy, not the -school, that the fault lies.” - -Samuel Trefusis said nothing. - -“Well, don’t you see what I mean about the boy?” Mr. Cole asked -irritably. - -“No, I don’t. I think the boy perfectly delightful. I don’t as a rule -like boys. In fact, I detest them. I’ve come slowly to Jeremy, but now -I’m quite conquered by him. He’s a baby in many ways still, of course, -but he has extraordinary perceptions, is brave, honest, amusing and -delightful to look at.” - -“Honest,” said Mr. Cole gloomily, “that’s just what I’m not sure about. -That affair of the money at the beginning of the holidays.” - -“Really, Herbert,” Samuel broke in indignantly, “if you’ll allow me to -say so—and even if you won’t—you were wrong in that affair from first -to last. You never gave the boy a chance. You concluded he was guilty -from the first moment. The boy thought he had a right to the money. You -bullied and scolded him until he was terrified, and then wanted him to -apologize. Twenty years from now parents will have learnt something -about their children—the children are going to teach them. Your one -idea of bringing up Jeremy is to forbid him to do everything that his -natural instincts urge him to do. - -“He is a perfectly healthy, affectionate, decent boy. He’ll do you -credit, but it won’t be your merit if he does. It will be in spite of -what you’ve done—not because of it.” - -Mr. Cole was deeply shocked. - -“Really, Samuel, this is going too far. As you’ve challenged me, I may -say that I’ve noticed, and Amy also has noticed, that you’re doing the -boy no good by petting him as you are. It’s largely because you are -always inviting the boy into that studio of yours and encouraging him in -the strangest ideas that he has grown as independent as he has. I don’t -think you’re a wholesome influence for the boy. I don’t indeed.” - -Samuel’s face closed like a box. He was very angry. He would have liked, -as he would have liked on many other occasions, to say, “Very well, -then, I leave your house in the next five minutes,” but he was lazy, had -very little money, and adored the town, so he simply shrugged his -shoulders. - -“You can forbid him to speak to me if you like,” he said. - -Mr. Cole was afraid of his brother-in-law, so all he said was: “I shall -write to Thompson about him.” - - - II - -Meanwhile this awful adventure had suddenly leaped up in front of Jeremy -like a Jack-in-the-box. Like many of the most daring adventures, its -origin was simple. Four days earlier there had been a children’s -afternoon party at the Dean’s. The Dean’s children’s parties were always -dreary affairs because of Mrs. Dean’s neuralgia and because the Dean -thought that his share of the affair was over when he had poked his head -into the room where they were having tea, patted one or two innocents on -the head (they became instantly white with self-consciousness), and then -said in a loud, generous voice: “Well, my friends, enjoying yourselves? -That’s right”—after which he returned to his study. The result of this -was that his guests were as sheep without a shepherd. The Dean’s -children were too young to do much, and the girls’ governess too deeply -agitated by her fancy that children’s parents were staring at her -arrogantly to pull herself together and be amiable. It was during one of -those catch-as-catch-can intervals, when children were desultorily -wandering, boys sticking pins into stout feminine calves, girls -sniggering in secret conclave together, infants howling to be taken -home, that Jeremy overheard Bill Bartlett say to the Dean’s Ernest: “I -dare you!” - -Jeremy pricked up his ears at once. Anything in which the Dean’s Ernest -(his foe of foes) was concerned incited him to rivalry. He was terribly -bored by the party; not only was it a bad, dull party, but ever since -his first real evening ball children’s afternoon parties had seemed to -him stupid and without reason. - -“I don’t care,” said the Dean’s Ernest. - -“I dare you,” repeated Bill Bartlett. - -“I’m not frightened,” said Ernest. - -“Then do it,” said Bill. - -“You’ve got to come too.” - -“Pooh!” said Bill, “that’s nothing. I’ve done lots more than that.” - -Ernest quite plainly disliked the prospect of his daring, and, catching -sight of Jeremy, he shifted his ground. - -“Young Cole wouldn’t dare,” he said. - -“Yes, he would,” said Bartlett; “he dares more than you dare.” - -“No, he doesn’t,” said the Dean’s Ernest indignantly. - -“Yes, he does.” - -“You dare more than Sampson dares, don’t you, Cole?” said Bill. - -“Of course I do,” said Jeremy, without a moment’s hesitation. - -“Well, do it then,” said the Dean’s Ernest swiftly. - -It appeared on further examination that Bartlett had dared young Sampson -to walk round the cathedral twice just as the clocks were striking -midnight. It was obvious at once that this involved quite terrifying -dangers. Apart altogether from the ghostly prospect of walking round the -cathedral at midnight, there was the escape from the house, the danger -of the police and the return to the house. Jeremy saw at once all that -was involved, but because the Dean’s Ernest was there and staring at him -from under his pale eyebrows with arrogant contempt, he said at once: - -“I dare.” - -Tommy Winchester, who was complaining bitterly about the food provided, -was soon drawn into the challenge, and although his stout cheeks -quivered at the prospect (Major Winchester, his father, was the sternest -of disciplinarians) he had to say: “I dare.” - -Details were then settled. It was to be three nights from that day; they -were to meet just outside the west door as the clock struck twelve, to -walk or run twice round the cathedral, and then find their way home -again. - -“I bet young Cole doesn’t come,” Jeremy heard Ernest say loudly to Bill -as they parted. - -Of course after that he would go, but when he reached home and -considered it he was miserable. To end the holidays with such a risk -truly appalled him. From every point of view it was madness. Even though -he escaped through the pantry window (he knew that he could push up the -catch and then drop into the garden without difficulty), there was all -the danger of his absence being discovered while he was away. Then there -was the peril of a policeman finding them and reporting them; then there -was the return, with the climb back into the pantry and the noisy crawl -(you never knew when a board was going to creak) back into his room -again. He had no illusion at all as to what would happen if his father -caught him: that would simply sign and seal his disgrace once and for -ever. But worse—far worse to him—was what Uncle Samuel would feel. -Uncle Samuel had simply been wonderful to him during these holidays. He -adored Uncle Samuel. Uncle Samuel had, as it were, “banked” on his -honour and integrity, when all the rest of the world doubted it. Uncle -Samuel loved him and believed in him. He had a momentary passionate -impulse to go to Uncle Samuel and tell him everything. But he knew what -the consequence of that must be; Uncle Samuel would persuade him not to -go, would, indeed, make him give his word that he would not go; then for -ever would he be disgraced in the eyes of Bill Bartlett, Tommy -Winchester and the others, and the Dean’s Ernest would certainly never -allow him to hear the last of it. It was possible that the others would -fail at the final moment and would not be there, but he must be there. -Yes, he must, he must—even though death and torture awaited him as the -consequence of his going. - -Had he not trusted Bartlett he might have thought the whole thing a plot -on the part of the Dean’s Ernest to put him into a dangerous position, -but Bartlett was a friend of his and the challenge was genuine. - -As the dreadful hour approached he became more and more miserable. -Everyone noticed his depression, and thought it was because he was going -back to school. Aunt Amy was quite touched. - -“Never mind, Jeremy dear,” she said; “it will soon be over. The weeks -will pass, and then you will be home with us again. It won’t seem so bad -when you’re there.” - -He said, “No, Aunt Amy,” quite mildly. One of the worst things was -deceiving his mother. She had not played so great a part in his life -since his going to school, but she was always there, quiet and sensible -and kind, helping him about his clothes, soothing him when he was angry, -understanding him when he was sad, laughing with him when he was happy, -comfortable and consoling always; like Uncle Samuel, believing in him. -He remembered still with the utmost vividness the terror that he had -been in two years ago, when she had nearly died just after Barbara’s -arrival. Because she was so safely there he did not think much about -her, but when a crisis came, when things were difficult at school, she -was always the first person who came to his mind. - -The evening arrived, and as he went up to bed his teeth positively -chattered. It seemed a fine night, but very dark, he thought, as he -looked out through the landing window. Hamlet gaily followed him -upstairs. He was only now recovering from the terrific fight that he had -had a week or so ago with the poodle, and one of his ears was still -badly torn and he limped a little on one foot. Nevertheless, he was in -high spirits and gambolled all the way up the stairs, suddenly stopping -to bark under the landing window, as he always did when he was in high -spirits, chasing an imaginary piece of paper all the way up the last -flight of stairs, and pausing outside Jeremy’s bedroom door, panting and -heaving, his tongue hanging out and a wicked look of pleasure in his -sparkling eyes. - -Here indeed was a new problem. Hamlet! What would happen if he suddenly -awoke, discovered his master’s absence, and began to bark? Or suppose -that he awoke when Jeremy was leaving his room, and determined to follow -him? Jeremy, at these thoughts, felt his spirits sink even lower than -they had been before. How could he in this thing escape disaster? He was -like a man doomed. He hated the Dean’s Ernest at that moment with a -passion that had very little of the child in it. - -He took off his coat and trousers and climbed into bed. Hamlet jumped -up, moved round and round for some moments, scratching and sniffing as -he always did until he had found a place to his mind; then, with a -little contented sigh, curled up and went to sleep. Jeremy lay there -with beating heart. He heard half-past nine strike from St. John’s, then -ten, then half-past. For a little while he slept, then awoke with a -start to hear it strike eleven. No sound in the house save Hamlet’s -regular snores. A new figure leapt in front of him. The policeman! A -terrible giant of a man, with a great stick and a huge lantern. - -“What are you doing here, little boy?” he cried. “Come with me to the -police station!” - -Jeremy shivered beneath the bedclothes. Perspiration beaded his -forehead, and his legs gave curious little jerks from the knees -downwards as though they had a life of their own with which he had -nothing to do. - -Half-past eleven struck. Very carefully he got out of bed, watching -Hamlet out of the corner of his eye, put on his coat, his trousers and -his boots, stole to the door and paused. Hamlet was still snoring -peacefully. He crept out, then remembered that to do this properly one -must take off one’s boots and carry them in one’s hand. Too late now for -that. Downstairs he went; at every creak he paused; the house was like a -closed box around him. From some room far away came loud, impatient -snores. Once he stumbled and nearly fell; he stayed there, his hands on -the banisters, a dead man save for the beating of his heart. - -His hand was on the pantry window, he had pushed back the catch, climbed -through, and in another moment was in the garden. - - - III - -It was a very dark night. The garden gate creaked behind him as though -accusing him of his wicked act; the darkness was so thick that you had -to push against it as though it were a wall. - -At first he ran, then the whole world seemed to run after him, trees, -houses and all, so he stopped and walked slowly. The world seemed -gigantic; he was not as yet conscious of fear, but only suspicious of -the presence of that gigantic policeman taking step with him, inch by -inch, flicking his dark lantern, now here, now there, rising like a -Jack-in-the-box suddenly above the trees and peering down upon him. - -Then, when for the moment he left the houses behind him and began to -walk up Green Lane towards the cathedral, his heart failed him. How -horrible the trees were! All shapes and sizes; towers of castles, masts -of ships, animals, pigs and hens and lions blowing a little in the night -breezes, becking and bowing above him, holding out horrible, long, -skinny fingers towards him, sometimes closing in upon him, then moving, -fan-wise, out again. In fact, he was now completely miserable. With the -dreadful finality of childhood he saw himself as condemned for life. By -this time Hamlet, having discovered his absence, had barked the house -awake. Already, perhaps, with lanterns they had started to search for -him. The awful moment of discovery would come. Even Uncle Samuel would -abandon him; nobody would ever be kind to him again. - -At this point it was all that he could do to keep back the tears. His -teeth were chattering, he had a crick in his back, he was very cold, the -heel of one shoe rubbed his foot. And he was frightened! Bet your life -but he was frightened! He hadn’t known that it would be like this, so -silent and yet so full of sound, so dark and yet so light and alive with -strange quivering lights, so cold and yet so warm with an odd, pressing -heat! There were no lamps lit in the town below him (all lights out at -ten o’clock in the Polchester of thirty years ago), and the cathedral -loomed up before him a heavy black mass, threatening to fall upon him -like the mountain in the Bible. Now the trees were coming to an -end—here was a house and there another. A light in one window, but, for -the rest, the houses quite dead like coffins. He came into Bodger -Street, past the funny old-fashioned turnstile that led into Canon’s -Yard over the cobble-stones of that ancient square, through the -turnstile at the other end and into the Precincts. He was there! -Shivering and frightened, but there! He had kept his word. - -As he crossed the grass a figure moved forward from the shadow of the -cathedral and came to meet him. It was Tommy Winchester. It immensely -cheered Jeremy to see him; it also cheered him to see that if he was -frightened Tommy was a great deal more so. Tommy’s teeth were chattering -so that he could scarcely speak, but he managed to say that it was -beastly cold, and that he had upset a jug of water getting out of his -bedroom, and that a dog had barked at him all the way along the -Precincts, and that he was sure his father would beat him. They were -joined a moment later by another shivering mortal, Bartlett. A more -unhappy trio never met together in the world’s history. They were too -miserable for conversation, but simply stood huddled together under the -great buttress by the west door and waited for the clock to strike. - -The only thing that Bartlett said was: “I bet Sampson doesn’t come!” At -that Jeremy’s heart gave a triumphant leap. How splendid it would be if -the Dean’s Ernest funked it! Of course he _would_ funk it, and would -have some long story about his door being closed or having a headache, -some lie or other! - -Nevertheless, they strained their eyes across the dark wavering lake of -the Precincts watching for him. - -“I’m so cold,” Tommy said through his chattering teeth. Then suddenly, -as though struck by a gun: “I’m going to sneeze!” - -And he did sneeze, an awful shattering, devastating sound with which the -cathedral, and indeed the whole town, seemed to shake. That was an awful -moment. The boys stood, holding their breath, waiting for all the black -houses to open their doors and all the townsmen to turn out in their -nightshirts with lanterns (just as they do in the _Meistersinger_, -although that, of course, the boys did not know) crying: “Who’s that who -sneezed? Where did the sneeze come from? What was that sneeze?” - -Nothing happened save that, the silence was more awful than before. Then -there was a kind of whirring noise above their heads, a moment’s pause, -and the great cathedral clock began to strike midnight. - -“Now,” said Bartlett, “we’ve got to walk or run round the cathedral -twice.” - -He was off, and Tommy and Jeremy after him. - -Jeremy was a good runner, but this was like no race that he had ever -engaged in before. As he ran the notes boomed out above his head and the -high shadow of the great building seemed to catch his feet and hold him. -He could not see, and, as before, when he ran the rest of the world -seemed to run with him, so that he was always pausing to hear whether -anyone were moving with him or no. - -Then quite suddenly he was alone, and frightened as he had never in his -life been before; no, not when the horrible sea captain had woken him in -the middle of the night, not when he thought that God had killed Hamlet, -not when he had first been tossed in a blanket at Thompson’s, not when -he had first played second-half in a real game and had to lie down and -let ten boys kick the ball from under him! - -His body was turned to water. He could not move. The shadows were so -vast around him, the ground wavered beneath his feet, the trees on the -slopes below the cathedral all nodded as though they knew that terrible -things would soon happen to him—and there was no sound anywhere. What -he wanted was to creep close to the cathedral, clutch the stone walls, -and stay there. That was what he nearly did, and if he had done it he -would have been there, I believe, until this very day. Then he -remembered the Dean’s Ernest who had been too frightened to come, he -remembered that he had been “dared” to run round the cathedral twice, -and that he had only as yet run half round it once. His stockings were -down over his ankles, both his boots now hurt him, he had lost his cap; -he summoned all the pluck that there was in his soul and body combined -and ran on. - -When he had finished his first round and was back by the west door -again, there was no sign of the other two boys. He paused desperately -for breath; then, as though pursued by all the evil spirits of the -night, started again. This time it did not seem so long. He shut his -ears to all possible sound, refused to think, and the physical pain of -the stitch in his side and his two rubbed heels kept him from grosser -fear. Then, just as he completed the second round, the most awful thing -happened. A figure, an enormous figure it seemed to poor Jeremy, rose -out of the ground, a figure with flapping wings; a great light was -flashed in the air; a strange, high voice screamed aloud. The figure -moved towards him. That was enough for his courage. As though death -itself were behind him, he took to his heels, tore across the grass, -plunged through the stile into Parson’s Yard. - -The little shadow had been like a curve of wind on the grass. High in -the air rose the cry: - -“A windy night and all clear! A windy night and all clear!” and the -night-watchman, his thoughts upon the toasted cheese that would in -another half-hour be his reward, pressed round the corner of the -cathedral. - - - IV - -And Jeremy ran on! How he ran! He stumbled, nearly fell, recovered -himself, felt no pain in his legs or side, only fear, fear, fear! As he -ran he was saying: - -“I must get back! Oh, I must get back! I must be home. . . . I must get -back!” and did not know that he was saying anything at all. - -Then suddenly in the middle of Grass Lane he recovered himself and -stood. How still and quiet everything was! A few stars were breaking -through the clouds. The rustling of the trees now was friendly and -reassuring, and there was a soft undertone in the air as though a -thousand streams were running beneath his feet. - -He stood, panting, loving to feel the stroke of the little wind against -his hot cheek. What was that that had frightened him? Whom could it have -been? - -But gradually the centre of interest was shifting. The past was the -past. He had done what he had said he would do. Now for the future. He -shivered as it came to him in its full force, then squared his shoulders -and marched on. He would meet whatever it might be, and anyway he was -going to school the day after to-morrow. . . . - -Time moved quickly then. He was soon passing the High School, the world -completely dead now on every side of him; then there was his old friend -the monument; then the row of houses in which his own home stood. He -closed the garden gate very carefully behind him, stole up the path, -found the ledge stone below the pantry window, then felt for the ledge. - -His heart ceased to beat: the catch was fastened. Someone, then, _had_ -discovered his absence! The house seemed to be dark and silent enough, -but they were lying in wait for him inside! - -Well, he was going on with it now. All that he wanted was the quiet and -comfort of his room and to be warm and cosy again in bed. He was -suddenly quite horribly tired. He pushed with his fingers between the -ledges and found then that the catch was _not_ securely fastened after -all. The upper part of the window suddenly jerked upwards, moving -awkwardly and with a creaking noise that he had not known before. He -pulled himself on to the window-ledge, then very carefully let himself -down on the other side. The first thing that he knew was that his feet -touched a chair, and there had been no chair there before; then, that -his fingers were rubbing against the corner of a table! - -He was not in their own pantry, he was not in their own house! He had -climbed in through the wrong window! And even as he realized this and -moved in an agony of alarm back to climb out of the window again, his -arm brushed the table _again_, he pushed something, and with the noise -of the Niagara Falls a thousand times emphasized echoing in his ears, -the china of all the pantries of heaven fell clattering to the ground. - - - V - -After that things happened quickly. A light instantly cleaved the -darkness, and he saw an open door, a candle held aloft, and the -strangest figure holding it. At the same time a deep voice said: - -“Stand just where you are! Move another step and I fire!” - -“Don’t fire, please,” said Jeremy. “It’s only me!” - -The figure confronting him was a woman’s. It was, in fact, quite easily -to be recognized as that of Miss Lisbeth Mackenzie, who had lived next -door to the Coles for years and years and years—ever since, in fact, -Jeremy could remember—and waged, like Betsy Trotwood, incessant warfare -on boys, butchers and others who walked across her lawn, whose only -merit had been that she hated Aunt Amy, and told her so. She was an -eccentric old woman, eccentric in manners, in habits and appearance, but -surely never in her life had she looked so eccentric as she did now. -With her white hair piled untidily on her head, her old face of a crow -pallid behind her hooked and piercing nose, over her nightdress she had -hurriedly gathered her bed-quilt—a coat, like Joseph’s, of many and -varied colours—and on her feet were white woollen stockings. - -In the hand that did not hold the candle she flourished a pistol that, -even to Jeremy’s unaccustomed and childish eyes, was undoubtedly a very -old and dusty one. - -They must have been a queer couple to behold had there been any third -person there to behold them: the small boy, dishevelled, hatless, his -collar burst, his stockings down over his ankles, and the old woman in -her patchwork quilt. Miss Mackenzie, having expected to behold a hirsute -and ferocious burglar, was considerably surprised. She held the candle -closer, then exclaimed: - -“Why, you’re a little Cole from next door.” - -“Yes,” said Jeremy. “I thought this was our pantry and it was yours. -Wait a minute. I’m going to sneeze.” This he did, and then hurried on -breathlessly: “Please let me go now and I’ll come in to-morrow and -explain everything and pay for the cups and saucers. But I don’t want -them to know that I’ve been out.” - -“Here, pick the bits up at once,” she said, “or somebody will be cutting -themselves. It’s just like that maid, having it out on the table. That -settles it. She shall leave to-morrow.” - -She put down the candle and pistol on the table, and then watched him -while he picked up the pieces. They were not very many. - -“And now please may I go?” said Jeremy again. “I didn’t mean to come -into your house. I didn’t really. I’ll explain everything to-morrow.” - -“No, you won’t,” said Miss Mackenzie grimly. “You’ll explain here and -now. That’s a pretty thing to come breaking into somebody’s house after -midnight, and then thinking you can go out just as easily as you came -in. . . . You can sit down,” she said as a kind of afterthought, -pointing to a chair. - -“It isn’t anything really,” said Jeremy very quickly. “I mean that it -isn’t anything you need mind. They dared me to run round the cathedral -twice when the clock struck twelve, and I did it, and ran home and -climbed into your house by mistake.” - -“Who’s they?” asked Miss Mackenzie, gathering her quilt more closely -about her. - -“Bill Bartlett and Ernest Sampson,” he said, as though that must tell -her everything. “The Dean’s son, you know; and I don’t like him, so when -he dares me to anything I must do it, you see.” - -“I don’t see at all,” said Miss Mackenzie. “It was a very wicked and -silly thing to do. There are plenty of people I don’t like, but I don’t -run round the cathedral just to please them.” - -“Oh, I didn’t run round it to _please_ him!” Jeremy said indignantly. “I -don’t want to please him, of course. But he said that I wouldn’t do it -and he would, whereas, as a matter of fact, I did and he didn’t.” - -“As a matter of fact,” picked up from the drawing-room, was just then a -very favourite phrase of his. - -“Well, you’ll get it hot from your father,” said Miss Mackenzie, “when -he knows about it.” - -“Oh, but perhaps he won’t know,” said Jeremy eagerly. “The house looks -all dark, and perhaps Hamlet didn’t wake up.” - -“Hamlet?” repeated Miss Mackenzie. - -“Yes; that’s my dog.” - -“Oh, that hateful dog that sometimes looks through the railings into my -garden as though he would like to come in and tear up all my flowers. -He’d better try, that’s all.” - -“He isn’t hateful,” said Jeremy. “He’s a splendid dog. He had a fight a -little while ago, and was nearly killed, but he didn’t care. He just -grinned.” - -“He won’t grin if I get hold of him,” said Miss Mackenzie. “Now what are -you going to do about it when your father knows you’ve been out like -this?” - -“Oh, he mustn’t know!” said Jeremy. “You’re not going to tell him, are -you?” - -“Of course I am,” said Miss Mackenzie. “I can’t have little boys -climbing into my house after midnight and then do nothing about it!” - -“Oh, please, please!” said Jeremy. “Don’t do anything this time. I -promise never to do it again. It would be dreadful if father knew. It’s -so important that the holidays should end well. They began so badly. You -won’t tell him, will you?” - -“Of course I will,” said Miss Mackenzie. “First thing in the morning. I -shall ask him to whip you and to allow me to be present during the -ceremony. There’s nothing that I love like seeing little boys -whipped—especially naughty little boys.” - -For a moment Jeremy thought that she meant it. Then he caught sight of -her twinkling eye. - -“No, you won’t,” he said confidently. “You’re just trying to frighten -me. But I’m not frightened. I go back to school day after to-morrow, so -they can’t do much anyway.” - -“If I let you off,” she said, “you’ve got to promise me something. -You’ve got to promise me that you’ll come and read to me twice every day -during next holidays!” - -“Oh, Lord!” - -Jeremy couldn’t be quite sure whether she meant it or not. How awful if -she did mean it! Still, a bargain was a bargain. He looked at her -carefully. She seemed very old. She might die before next holidays. - -“All right,” he said; “I promise. I don’t read very well, you know.” - -“All the better practice for you,” she answered. Her eye mysteriously -twinkled above the bed-quilt. - -She let him go then, even assisting him from behind out of the pantry -window. He had a look and a smile at her before he dropped on the other -side. She looked so queer, with her crabbed face and untidy hair, under -the jumping candle. She nodded to him grimly. - -Soon he was at his own window and through it. Not a sound in the house. -He crept up the stairs. The same wild snore met him, rumbling like the -sleeping soul of the house. Everything the same. To him all those -terrors and alarms, and they had slept as though it had been one moment -of time. - -He opened his own door. Hamlet’s even, whining breathing met him. Not -much of a watchdog. Never mind. How tired he was! _How_ tired! He flung -off his clothes, stood for a moment to feel the cold air on his naked -body, then his nightshirt was over his head. - -The bed was lovely, lovely, lovely. Only as he sank down a silver slope -into a sea of red and purple leaves a thought went sliding with him. The -Dean’s Ernest had funked it! The Dean’s Ernest had funked it! Let us -never forget! Let us . . . _Plunk!_ - - - - - CHAPTER VII - YOUNG BALTIMORE - - - I - -Jeremy was miserable. He was sitting on the high ground above the -cricket field. The warm summer air wrapped him as though in a cloak; at -his feet the grass was bright shrill green, then as it fell away it grew -darker, tumbling into purple shadow as it curved to the flattened -plateau. Behind him the wood was like a wall of painted steel. Far away -the figures of the cricketers were white dolls moving against the bright -red brick of the school buildings. One little white cloud shaped like an -elephant, like a rent torn in the blue canvas of the sky, hung -motionless above his head; and he watched this, waiting for it to -lengthen, to fade into another shape, formless, until at last, shredded -into scraps of paper, it vanished. He watched the cloud and thought: -“I’d like to roll him down the hill and never see him again.” - -He was thinking of young Baltimore, who was sitting close to him. He was -doing nothing but stare and let his mouth hang slackly open. Because he -did nothing so often was one of the reasons why Jeremy hated him so -deeply. Baltimore was not an attractive-looking boy. He was perhaps ten -years of age, white faced, sandy haired, furtive eyed, with two pimples -on his forehead and one on his nose. He looked as though quite recently -he had been rolled in the mud. And that was true. He had been. - -From near at hand, from the outskirts of the wood, shrill cries could be -heard singing: - - “Stocky had a little lamb, - Its fleece was white as snow, - And everywhere that Stocky went - That lamb was sure to go.” - -Jeremy, hearing these voices, made a movement as though he would rise -and pursue them, then apparently realized his impotence and stayed where -he was. - -“Beasts!” said Baltimore, and suddenly broke into a miserable crying, a -wretched, snivelling, gasping wheeze. - -Jeremy looked at him with disgust. - -“You do cry the most awful lot,” he said. “If you didn’t cry so much -they wouldn’t laugh at you.” - -He gloomily reflected over his fate. The summer term, only a week old, -that should have been the happiest of the year, was already the worst -that he had known at Thompson’s. - -On his arrival, full of health, vigour and plans, old Thompson had taken -him aside and said: - -“Now, Cole, I’ve something for you to do this term. I want you to be -kind to a new boy who has never been away from home before and knows -nothing about school life. I want you to be kind to him, look after him, -see that no one treats him harshly, make him feel that he is still at -home. You are getting one of the bigger boys here now, and you must look -after the small ones.” - -Jeremy was not displeased when he heard this. It gave him a sense of -importance that he liked; moreover he had but recently read “Tom Brown,” -and Tom, whom he greatly admired, had been approached in just this way -about Arthur, and Arthur, although he had seemed tiresome at first, had -developed very well, had had a romantic illness and become a first-class -cricketer. - -His first vision of Baltimore had been disappointing. He had found him -sitting on his play-box in the passage, snivelling in just that -unpleasant way that he had afterwards made so peculiarly his own. He -told Jeremy that what he wanted to do was to go home to his mother at -once, that his name was Percy, and that he had been kicked on the leg -twice. - -“You mustn’t tell the others that your name’s Percy,” said Jeremy, “or -you’ll never hear the last of it.” - -It appeared, however, from certain cries heard in the distance, that -Baltimore had already done this. - -Jeremy wondered then why he had been selected for this especial duty. He -was not by any means one of the older boys in the school, nor one of the -more important. He foresaw trouble. - -Baltimore had been informed that Jeremy was to look after him. - -“Mr. Thompson says you’re to look after me,” he said, “and not let the -boys kick me or take things out of my play-box; and if they do I’m to -tell Mr. Thompson.” - -Jeremy’s cheeks paled with horror as he heard this declaration. - -“Oh, I say, you mustn’t do that,” he declared. “That would be sneaking. -You mustn’t tell Thompson things.” - -“Why mustn’t I?” asked Baltimore, producing a large cake of chocolate -from his play-box and proceeding to eat it. - -“Oh, because—because—sneaking’s worse than anything.” - -“My mother said I was to,” said Baltimore. - -“And you mustn’t talk about your mother either,” said Jeremy, “nor any -of your people at home.” - -“Why mustn’t I?” asked Baltimore. - -“Because they’ll rag you if you do.” - -Baltimore nodded his head in a determined manner. - -“I will if they kick me,” he said. - -That evening was an unhappy one. Jeremy, kept by the matron over some -silly business connected with his underclothes, came late into the -dormitory to discover a naked Baltimore being beaten with hair-brushes. -That was a difficult moment for him, but he dealt with it in the -traditional manner of school heroes. He rushed into the midst of the -gang, rescued Percy and challenged the room. He was popular and known -for a determined fighter, so there was some laughter and jeering; but -Baltimore was allowed to creep into his bed. - -Next morning the school understood that young Stocky Cole had a new -_protégé_ and that it was that terrible new boy Pimply Percy. Jeremy’s -best friend, Riley minor, spoke to him seriously about it. - -“I say, Stocky, it isn’t true that you’ve taken up with that awful new -kid?” - -“Thompson says I’ve got to look after him,” Jeremy explained. - -“But he’s the worst of the lot,” Riley complained disgustedly. - -“Well, I’ve got to anyway,” said Jeremy shortly. - -The sad part of it was that Baltimore was by no means grateful for -Jeremy’s championship. - -“You might have come in earlier,” he said. “I don’t call that looking -after me.” - -He now followed Jeremy like a shadow, a complaining, snivelling, whining -shadow. - -Jeremy expostulated. - -“Look here,” he said. “We needn’t be together all the time. If you’re in -trouble or anything you just give me a shout. I’m sure to be round -somewhere.” - -But Baltimore shook his head. - -“That isn’t what Mr. Thompson said,” he remarked. “He said that you’d -look after me. But how can you look after me if you’re not there?” - -“He didn’t mean us to be together the whole time,” said Jeremy. - -The thing was impossible. He could keep his own small fry in order, -although the jeers and insults of those who had until this term been his -admiring friends were very hard to bear. But what was he to do, for -instance, about Cracky Brown? Cracky was captain of the cricket, -thirteen years of age and going to Eton next term. He was one of three -heroes allowed a study, and he was fagged for by several of the new -boys, including Baltimore. He had already given young Baltimore several -for breaking a cup and saucer. How could Jeremy, aged ten and a half, -and in the lower fourth, go up to Cracky and say: “Look here, Brown, -you’ve got to leave Baltimore alone,” and yet this was exactly what -Baltimore expected Jeremy to do. Baltimore was a boy with one idea. - -“Mr. Thompson said you were to see they didn’t hit me,” he complained. - -“Don’t call him Mr. Thompson,” urged Jeremy. “Nobody does.” - -Here on the hillside Jeremy moodily kicked the turf and watched the -shredding cloud. Another week of this and he would be more laughed at -than any other boy in the school. Had it been the winter term his -prowess at football might have saved the situation, but he had never -been very good at cricket, and never would be. He hated it and was still -in third game among all the kids and wasters. - -It would all have been so much easier, he reflected, had he only found -Baltimore possible as a companion. But he thought that he had never -loathed anyone so much as this snivelling, pimply boy, and something -unregenerate in him rose triumphant in his breast when he saw Baltimore -kicked—and this made it much more difficult for him to stop the -kicking. - -What _was_ he to do about it? Appeal to Thompson, of course, he could -not. He had promised to do his best and do his best he must. Then the -brilliant idea occurred to him that he would write to Uncle Samuel and -ask his advice. He did not like writing letters—indeed, he loathed -it—and his letters were blotched and illegible productions when they -were finished, but at least he could make the situation clear to Uncle -Samuel and Uncle Samuel always knew the right thing to do. - -At the thought of his uncle a great wave of homesickness swept over him. -He saw the town and the High Street with all the familiar shops, and the -Cathedral, and his home with the dark hall and the hat-rack, and Hamlet -running down the stairs, barking, and Mary with her spectacles and Uncle -Samuel’s studio—he was even for a moment sentimental over Aunt Amy. - -He shook himself and the vision faded. He would not be beaten by this -thing. He turned to Baltimore. - -“I’m not going to have you following me everywhere,” he said. “I’m only -looking after you because I promised Thompson. You can have your choice. -I’ll leave you alone and let everyone kick you as much as they like, and -then you can go and sneak to Thompson. That won’t help you a bit; -they’ll only kick you all the more. But if you behave decently and stop -crying and come to me when you want anything I’ll see that none of the -smaller boys touch you. If Cracky wants to hit you I can’t help it, but -he hits everybody, so there’s nothing in that. Now, what is it to be?” - -His voice was so stern that Baltimore stopped snivelling and stared at -him in surprise. - -“All right,” he said. “I won’t follow you everywhere.” - -Jeremy got up. “You stay here till I’ve got to the bottom of the hill. -I’ll sit next you at tea and see they don’t take your grub.” - -He nodded and started away. Baltimore sat there, staring with baleful -eyes. - - - II - -Then a strange thing occurred; let the psychologists explain it as they -may. Jeremy suddenly began to feel sorry for Baltimore. There is no -doubt at all that the protective maternal sense is very strong in the -male as well as the female breast. Jeremy had known it before even with -his tiresome sister Mary. Now Baltimore did what he was told and only -appeared at certain intervals. Jeremy found himself then often wondering -what the kid was about, whether anyone was chastising him, and if so, -how the kid was taking it. After the first week Baltimore was left a -great deal alone, partly because of Jeremy’s championship, and partly -because he was himself so boring and pitiful that there was nothing to -be done with him. - -He developed very quickly into that well-known genus of small boy who is -to be seen wandering about the playground all alone, kicking small -stones with his feet, slouching, his cap on the back of his head, his -hands deep in his trouser pockets, a look of utter despair on his young -face. He was also the dirtiest boy that Thompson’s had ever seen, and -that is saying a great deal. His fingers were dyed in ink; his boots, -the laces hanging from them, were caked in mud; his collar was soiled -and torn; his hair matted and unbrushed. Jeremy, himself often dirty, -nevertheless with an innate sense of cleanliness, tried to clean him up. -But it was hopeless. Baltimore no longer snivelled. He was now numb with -misery. He stared at Jeremy as a wild animal caught by the leg in a trap -might stare. - -Jeremy began to be very unhappy. He no longer considered what the other -boys might say, neither their jeers nor their laughter. One evening, -coming up to Baltimore in the playground, he caught his arm. - -“You can come and do prep with me to-night if you like,” he said. - -Baltimore continued to kick pebbles. - -“Has anyone been going for you lately?” he asked. - -Baltimore shook his head. - -“I wish I was dead,” he replied. - -This seemed melodramatic. - -“Oh, you’ll be all right soon,” said Jeremy. - -But he could get nothing out of him. Some of the boy’s loneliness seemed -to penetrate his own spirit. - -“I say, you can be as much with me as you like, you know,” he remarked -awkwardly. - -Baltimore nodded his head and moved away. - -Bitterly was Jeremy to regret that word of his. It was as though -Baltimore had laid a trap for him, pretending loneliness in order to -secure that invitation. He was suddenly once again with Jeremy -everywhere. - -And now he was no longer either silent or humble. Words poured from his -mouth, words inevitably, unavoidably connected with himself and his -doings, his fine brave doings—how he was this at home and that at home, -how his aunt had thought the one and his mother the other, how his -father had given him a pony and his cousin a dog. . . . - -Now round every corner his besmudged face would be appearing, his inky -fingers protruding, his voice triumphantly proclaiming: - -“I’m coming with you now, Cole. There’s an hour before prep.” - -And strangely now, in spite of himself, Jeremy liked it. He was suddenly -touched by young Baltimore and his dirt and his helplessness. Later -years were to prove that Jeremy Cole could be always caught, held and -won by something misshapen, abused, cast out by society. So now he was -caught by young Baltimore. He did his sums for him (when he could—he -was no great hand at sums), protected him from Tubby Smith, the bully of -the lower fourth, shepherded him in and out of meals, took him for walks -on Sunday afternoons. . . . - -He was losing Riley. That hurt him desperately. Nevertheless he -continued in his serious, entirely unsentimental way to look after -Baltimore. - -And was young Baltimore grateful? We shall see. - - - III - -One day when the summer term was about a month old a very dreary game of -cricket was pursuing its slow course in third game. The infants -concerned in it were sleepily watching the efforts of one after another -of their number to bowl Corkery Minimus. Corkery was not, as cricket is -considered at Lord’s, a great cricketer, but he was a stolid, phlegmatic -youth, too big for third game and too lazy to wake up and so push -forward into second. He stood stolidly at his wicket, making a run or -two occasionally in order to poach the bowling. Jeremy was sitting in -the pavilion, his cap tilted forward over his eyes, nearly asleep, and -praying that Corkery might stay in all the afternoon and so save him -from batting. One of the younger masters, Newsom, a youth fresh from -Cambridge, was presiding over the afternoon and longing for six o’clock. - -Suddenly he heard a thin and weedy voice at his ear: - -“Please, sir, do you think I might bowl? I think I could get him out.” - -Newsom pulled himself in from his dreams and gazed wearily down upon the -grimy face of Baltimore. - -“You!” he exclaimed. Baltimore was not beloved by the masters. - -“Yes, sir,” Baltimore said, his cold, green eyes fixed earnestly upon -Newsom’s face. - -“Oh, I suppose so,” Newsom said wearily; “anything for a change.” - -Had anyone been watching Baltimore at that moment they would have seen a -curious thing. A new spirit inhabited the boy’s body. Something seemed -suddenly to stiffen him; his legs were no longer shambly, his eyes no -longer dead. He was in a moment moving as though he knew his ground and -as though he had first and royal right to be there. - -Of course, no one noticed this. There was a general titter when it was -seen that Baltimore had the ball in his hand. Corkery turned round and -sniggered to the wicket-keeper, and the wicket-keeper sniggered back. - -Baltimore paid no attention to anybody. He ran to the wicket and -delivered an underhand lob. A second later Corkery’s bails were on the -ground. Again, had anyone noticed, he would have perceived that the -delivery of that ball was no ordinary one, that the twist of the arm as -it was delivered was definite and assured and by no means accidental. - -No one noticed anything except that Corkery was at length out; although -he had been batting for an hour and ten minutes, he had made only nine -runs. Baltimore’s next three balls took three wickets, Jeremy’s amongst -them. No one was very enthusiastic about this. The balls were considered -“sneaks,” and just the kind that Pimply Percy _would_ bowl. Corkery, in -fact, was extremely indignant and swore he would “take it out” of -Pimples in the dormitory that evening. - -Very odd was Baltimore over this. No sign of any feeling whatever. -Jeremy expected that he would be full that evening of his prowess. Not a -word. - -Jeremy himself was proud of his young friend. It was as though he had -possessed an ugly and stupid puppy who, it was suddenly discovered, -could balance spoons on the end of his nose. - -He told Riley about it. Riley was disgusted. “You and your Percy,” he -said. “You can jolly well choose, Stocky. It’s him or me. He’s all right -now. The other fellows leave him alone. Why can’t you drop him?” - -Jeremy could not explain why, but he did not want to drop him. He liked -having something to look after. - -Next week something more occurred. Baltimore was pushed up into second -game. It was, indeed, very necessary that he should be. Had he stayed in -third game that galaxy of all the cricketing talents would have been -entirely demoralized; no one could withstand him. Wickets fell faster -than ninepins. He gained no popularity for this. He was, indeed, beaten -in the box-room with hair-brushes for bowling “sneaks.” He took his -beating without a word. He seemed suddenly to have found his footing. He -held up his head, occasionally washed his face, and stared -superciliously about him. - -Jeremy now was far keener about young Baltimore’s career than he had -ever been about his own. Securing an afternoon “off,” he went and -watched his friend’s first appearance in second game. Knowing nothing -about cricket, he was nevertheless clever enough to detect that there -was something natural and even inevitable in Baltimore’s cricket. Not -only in his bowling, but also in his fielding. He recognized it, -perhaps, because it was the same with himself in football. Awkward and -ill at ease as he was on the cricket field, he moved with perfect -confidence in Rugby, knowing at once where to go and what to do. So it -was now with Baltimore. In that game he took eight wickets for eighteen -runs. - -The school began now to talk about the new prodigy. There were, of -course, two sides in the matter, many people declaring that they were -“sneaky,” low-down balls that anybody could bowl if they were dishonest -enough to do so. Others said that there was nothing low-down about it, -and that young Baltimore would be in first game before he knew where he -was. On his second day in second game Baltimore took Smith Major’s -wicket first ball, and Smith Major had batted twice for the first -eleven. After this the great Cracky himself came and watched him. He -said nothing, but next day Baltimore was down for first game. - -Jeremy now was bursting with pride. He tried to show Baltimore how -immensely pleased he was. - -In a corner after tea he talked to him. - -“There’s never been a new kid his first term in first game before, I -don’t think,” said Jeremy, regardless of grammar. “They’ll play you for -the second eleven, I expect.” - -“They’re sure to,” said Baltimore calmly; “and then they’ll play me for -the first.” - -Strange that Jeremy, who hated above all things “side” in his fellow -human beings, was not repelled by this. Here in Baltimore was the _feu -sacré_. Jeremy recognized its presence and bowed to it. Small boys are -always fond of anything of which they are proud, and so Jeremy now, in -spite of the green eyes, the arrogant, aloof attitude, the unpleasant -personal habits, had an affection for Baltimore—the affection of the -hen whose ugly duckling turns out a swan. - -“You don’t seem very pleased about it,” he said, looking at Baltimore -curiously. - -“What’s there to be pleased about?” said Baltimore coldly. “Of course, I -knew I could play cricket. No one in this rotten place can play. I can -bat, too, only they always put me in last.” - -“Will you walk out to Pocker’s after dinner to-morrow?” Jeremy asked. - -“All right,” said Baltimore indifferently. - - - IV - -In the following week Baltimore played for the second eleven, took eight -wickets for twenty runs, and himself made thirty. A fortnight later he -was down on the boards in the first eleven for the Lower Templeton -match. Now, indeed, the whole school was talking about him, masters and -boys alike. His batting was another matter from his bowling. There was -no doubt at all that he was a natural cricketer. Mr. Rochester, the -games master, said he was the most promising cricketer that he had yet -seen at Thompson’s, remarkable style for so young a boy, an -extraordinarily fine eye. The Lower Templeton match was the match of the -season. Lower Templeton was a private school some ten miles away, and -Thompson’s strongest rivals; they had more boys than Thompson’s, and two -times out of three they won the cricket match. They were entirely above -themselves and jeered at Thompson’s, implying that they showed the most -wonderful condescension in coming over to play at all. Consequently -there burned in the heart of every boy in Thompson’s—yes, and in the -heart of every master and every servant—a longing desire that the -swollen-headed idiots should be beaten. - -Boys are exceedingly susceptible to atmosphere, and in no time at all -the first weeks of Baltimore’s stay at Thompson’s were entirely -forgotten. He was a new creature, a marvel, a miracle. Young Corkery was -heard at tea to offer him his last sardine, although only a fortnight -before he had belaboured his posterior with hair-brushes. Cracky Brown -took in him now a fatherly interest, and inflicted on him only the -lightest fagging and inquired anxiously many times a day about his -health. Jeremy surrendered absolutely to this glamour, but it was to -more than mere glamour that he was surrendering. He did not realize it, -but he had never in all his life before had any friend who had been a -success. His father and mother, his sister Mary, his Uncle Samuel—none -of these could be said to be in the eyes of the world successes. And at -school it had been the same; his best friend, Riley, was quite -undistinguished in every way, and the master whom he liked best, old -Podgy Johnson, was more than undistinguished—he was derided. - -It was not that he liked vulgar applause for his friend and himself -enjoyed to bathe in its binding light. It was, quite simply, that he -loved his friend to be successful, that it was “fun” for him, amusing, -exciting, and warmed him all over. No longer need he feel any pity for -Baltimore; Baltimore was happy now; he _must_ be. - -It must be confessed that Baltimore showed no especial signs of being -happy when the great day arrived. At breakfast he accepted quite calmly -the portions of potted meat, marmalade, sardines and pickles offered him -by adoring admirers, and ate them all on the same plate quite -impassively. - -After dinner Jeremy and Riley took their places on the grass in front of -the pavilion and waited for the game to begin. Riley was now very -submissive, compelled to admit that after all Jeremy had once again -showed his remarkable judgment. Who but Jeremy would have seen in -Baltimore on his arrival at Thompson’s the seeds of greatness? He was -forced to confess that he himself had been blind to them. With their -straw hats tilted over their eyes, lying full-length on the grass, a bag -of sweets between them, they were as happy as thieves. - -In strict truth Jeremy’s emotions were not those precisely of happiness. -He was too deeply excited, too passionately anxious for Baltimore’s -success to be really happy. He could not hear the sweets crunching -between his teeth for the beating of his heart. What followed was what -any reader of school stories would expect to follow. Had Baltimore been -precisely the handsome blue-eyed hero of one of Dean Farrar’s epics of -boyhood, he could not have behaved more appropriately. Thompson’s went -in first, and disaster instantly assailed them. Six wickets were down -for ten owing to a diabolical fast bowler whom Lower Templeton had -brought with them. Cracky Brown was the only Thompsonian who made any -kind of a stand, and he had no one to stay with him until Baltimore came -in and (Cracky content merely to keep up his wicket) made thirty-five. -Thompson’s were all out for fifty-six. Lower Templeton then went in, -and, because Cracky did not at once put on Baltimore to bowl, made -thirty-four for two wickets. Baltimore then took the remaining eight -wickets for seventeen. Lower Templeton were all out for fifty-one. - -The excitement during the second innings had to be seen to be believed. -Even old Thompson, who was known for his imperturbable temper, was seen -to wipe his brow continually with a yellow handkerchief. - -Thompson’s went in, and four wickets fell for eleven. Baltimore went in -at fifth wicket, and made thirty-nine. Thompson’s were all out for -sixty-one, and were sixty-six ahead of Lower Templeton. This was a good -lead, and the hearts of Thompson’s beat high. Baltimore started well and -took six of the Lower Templeton wickets for twenty; then he obviously -tired. Cracky took him off, and Lower Templeton had three-quarters of an -hour’s pure joy. As the school clock struck half-past six Lower -Templeton had made sixty runs for eight wickets. Cracky then put -Baltimore on again, and he took the remaining wickets for no runs. -Thompson’s were victorious by six runs, and Baltimore was carried -shoulder-high, amongst the plaudits of the surrounding multitudes, up to -the school buildings. - - - V - -Impossible to give any adequate idea of Jeremy’s pride and pleasure over -this event. He did not share in the procession up to the school, but -waited his time. Then, just before chapel, crossing the playground in -the purple dusk, he passed Baltimore and another boy. - -“Hullo! . . . I say . . .” He stopped. - -Baltimore looked back over his shoulder. Jeremy could not precisely see -the expression, but fancied it contemptuous. Most curiously, then, for -the rest of the evening he was worried and unhappy. Why should he worry? -Baltimore was his friend—must be, after all that Jeremy had done for -him. Jeremy was too young and too unanalytical to know what it was that -he wanted, but in reality he longed now for that protective sense to -continue. He must still “have something to look after.” There were lots -of things he could do for Baltimore. . . . - -Next morning after breakfast he caught him alone, ten minutes before -chapel. He was embarrassed and shy, but he plunged in: “I say—it was -ripping yesterday. Weren’t you glad?” - -Baltimore, looking at Jeremy curiously, shrugged his shoulders. - -“You’re coming out next Sunday, aren’t you?” he went on. - -Baltimore smiled. “I’m not going to have you following me everywhere,” -he said, in a rather feeble imitation of Jeremy’s voice. “If you behave -all right, and don’t cry and tell me when anyone kicks you, I’ll let you -speak to me sometimes. Otherwise you keep off.” - -He put his tongue out at Jeremy and swaggered off. - -Jeremy stood there. He was hurt as he had never been before in his young -life; he had, indeed, never known this kind of hurt. - -Someone came in. - -“Hullo, Stocky! Coming up to chapel?” - -“All right,” he answered, moving to get his books out of his locker. But -he’d lost something, something awfully jolly. . . . He fumbled in his -locker for it. He wanted to cry—like any kid. He was crying, but he -wasn’t going to let Stokoe see it. He found an old fragment of liquorice -stick. It mingled in his mouth with the salt taste of tears. So, -dragging his head from his locker, he kicked Stokoe in amicable -friendship, and they departed chapel-wards, tumbling over one another -puppywise as they went. - -But no more miserable boy sat in chapel that morning. - - - VI - -Two days later, turning the corner of the playground, he heard shrill -crying. Looking farther, he perceived Baltimore twisting the arms of a -miniature boy, the smallest boy in the school—Brown Minimus. He was -also kicking him in tender places. - -“Now will you give it me?” he was saying. - -A second later Baltimore was, in his turn, having his arms twisted and -his posterior kicked. As Jeremy kicked and twisted he felt a strange, a -mysterious pleasure. - -Baltimore tried to bite, then he said, “I’ll tell Thompson.” - -“I don’t care if you do,” said Jeremy. - -Yes, he felt a strange wild pleasure, but when that afternoon old -Thompson genially said: - -“Well, Cole, I think Baltimore’s found his feet now all right, hasn’t -he?” - -Jeremy said: “Yes, sir; he has.” - -He felt miserable. He sat down and kicked the turf furiously with his -toes. He had lost something, he knew not what; something very -precious. . . . - -Someone called him, and he went off to join in a rag. Anyway, “Tom -Brown” was a rotten book. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - THE RUFFIANS - - - I - -Jeremy sat on a high cliff overlooking the sea. He had never, since he -was a tiny baby, had any fear of heights, and now his short, thick legs -dangled over a fearful abyss in a way that would have caused his -mother’s heart to go faint with terror had she seen it. - -The sight before him was superb, not to be exceeded perhaps in the whole -world for strength and even ferocity of outline combined with luxuriance -and Southern softness of colour. - -Here the two worlds met, the worlds of the north and the south; even in -the early morning breeze there seemed to mingle the harsh irony of the -high Glebeshire uplands and the gentle, caressing warmth of the -sheltered coves and shell-scattered shores. - -The sea was a vast curtain of silk, pale blue beyond the cove, a deep -and shining green in the depths immediately below Jeremy’s feet. That -pale curtain was woven both of sea and sky, and seemed to quiver under -the fingers of the morning breeze. It was suspended between two walls of -sharp black rock, Jagged, ferocious, ruthless. Sharp to Jeremy’s right, -inside the black curve of stone, was a little beach of the palest -yellow, and nestling on to it, standing almost within it, was a little -old church with a crooked grey tower and a wandering graveyard. - -Behind the church stretched a lovely champaign of the gentlest, most -English countryside: hills, green as brightly coloured glass, rising -smoothly into the blue, little valleys thickly patched with trees, -cottages from whose stumpy chimneys smoke was already rising, cows and -sheep, and in the distance the joyful barking of a dog, the only sound -in all that early scene save the curling whisper of the tide. - -Jeremy had arrived with his family at Caerlyon Rectory the night before -in a state of rebellious discontent. He had been disgusted when he heard -that this summer they were to break the habit of years and to abandon -his beloved cow farm in favour of a new camping ground. - -And a rectory too! When they always lived so close to churches and had -so eternally to do with them! No farm any more! No Mrs. Monk, Mr. Monk -and the little Monks, no animals, no cows and pigs, no sheep and no -horses; above all no Tim. No Tim with the red face and the strong legs; -Tim, perhaps the best friend he had in the world, after, of course, -Riley and Hamlet. He had felt it bitterly, and during that journey from -Polchester to the sea, always hitherto so wonderful a journey, he had -sulked and sulked, refusing to notice any of the new scenery, the novel -excitements and fresh incidents (like the driving all the way, for -instance, from St. Mary Moor in a big wagonette with farmers and their -wives), lest he should be betrayed into any sort of disloyalty to his -old friends. - -The arrival at the Rectory, with its old walled garden, the flowers all -glimmering in the dusk, the vast oak in the middle of the lawn, was, in -spite of himself, an interesting experience, but he allowed no -expression of amusement to escape from him and went to bed the moment -after supper. - -He awoke, of course, at a desperately early hour, and was compelled then -to jump out of bed and look out of the window. He discovered to his -excited amazement that the sea was right under his nose. This was -marvellous to him. - -At Cow Farm you could watch only a little cup of it between a dip in the -trees, and that miles away. Here the garden seemed actually to border -it, and you could watch it stretch with the black cliffs to the left of -it, miles, miles, miles into the sky. The world was lovely at that hour; -blackbirds and thrushes were on the dew-drenched lawn. Somewhere in the -house a cuckoo-clock announced that it was just six o’clock. Before he -knew what he was about he had slipped on his clothes, was down the dark -stairs and out in the garden. . . . - -As he sat dangling his feet above space and looked out to sea he argued -with himself about Cow Farm. Of course Cow Farm would always be first, -but that did not mean that other places could not be nice as well. He -would never find anyone in Caerlyon as delightful as Tim, and if only -Tim were here, everything would be perfect; but Tim could not, of -course, be in two places at once, and he had to do his duty by the -Monks. - -As he sat there swinging his legs and looking down into that perfect -green water, so clear that you could see gold and purple lights shifting -beneath it and black lines of rock-like liquorice sticks twisting as the -shadows moved, he was forced to admit to himself that he was terribly -happy. - -He had never lived close, cheek-by-jowl, with the sea, as he was doing -now. The thought of five whole weeks spent thus on the very edge of the -water made him wriggle his legs so that there was very real danger of -his falling over. The juxtaposition of Hamlet who had, of course, -followed him, saved him from further danger. He knew that he himself was -safe and would never fall, but Hamlet was another matter and must be -protected. The dog was perilously near the edge, balancing on his -fore-feet and sniffing down; so the boy got up and dragged the dog back, -and then lay down among the sea-pinks and the heather and looked up into -the cloudless sky. - -Hamlet rested his head on the fatty part of his master’s thigh and -breathed deep content. He had come into some place where there wandered -a new company of smells, appetizing, tempting. Soon he would investigate -them. For the present it was enough to lie warm with his master and -dream. - -Suddenly he was conscious of something. He raised his head, and Jeremy, -feeling his withdrawal, half sat up and looked about him. Facing them -both were a group of giant boulders, scattered there in the heather, and -looking like some Druid circle of ancient stones. Hamlet was now on all -fours, his tail up, his hair bristling. - -“It’s all right,” said Jeremy lazily. “There’s nobody there——” But -even as he looked an extraordinary phenomenon occurred. There rose from -behind the boulder a tangled head of hair, and beneath the hair a round, -hostile face and two fierce interrogative eyes. Then, as though this -were not enough, there arose in line with the first head a second, and -with the second a third, and then with the third a fourth. Four round, -bullet heads, four fierce, hostile pairs of eyes staring at Hamlet and -Jeremy. - -Jeremy stared back, feeling that here was some trick played upon him, as -when the conjurer at Thompson’s had produced a pigeon out of a -handkerchief. The trick effect was heightened by the fact that the four -heads and the sturdy bodies connected with them were graduated in height -to a nicety, as you might see four clowns at a circus, as were the four -bears, a symmetry almost divine and quite unnatural. - -The eldest, the fiercest and most hostile, had a face and shoulders that -might belong to a boy of sixteen, the youngest and smallest might have -been Jeremy’s age. Jeremy did not notice any of this. Very plain to him -the fact that the four faces, to whomsoever they might belong, did not -care either for him or his dog. One to four; he was in a situation of -some danger. He was suddenly aware that he had never seen boys quite so -ferocious in appearance; the street boys of Polchester were milk and -water to them. Hamlet also felt this. He was sitting up, his head -raised, his body stiff, intent, and you could feel within him the bark -strangled by the melodrama of the situation. - -Jeremy said rather feebly: - -“Hullo!” - -The reply was a terrific ear-shattering bellow from four lusty throats; -then more distinctly: - -“Get out of this!” - -Fear was in his heart; he was compelled afterwards to admit it. He could -only reply very feebly: - -“Why?” - -The eldest of the party, glaring, replied: - -“If you don’t, we’ll make you.” Then: “This is ours here.” - -Hamlet was now quivering all over, and Jeremy was afraid lest he should -make a dash for the boulders. He therefore climbed on to his feet, -holding Hamlet’s collar with his hand, and, smiling, answered: - -“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ve only just come.” - -“Well, get out, then,” was the only reply. - -What fascinated him like a dream was the way that the faces did not move -nor more body reveal itself. Painted against the blue sky, they might -have been, ferocious stares and all. There was nothing more to be done. -He beat an inglorious retreat, not, indeed, running, but walking with -what dignity he could summon, Hamlet at his side uttering noises like a -kettle on the boil. - - - II - -He had not to wait long for some explanation of the vision. At breakfast -(and it was a wonderful breakfast, with more eggs and bacon, cream and -strawberry jam than he had ever known) his father said: - -“Now, children, there’s one thing here that you must remember. Jeremy, -are you listening?” - -“Yes, father.” - -“Don’t speak with your mouth full. There’s a farm near the church on the -sand. You can’t mistake it.” - -“Is the farm on the sand, father?” asked Mary, her eyes wide open. - -“No, of course not. How could a farm be on the sand? The farm-house -stands back at the end of the path that runs by the church. It’s a grey -farm with a high stone wall. You can’t mistake it. Well, none of you -children are to go near that farm—on no account whatever, _on no -account whatever_, to go near it.” - -“Why not, father?” asked Jeremy. “Is there scarlet fever there?” - -“Because I say so is quite enough,” said Mr. Cole. “There’s a family -staying there you must have _nothing at all_ to do with. Perhaps you -will see them in the distance. You must avoid them and _never_ speak to -them.” - -“Are they _very_ wicked?” asked Mary, her voice vibrating low with the -drama of the situation. - -“Never mind what they are. They are not fit companions for you children. -It is most unfortunate that they are here so close to us. Had I known it -I would not, I think, have come here.” - -Jeremy said nothing; these were, of course, his friends of the morning. -He could see now straight across the breakfast-table those eight -burning, staring eyes. - -Later, from the slope of the green hill above the rectory, he looked -across the gleaming beach at the church, the road, and then, in the -distance, the forbidden farm. Strange how the forbidding of anything -made one from the very bottom of one’s soul long for it! Yesterday, -staring across the green slopes and hollows, the farm would have been -but a grey patch sewn into the purple hill that hung behind it. - -Now it was mysterious, crammed with hidden life of its own, the most -dramatic point in the whole landscape. What had they done, that family -that was so terrible? What was there about those four boys that he had -never seen in any boys before? He longed to know them with a burning, -desperate longing. Nevertheless a whole week passed without any contact. - -Once Jeremy saw, against the sky-line on the hill behind the church, a -trail of four, single file, silhouetted black. They passed steadily, -secretly, bent on their own mysterious purposes. The sky, when their -figures had left it, was painted with drama. - -Once Mary reported that, wandering along the beach, a wild figure, -almost naked, had started from behind a rock and shouted at her. She -ran, of course, and behind her there echoed a dreadful laugh. But the -best story of all was from Helen, who, passing the graveyard, had seen -go down the road a most beautiful lady, most beautifully dressed. -According to Helen, she was the most lovely lady ever seen, with jewels -hanging from her ears, pearls round her neck, and her clothes a bright -orange. She had walked up the road and gone through the gate into the -farm. - -The mystery would have excited them all even more than, in fact, it did -had Caerlyon itself been less entrancing. But what Caerlyon turned out -to be no words can describe! Those were the days, of course, before -golf-links in Glebeshire, and although no one who has ever played on the -Caerlyon links will ever wish them away (they, the handsomest, kindest, -most fantastic sea links in all England), yet I will not pretend that -those same green slopes, sliding so softly down to the sea-shore, -bending back so gently to the wild mysteries of the Poonderry Moor, had -not then a virgin charm that now they have lost! Who can decide? - -But, for children thirty years ago, what a kingdom! Glittering with -colour, they had the softness of a loving mother, the sudden, tumbled -romance of an adventurous elder brother; they caught all the colours of -the floating sky in their laps and the shadows flew like birds from -shoulder to shoulder, and then suddenly the hills would shake their -sides, and all those shadows would slide down to the yellow beach and -lie there like purple carpets. You could race and race and never grow -tired, lie on your back and stare into the fathomless sky, roll over for -ever and come to no harm, wander and never be lost. The first gate of -the kingdom and the last—the little golden square underneath the tower -where the green witch has her stall of treasures that she never -sells. . . . - - - III - -Then the great adventure occurred. One afternoon the sun shone so -gloriously that Jeremy was blinded by it, blinded and dream-smitten so -that he sat, perched on the garden wall of the rectory, staring before -him at the glitter and the sparkle, seeing nothing but, perhaps, a -little boat of dark wood with a ruby sail floating out to the horizon, -having on its boards sacks of gold and pearls and diamonds—gold in fat -slabs, pearls in white, shaking heaps, diamonds that put out the eyes, -so bright they were—going . . . going . . . whither? He does not know, -but shades his eyes against the sun and the boat has gone, and there is -nothing there but an unbroken blue of sea with the black rocks fringing -it. - -Mary called up to him from the garden and suggested that they should go -out and pick flowers, and, still in a dream, he climbed down from the -wall and stood there nodding his head like a mandarin. He suffered -himself to be led by Mary into the high-road, only stopping for a moment -to whistle for Hamlet, who came running across the lawn as though he had -just been shot out of a cannon. - -It can have been only because he was sunk so deep in his dream that he -wandered, without knowing it, down over the beach, jumping the -hill-stream that intersected it, up the sand, past the church, out along -the road that led straight to the forbidden farm. Nor was Mary thinking -of their direction. She was having one of her happy days, her straw hat -on the back of her head, her glasses full of sunlight, her stockings -wrinkled about her legs, walking, her head in the air, singing one of -her strange tuneless chants that came to her when she was happy. - -There was a field on their right, and a break in the hedge. Through the -break she saw buttercups—thousands of them—and loose-strife and -snapdragons. She climbed the gate and vanished into the field. Jeremy -walked on, scarcely realizing her absence. Suddenly he heard a scream. -He stopped and Hamlet stopped, pricking up his ears. Another scream, -then a succession, piercing and terrible. - -Then over the field gate Mary appeared, tumbling over regardless of all -audiences and proprieties, then running, crying, “Jeremy! Jeremy! -Jeremy!” buttercups scattering from her hand as she ran. Her face was -one question-mark of terror; her hat was gone, her hair-ribbon dangling, -her stockings about her ankles. All she could do was to cling to Jeremy -crying, “Oh, oh, oh! . . . Ah, ah, ah!” - -“What is it?” he asked roughly, his fear for her making him impatient. -“Was it a bull?” - -“No—no. . . . Oh, Jeremy! . . . Oh, dear, oh, dear! . . . The boys! -. . . They hit me—pulled my hair!” - -“What boys?” But already he knew. - -Recovering a little, she told him. She had not been in the field a -moment, and was bending down picking her first buttercups, when she felt -herself violently seized from behind, her arms held; and, looking up, -there were three boys standing there, all around her. Terrible, fierce -boys, looking ever so wicked. They tore her hat off her head, pulled her -hair, and told her to leave the field at once, never to come into it -again, that it was _their_ field, and she’d better not forget it, and to -tell all her beastly family that they’d better not forget it either, and -that they’d be shot if they came in there. - -“Then they took me to the gate and pushed me over. They were very rough. -I’ve got bruises.” She began to cry as the full horror of the event -broke upon her. - -Jeremy’s anger was terrible to witness. He took her by the arm. - -“Come with me,” he said. - -He led her to the end of the road beyond the church. - -“Now you go home,” he said. “Don’t breathe a word to anyone till I get -back.” - -“Very well,” she sobbed; “but I’ve lost my hat.” - -“I’ll get your hat,” he answered. “And take Hamlet with you.” - -He watched her set off. No harm could come to her there, in the open. -She had only to cross the beach and climb the hill. He watched her until -she had jumped the stream, Hamlet running in front of her, then he -turned back. - -He climbed the gate into the field. There was no one; only the golden -sea of buttercups, and near the gate a straw hat. He picked it up and, -back in the road again, stood hesitating. There was only one thing he -could do, and he knew it. But he hesitated. He had been forbidden to -enter the place. And, besides, there were four of them. And such a four! -Then he shrugged his shoulders, a very characteristic action of his, and -marched ahead. - -The gate of the farm swung easily open, and then at once he was upon -them, all four of them sitting in a row upon a stone wall at the far -corner of the yard and staring at him. - -It was a dirty, messy place, and a fitting background for that company. -The farm itself looked fierce with its blind grey wall and its sullen -windows, and the yard was in fearful confusion, oozing between the -stones with shiny yellow streams and dank, coagulating pools, piled high -with heaps of stinking manure, pigs wandering in the middle distance, -hens and chickens, and a ruffian dog chained to his kennel. - -The four looked at Jeremy without moving. - -Jeremy came close to them and said, “You’re a lot of dirty cads.” - -They made neither answer nor movement. - -“Dirty cads to touch my sister, a girl who couldn’t touch you.” - -Still no answer. Only one, the smallest, jumped off the wall and ran to -the gate behind Jeremy. - -“I’m not afraid of you,” said Jeremy (he was—terribly afraid). “I -wouldn’t be afraid of a lot of dirty sneaks like you are—to hit a -girl!” - -Still no answer. So he ended: - -“And we’ll go wherever we like. It isn’t your field, and we’ve just as -much right to it as you have!” - -He turned to go, and faced the boy at the gate. The other three had now -climbed off the wall, and he was surrounded. He had never, since the -night with the sea-captain, been in so perilous a situation. He thought -that they would murder him, and then hide his body under the -manure—they looked quite capable of it. And in some strange way this -farm was so completely shut off from the outside world, the house -watched so silently, the wall was so high. And he was very small indeed -compared with the biggest of the four. No, he did not feel very happy. - -Nothing could be more terrifying than their silence; but, if they were -silent, he could be silent too, so he just stood there and said nothing. - -“What are you going to do about it?” suddenly asked the biggest of the -four. - -“Do about what?” he replied, his voice trembling in spite of himself; -simply, as it seemed to him, from the noisy beating of his heart. - -“Our cheeking your sister.” - -“I can’t do much,” Jeremy said, “when there are four of you, but I’ll -fight the one my own size.” - -That hero, grinning, moved forward to Jeremy, but the one who had -already spoken broke out: - -“Let him out. We don’t want him. . . . And don’t you come back again!” -he suddenly shouted. - -“I will,” Jeremy shouted in return, “if I want to!” And then, I regret -to say, took to his heels and ran pell-mell down the road. - - - IV - -Now this was an open declaration of war and not lightly to be -disregarded. Jeremy said not a word of it to anyone, not even to the -wide-eyed Mary who had been waiting in a panic of terror under the oak -tree, like the lady in Carpaccio’s picture of St. George and the Dragon, -longing for her true knight to return, all “bloody and tumbled,” to -quote Miss Jane Porter’s “Thaddeus.” He was not bloody nor was he -tumbled, but he was serious-minded and preoccupied. - -This was all very nice, but it was pretty well going to spoil the -holidays: these fellows hanging round and turning up just whenever they -pleased, frightening everybody and perhaps—this sudden thought made, -for a moment, his heart stand still—doing something really horrible to -Hamlet! - -He felt as though he had the whole burden of it on his shoulders, as -though he were on guard for all the family. There was no one to whom he -could speak. No one at all. - -For several days he moved about as though in enemy country, looking -closely at hedges, scanning hill horizons, keeping Hamlet as close to -his side as possible. No sign of the ruffians, no word of them at home; -they had faded into smoke and gone down with the wind. - -Suddenly, one morning when he was in a hollow of the downs throwing -pebbles at a tree, he heard a voice: - -“Hands up, or I fire!” - -He turned round and saw the eldest of the quartette quite close to him. -Although he had spoken so fiercely, he was not looking fierce, but, -rather, was smiling in a curious crooked kind of way. Jeremy could see -him more clearly than before, and a strange enough object he was. - -He was wearing a dirty old pair of flannel cricketing trousers and a -grubby shirt open at the neck. One of his eyes was bruised and he had a -cut across his nose, but the thing in the main that struck Jeremy now -was his appearance of immense physical strength. His muscles seemed -simply to bulge under his shirt, he had the neck of a prize-fighter. He -was a great deal older than Jeremy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years -of age. His eyes, which were grey and clear, were his best feature, but -he was no beauty, and in his dirty clothes and with his bruises he -looked a most dangerous character. - -Jeremy called Hamlet to him and held him by the collar. - -“All right,” the ruffian said; “I’m not going to touch your dog.” - -“I didn’t think you were,” said Jeremy, lying. - -“Oh, yes, you did. I suppose you think we eat dog-flesh and murder -babies. Lots of people do.” - -The sudden sense that other folk in the world also thought the quartette -outlaws was new to Jeremy. He had envisaged the affair as a struggle in -which the Cole family only were engaged. - -“Eat babies!” Jeremy cried. “No! Do you?” - -“Of course not,” said the boy. “That’s the sort of damned rot people -talk. They think we’d do anything.” - -He suddenly sat down on the turf, and Jeremy sat down too, dramatically -picturing to himself the kind of thing that would happen did his father -turn the corner and find him there amicably in league with his enemy. -There followed a queer in-and-out little conversation, bewildering in -some strange way, so that they seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the -thick velvet pile of the green downs, lost to all the world that was -humming like a top beyond the barrier. - -“I liked your coming into the yard about your sister. That was damned -plucky of you.” - -For some reason hidden deep in the green down Jeremy had never before -known praise that pleased him so deeply. He flushed, kicking the turf -with the heels of his boots. - -“You were cads to hit my sister,” he said. He let Hamlet’s collar go, -and the dog went over and smelt the dirty trousers and sniffed at the -rough, reddened hand. - -“How old are you?” - -“Ten and a half.” - -“I know. You’re called Cole. You’re the son of the parson at the -rectory.” - -Jeremy nodded his head. The boy was now sprawling his length, his head -resting on his arms, his thick legs stretched out. - -“You’re awfully strong,” Jeremy suddenly said. - -The boy nodded his head. - -“I am that. I can throw a cricket ball from here to the church. I can -wrestle anyone. Box, too.” - -He didn’t say this boastfully, but quite calmly, stating well-known -facts. Jeremy opened his eyes wide. - -“What are _you_ called?” he asked. - -“Humphrey Charles Ruthven.” - -“Where do you go to school?” - -“I don’t go. I was kicked out of Harrow. But it didn’t matter anyway, -because my governor couldn’t pay the school bills.” - -Expelled! This was exciting indeed. - -Jeremy inquired, but his friend would give no reasons—only looked at -him curiously and smiled. Then he suddenly went on in another tone: “You -know everyone hates us, don’t you?” - -“Yes, I know that,” said Jeremy. “Why is it?” - -“Because we’re bad,” Humphrey said solemnly. “Our hand is against -everyone, and everyone’s hand is against us.” - -“But why?” asked Jeremy again. - -“Well, for one thing, they don’t like father. He’s got, if you were -speaking very politely, what you’d call a damned bad temper. By Jove, -you should see him lose it! He’s broken three chairs in the farm -already! I don’t suppose we shall be here very long. We’re always moving -about. Then another reason is that we never have any money. Father makes -a bit racing sometimes, and then we’re flush for a week or two, but it -never lasts long. - -“Why,” he went on, drawing himself up with an air of pride, “we owe -money all over the country. That’s why we came down to this rotten dull -hole—because we hadn’t been down here before. And another reason they -don’t like us is because that woman who lives with us isn’t father’s -wife and she isn’t our mother either. I should rather think not! She’s a -beast. I hate her,” he added reflectively. - -There was a great deal of all this that Jeremy didn’t understand, but he -got from it an immense impression of romance and adventure. - -And then, as he looked across at the boy opposite to him, a new feeling -came to him, a feeling that he had never known before. It was an -exciting, strange emotion, something that was suddenly almost adoration. -He was aware, all in a second, that he would do anything in the world -for this strange boy. He would like to be ordered by him to run down the -shoulder of the down and race across the sands and plunge into the sea, -and he would do it, or to be commanded by him all the way to St. Mary’s, -ever so many miles, to fetch something for him. It was so new an -experience that he felt exceedingly shy about it, and could only sit -there kicking at the turf and saying nothing. - -Humphrey’s brow was suddenly as black as thunder. He got up. - -“I see what it is,” he said. “You’re like the rest. Now I’ve told you -what we are, you don’t want to have anything more to do with us. Well, -you needn’t. Nobody asked you. You can just go back to your old parson -and say to him, ‘Oh, father, I met such a _wicked_ boy to-day. He _was_ -naughty, and I’m never going to talk to him again.’ All right, then. Go -along.” - -The attack was so sudden that Jeremy was taken entirely by surprise. He -had been completely absorbed by this new feeling; he had not known that -he had been silent. - -“Oh, no. I don’t care what you are or your father or whether you haven’t -any money. I’ve got some money. I’ll give it you if you like. And you -shall have threepence more on Saturday—fourpence, if I know my Collect. -I say”—he stammered over this request—“I wish you’d throw a stone from -here and see how far you can.” - -Humphrey was immensely gratified. He bent down and picked up a pebble; -then, straining backwards ever so slightly, slung it. It vanished into -the blue sea. Jeremy sighed with admiration. - -“You _can_ throw,” he said. “Would you mind if I felt the muscle on your -arm?” He felt it. He had never imagined such a muscle. - -“Do you think I could have more if I worked at it?” he asked, stretching -out his own arm. - -Humphrey graciously felt it. “That’s not bad for a kid of your size,” he -said. “You ought to lift weights in the morning. That’s the way to bring -it up.” Then he added: “You’re a sporting kid. I like you. I’ll be here -again same time to-morrow,” and without another word was running off, -with a strange jumping motion, across the down. - -Jeremy went home, and could think of nothing at all but his adventure. -How sad it was that always, without his in the least desiring it, he was -running up against authority. He had been forbidden to go near the farm -or to have anything to do with the wild, outlawed tenants of it, and now -here he was making close friends with one of the worst of them. - -He could not help it. He did not want to help it. When he looked round -the family supper-table how weak, colourless and uninteresting they all -seemed! No muscles, no outlawry, no running from place to place to -escape the police! He saw Humphrey standing against the sky and slinging -that stone. He could throw! There was no doubt of it. He could throw, -perhaps, better than anyone else in the world. - -They met, then, every day, and for a glorious, wonderful week nobody -knew. I am sorry to say that Jeremy was involved at once in a perfect -mist of lies and false excuses. What a business it was being always with -the family! He had felt it now for a long time, the apparent -impossibility of going anywhere or doing anything without everybody all -round you asking multitudes of questions. “Where are you going to, -Jeremy?” “Where have you been?” “What have you been doing?” “I haven’t -seen you for the last two hours, Jeremy. Mother’s been looking for you -everywhere!” - -So he lied and lied and lied. Otherwise, he got no harm from this -wonderful week. One must do Humphrey that justice that he completely -respected Jeremy’s innocence. He even, for perhaps the first time in his -young life, tried to restrain his swearing. They found the wild moor at -the back of the downs a splendid hunting-ground. Here, in the miles of -gorse and shrub and pond and heather, they were safe from the world, -their companions birds and rabbits. Humphrey knew more about animals -than anyone in England—he said so himself, so it must be true. The -weather was glorious, hot and gorse-scented. They bathed in the pools -and ran about naked, Humphrey doing exercises, standing on his head, -turning somersaults, lifting Jeremy with his hands as though he weighed -nothing at all. Humphrey’s body was brown all over, like an animal’s. -Humphrey talked and Jeremy listened. He told Jeremy the most marvellous -stories, and Jeremy believed every word of them. They sat on a little -hummock, with a dark wood behind them, and watched the moon rise. - -“You’re a decent kid,” said Humphrey. “I like you better than my -brothers. I suppose you’ll forget me as soon as I’m gone.” - -“I’ll never forget you,” said Jeremy. “Can’t you leave your family and -be somebody else? Then you can come and stay with us.” - -“Stay with a parson? Not much. You’ll see me again one day. I’ll send -you a line from time to time and let you know where I am.” - -Finally, they swore friendship. They exchanged gifts. Humphrey gave -Jeremy a broken pocket-knife, and Jeremy gave Humphrey his silver -watch-chain. They shook hands and swore to be friends for ever. - -And then the final and terrible tragedy occurred. - - - V - -It came, just as suddenly, as for a romantic climax it should have come. - -On the afternoon that followed the friendship-swearing Humphrey did not -appear at the accustomed place. Jeremy waited for several hours and then -went melancholy home. At breakfast next morning there were those -grown-up, mysterious allusions that mean that some catastrophe, too -terrible for tender ears, is occurring. - -“I never heard anything so awful,” said Aunt Amy. - -“It’s so sad to me,” said Jeremy’s mother, sighing, “that people should -want to do these things.” - -“It’s abominable,” said Mr. Cole, “that they were ever allowed to come -here at all. We should have been told before we came.” - -“But do you really think——” said Aunt Amy. - -“I know, because Mrs.——” - -“But just fancy if——” - -“It’s quite possible, especially when——” - -“What a dreadful thing that——” - -Jeremy sat there, feeling as though everyone were looking at him. What -had happened to Humphrey? He must go at once and find out. - -He slipped off after breakfast, and before he reached the bottom of the -downs, heard shouts and cries. He ran across the beach and was soon -involved in a crowd of farmers, women, boys and animals all shouting, -crying out and barking together. Being small he was able to worry his -way through without any attention being paid to him; indeed, everyone -was too deeply excited by what was happening in the yard of the farm to -notice small boys. When at last he got to the gate and looked through, -he beheld an extraordinary scene. Among the cobbles and the manure heaps -and the filth many things were scattered—articles of clothing, some -chairs and a table, some pictures, many torn papers. The yard was almost -filled with men and women, all of them apparently shouting and screaming -together. A big red-faced man next to Jeremy was crying over and over -again: “That’ll teach him to meddle with our women.” “That’ll teach him -to meddle with our women. . . .” - -On the steps of the farm-house an extraordinary woman was standing, -quite alone, no one near to her, standing there, contempt in her eyes -and a curious smile, almost of pleasure, on her lips. Even to Jeremy’s -young innocence she was over-coloured. Her face was crimson; she wore a -large hat of bright green and a bright green dress with a flowing train. -She did not move; she might have been painted into the stone. But -Jeremy’s gaze (seen dimly and as it were upwards through a pair of high, -widely extended farmer’s legs) was soon withdrawn from this highly -coloured lady to the central figure of the scene. This was a man who -seemed to Jeremy the biggest and blackest human he had ever seen. He had -jet-black hair, a black beard, and struggling now in the middle of the -yard between three rough-looking countrymen, his clothes were almost -torn from the upper part of his body. His face was bleeding, and even as -Jeremy caught sight of him he snatched one arm free and caught one of -his captors a blow that sent him reeling. For one instant he seemed to -rise above the crowd, gathering himself together for a mighty effort; he -seemed, in that second, to look towards Jeremy, his eyes staring out of -his head, his great chest heaving, his legs straining. But at once four -men were upon him and began to drive him towards the gate, the crowd -bending back and driving Jeremy into a confusion of thighs and legs -behind which he could see nothing. Then suddenly once more the scene -cleared, and the boy saw a figure run from the house, crying something, -his hand raised. Someone caught the figure and stayed it; for a second -of time Jeremy saw Humphrey’s face flaming with anger. Then the crowd -closed round. - -At the same instant the black man seemed to be whirled towards them, -there was a crushing, a screaming, a boot seemed to rise from the ground -of its own volition and kick him violently in the face and he fell down, -down, down, into a bottomless sea of black pitch. - - - VI - -For three days he was in bed, his head aching, one cheek swollen to -twice its natural size, one eye closed. To his amazement no one scolded -him; no one asked him how he had been caught in that crowd. Everyone was -very kind to him. - -Once he asked his mother “What had happened?” She told him that “They -were very wicked people and had gone away.” - -When he was up and about again he went to the farm and looked through -the gate. Within there was absolute stillness. A pig was snuffling -amongst the manure. - -He went out to the moor. It was a perfect afternoon, only a little -breeze blowing. The pools, slightly ruffled, were like blue lace. A -rabbit sitting in front of his hole did not move. He threw himself, face -downwards on the ground, burying his nose in it, feeling in some strange -way that Humphrey was there. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - THE PICTURE-BOOK - - - I - -September 1 was Mary’s birthday, and it had always something of a -melancholy air about it because it meant that the holidays were drawing -to a close. Soon there would be the last bathe, the last picnic, the -last plunge across the moor, the last waking to the sharp, poignant cry -of the flying, swerving gulls. - -Then in strange, sudden fashion, like the unclicking of a door that -opens into another room, the summer had suddenly slipped aside, giving -place to autumn; not full autumn yet, only a few leaves turning, a few -fires burning in the fields, the sea only a little colder in colour, the -sky at evening a chillier green; but the change was there, and with it -Polchester, and close behind Polchester old Thompson stepped towards -them. - -Yes, Mary’s birthday marked the beginning of the end, and, in addition -to that, there was the desperate, urgent question of present-giving. -Mary took her present-giving (or rather present-getting) with the utmost -seriousness. No one in the whole world minded quite so desperately as -she what she got, who gave it her, and how it was given. Not that she -was greedy; indeed, no. She was not like Helen, who guessed the price of -everything that she received, and had what Uncle Samuel called “a -regular shop mind.” - -It was all sentiment with Mary. What she wanted was that someone -(anyone) should love her and therefore give her something. She knew that -Uncle Samuel did not love her, and she suffered not, therefore, the -slightest unhappiness did he forget her natal day; but she would have -cried for a week had Jeremy forgotten it. She did not mind did Jeremy -only spend sixpence on his gift (but he was a generous boy and always -spent everything that, at the moment, he had) so that she might be sure -that he had taken a little trouble in the buying of it. - -Jeremy knew all this well enough and, in earlier years, the question of -buying had been simple, because Cow Farm was miles from anywhere, the -nearest village being the fishing cove of Rafiel, and Rafiel had only -one “shop general,” and the things in this shop general were all visible -in the window from year’s end to year’s end. Mary, therefore, received -on her birthday something with which, by sight at least, she was -thoroughly familiar. - -Now this year there were new conditions. The nearest village with shops -was St. Mary’s Moor, some six miles away. It was there that the purchase -must be made, and in any case it would be on this occasion a real -novelty. Jeremy tried to discover, by those circumlocutory but -self-revealing methods peculiar to intending present-givers, what Mary -would like. Supposing, just supposing, that someone one day were to die -and, most unexpectedly, leave a lot of money to Mary, what would she -buy? This was the kind of game that Mary adored, and she entered into it -thoroughly. She would buy an enormous library, thousands and thousands -of books, she would buy a town and fill it with sweet shops and then put -hundreds of poor children into it to eat as much as they liked; she -would buy Polchester Cathedral and make father bishop. This was flying -rather too high, and so Jeremy, somewhat precipitately, asked her what -she would do were she given fifteen shillings and sixpence. She -considered, and being that morning in a very Christian frame of mind, -decided that she would give it to Miss Jones to buy a new hat with. -Mentally cursing girls and their tiresome ways, Jeremy, outwardly -polite, altered his demand to: “No; but suppose you were given five -shillings and threepence halfpenny” (the exact sum saved at that moment -by him), “and had to spend it for yourself, Mary, what would you get -with it?” - -She would get a book. - -Yes, but what book? She clasped her hands and looked to heaven. Oh! -there were so many that she wanted. She wanted “The Young Stepmother” -and “Dynevor Terrace” and “The Scottish Chiefs” and “Queechy” and -“Sylvie and Bruno” and “The Queen’s Maries” and—and—hundreds and -hundreds. - -Well, she couldn’t buy hundreds with five and threepence halfpenny, that -was certain, and if she thought that he was going to she was very much -mistaken; but at least he had got his answer. It was a book that she -wanted. - -The next thing was to go into St. Mary’s Moor. He found the opportunity -ready to his hand because Miss Jones had to go to buy some things that -were needed for the family the very next afternoon. He would go with -her. Mary thought that she would go too, and when Jeremy told her, with -an air of great mystery, that that was impossible, she looked so -self-conscious that he could have smacked her. - -The journey in the old ramshackle omnibus was a delightful adventure. It -happened on this particular afternoon that all the Caerlyon farmers and -their wives were going too, and there was a “fine old crush.” Hamlet, -fixed tightly on his lead, sat between his master’s legs, his tongue -out, his hair on end, and his bright eyes wicked, darting from place to -place. He saw so many things that he would like to do, parcels that he -would like to worry, legs that he would like to smell, laps that he -would like to investigate. - -He gave sudden jerks at the lead, suited himself to the rolling and -jolting of the bus so that he should be flung as near as possible to the -leg, parcel or lap that he most wished to investigate. Jeremy then was -very busy. Miss Jones, who was a good woman and by now thoroughly -appreciated by all the members of the Cole family, including Jeremy -himself, who always took her under his especial protection when they -went out anywhere, had in all her years never learnt that first of all -social laws, “Never try to talk in a noisy vehicle,” and had a long -story about one Edmund Spencer, from whose mother she had that morning -received a letter. She treated Jeremy as a friend and contemporary (one -of the reasons for his liking of her), and he was always deeply -interested in her histories; but to-day, owing to the terrific -rumblings, rattlings and screaming of the bus and to the shrieking and -shouting of the farmers and their ladies, he could only catch occasional -words, and was not sure at the end of it all whether Edmund Spencer were -animal, vegetable or mineral. His confusion was complete when, just as -they were rattling into St. Mary’s one and only street, Miss Jones -screamed into his ear, “And so they had to give her boiled milk four -times a day and nothing else except an occasional potato.” - -The omnibus drew up in front of the Dog and Rabbit, and everyone -departed on their various affairs. St. Mary’s was like a little wayside -station on the edge of a vast brindled, crinkled moorland, brown and -grey and green rucking away to the smooth, pale, egg-shell blue of the -afternoon sky. The sea-wind came ruffling up to them where they stood. -What storms of wind and rain there must be in the winter! All the houses -of the long straggling street seemed to be blown a bit askew. - -Jeremy and Miss Jones looked around them, and at once the inevitable -“general” sprang to view. Miss Jones had to go into the hotel about some -business for the rectory, and telling Jeremy to stay just where he was, -and that she wouldn’t be more than “just five minutes,” vanished. Having -been told to stay where he was, it was natural of him to wander down the -street, inspect a greasy pond with some ducks, three children playing -marbles and two mongrel dogs, and then flatten his nose against the -window of the “general.” - -Inspection proved very disappointing. There seemed to be nothing here -that he could possibly offer to Mary: bootlaces, cards of buttons, -mysterious articles of underwear, foggy bottles containing bulls’ eyes, -sticks of liquorice, cakes of soap, copies of _Home Chat_ and _The -Woman’s Journal_, some pairs of very dilapidated looking slippers, some -walking-sticks, portraits of Queen Victoria and the Prince of Wales, -highly coloured. . . . - -None of these. Unless, possibly, the Royal Family. But no. Even to -Jeremy’s untrained eye the colour was a _little_ bright; and old -Victoria. . . . No, Mary wanted a _book_. He stared up and down the -street in great agitation. He must buy _something_ before Miss Jones -came out of the inn. He did not want her to see what it was that he -bought. The moments were slipping by. There was _nothing_ here. The two -half-crowns and the threepenny piece in his tightly clenched palm were -hot and sticky. He looked again. There really was _nothing_! Then, -staring down the street towards the open moor and the eventual sea, he -saw a little bulging bottle-glass window that seemed to have coloured -things in it. He turned and almost ran. - -It was the last shop in the street, and a funny, dumpty, white-washed -cottage with a pretty garden on its farther seaward side. The -bottle-glass window protected the strangest things. (In another place -and at another time it might not be uninteresting to tell the story of -Mr. Redpath, of how he opened a curiosity shop in St. Mary’s, of all -places! and of the adventures, happy and otherwise, that he encountered -there.) - -In the shop window there were glasses of blue with tapering stems, and -squat old men smoking pipes, painted in the gayest colours, and pottery -(jugs to drink out of), and there were old chains of beaten and figured -silver, and golden boxes, and the model of a ship with full sails and a -gorgeous figure-head of red and gold, and there were old pictures in dim -frames, and a piece of a coloured rug, and lots and lots of other things -as well. - -Jeremy pushed the door back, heard a little bell tinkle above his head, -and at once was in a shop so crowded that it was impossible to see -t’other from which. A young man with a pale face and carroty hair was -behind the very high counter, so high that Jeremy’s nose just tipped the -level of it. - -“Have you got such a thing as a book?” he asked very politely. - -The young man smiled. - -“What sort of a book?” - -“Well, she _said_ she wanted ‘Queechy’ or ‘Sylvie and Bruno’ or—I’ve -forgotten the names of the others. You haven’t got those two, I -suppose?” - -“No, I haven’t,” said the young man, quite grave now. - -“Have you got _any_ books?” said Jeremy breathlessly, because time was -slipping by and he had to stand on his toes. - -“I’ve got this old Bible,” said the young man, producing a thick, heavy -volume with brass clasps. “You see it’s got rather fine pictures. I -think you’d better sit on this,” he added, producing a high stool; -“you’ll be able to see better.” - -“Oh, that’s very nice,” said Jeremy, fascinated by Moses twisting a -serpent around his very muscular arm as though it were a piece of -string. “How much is this?” - -“Eight pounds and ten,” said the young man, as though he’d said a -halfpenny. - -“I think I’d better tell you at once,” said Jeremy, leaning his elbows -confidentially on the counter, “that I’ve only got five shillings and -threepence halfpenny.” - -The young man scratched his head. “I doubt if we’ve got any book,” he -began; then suddenly, “Perhaps this will be the very thing—if you like -pictures.” - -He burrowed deep down in the back somewhere, and then produced two or -three long, flat-looking books, dusty and a faded yellow. He wiped them -with a cloth and presented them to Jeremy. At the first sight of them he -knew that they were what he wanted. He read the titles: one was -“Robinson Crusoe,” another “The Swiss Family Robinson,” the third -“Masterman Ready.” He looked at “Crusoe,” and gave a delighted squeal of -ecstasy as he turned over the pages. The print was funny and blacker -than he had ever seen print before; the pictures were coloured, and -_richly_ coloured, the reds and greens and purples sinking deep into the -page. Oh! it was a lovely book! a perfect book! the very, very thing for -Mary. - -“How much is it?” he asked, trembling before the answer. - -“Exactly five shillings and threepence halfpenny,” said the young man -gravely. - -“That _is_ strange,” said Jeremy, almost crowing with delight and -keeping his hand on the book unless it should suddenly melt away. -“That’s just what I’ve got. Isn’t that lucky?” - -“Very fortunate indeed,” said the young man. “Shall I wrap it up for -you?” - -“Oh, yes, please do—and very carefully, please, so nobody can guess -what it is.” - -The young man was very clever about this, and when he emerged from the -back of the shop he had with him a parcel that might easily have been a -ship or a railway train. Jeremy paid his money, climbed down from his -stool, then held out his hand. - -“Good-bye,” he said. “Thank you. I’ll come again one day and look at the -other things in your shop.” - -“Please do,” said the young man, bowing. - -He went out, the little bell tinkling gaily behind him, and there, -coming at that very moment out of the hotel, was Miss Jones. - - - II - -We all know the truth of the familiar proverb that “Distance lends -enchantment to the view,” and it was never more true of anything in the -world than of parcels. - -All the way back in the ’bus the book grew and grew in magnificence -simply because Jeremy could not see it. He clutched the parcel tightly -on his knees and resisted all Miss Jones’s attempts to discover its -contents. Back in the rectory, he rushed up to his bedroom, locked the -door, and then, with trembling fingers, undid the paper. - -The first glimpse of “Robinson Crusoe and the Footmark on the Sand” -thrilled him so that the white-washed walls of his room faded away and -the thin pale evening glow passed into a sky of burning blue, and a -scarlet cockatoo flew screaming above his head and the sand lay hot and -sugar-brown at his feet. Mystery was there—the footprint in the sand, -and Crusoe with his shaggy beard and peaked hat, staring. . . . - -Feverishly his fingers turned the pages, and picture after picture -opened for his delight. He had never before seen a book with so many -pictures, pictures so bright and yet so true, pictures so real that you -could almost touch the trees and the figures and Crusoe’s hatchet. He -knelt then on the floor, the book spread out upon the bed, so deeply -absorbed that it was with a terrific jolt that he heard the banging on -the door and Mary’s voice: - -“Aren’t you coming, Jeremy? We’re half through supper. The bell went -hours ago.” - -Mary! He had forgotten all about her. Of course, this book was for her. -Just the book for her. She would love the pictures. He had forgotten all -about . . . - -He went down to supper and was bewildered and absent-minded throughout -the meal. That night his dreams were all of Crusoe, of burning sands and -flaming skies, of the crimson cockatoo and Man Friday. When he woke he -jumped at once out of bed and ran on naked feet to the book. As a rule -the next morning is the testing time, and too often we find that the -treasure that we bought the day before has already lost some of its -glitter and shine. Now it was not so; the pictures had grown better and -better, richer and ever more rich. The loveliest pictures . . . - -Just the book for Mary. It was then, standing half stripped before his -basin, pausing as he always did ere he made the icy attack with the -sponge, that he realized his temptation. He did not want to give the -book to Mary. He wanted to keep it for himself. - -While he dressed the temptation did not approach him very closely. It -was so horrible a temptation that he did not look it in the eyes. He was -a generous little boy, had never done a mean thing in all his life. He -was always eager to give anything away although he had a strong and -persistent sense of possessions so that he loved to have his things near -him, and they seemed to him, his books and his toys and his football, as -alive as the people around him. He had never felt anything so alive as -this book was. - -When he came down to breakfast he was surprised to find that the sight -of Mary made him feel rather cross. She always had, in excess of others, -the capacity for irritating him, as she herself well knew. This morning -she irritated him very much. Her birthday would be four days from now; -he would be glad when it arrived; he could give her the book and the -temptation would be over. Indeed, he would like to give her the book now -and have done with it. - -By the middle of the day he was considering whether he could not give -her something else “just as good” and keep the book for himself. He -wrapped the book in all its paper, but ran up continually to look at it. -She would like something else just as much; she would like something -else more. After all, “Robinson Crusoe” was a book for boys. But the -trouble was that he had now no money. He would receive threepence on -Saturday, the last Saturday before Mary’s birthday, but what could you -get with threepence? Five shillings of the sum with which he had bought -Mary’s present had been given him by Uncle Samuel—and Uncle Samuel’s -next present would be the tip before he went to school. - -That afternoon he quarrelled with Mary—for no reason at all. He was -sitting under the oak tree on the lawn reading “Redgauntlet.” Mary came -and asked him whether she could take Hamlet for a run. Hamlet, as though -he were a toy-dog made of springs, was leaping up and down. He did not -like Mary, but he adored a run. - -“No, you can’t,” said Jeremy. - -“Oh! Jeremy, why can’t I? I’ll take the greatest care of him and those -horrid little boys are gone away now and——” - -“You can’t because I say you can’t.” - -“Oh, Jeremy, do let——” - -He started up from his chair, all rage and indignation. - -“Look here, Mary, if you go on talking——” - -She walked away down the garden, her head hanging in that tiresome way -it had when she was unhappy. Hamlet tried to follow her, so he called -him back. He came, but was quite definitely in the sulks, sitting, his -head raised, very proud, wrath in his eyes, snapping angrily at an -occasional fly. - -“Redgauntlet” was spoilt for Jeremy. He put the book down and tried to -placate Hamlet who knew his power and refused to be placated. Why didn’t -he let Mary take Hamlet? What a pig he was! He would be nice to Mary -when she came back. But when she did return that face of hers, with its -beseeching look, irritated him so deeply that he snapped at her more -than before. - -After all, “Robinson Crusoe” _was_ a book for boys. . . . - -Two days later he had decided, quite definitely, that he could not part -with it. He must find something else for her, something very fine -indeed, the best thing that he had. He thought of every possible way of -making money, but time was so short and ways of making money quickly -were so few. He thought of asking his father for the pocket-money of -many weeks in advance, but it would have to be so very many weeks in -advance to be worth anything at all, and his father would want to know -what he needed the money for; and after the episode of last Christmas he -did not wish to say anything about presents. He thought of selling -something; but there was no place to sell things in, and he had not -anything that anyone else wanted. He thought of asking his mother; but -she would send him to his father who always managed the family finances. - -He went over all his private possessions. The trouble with them was that -Mary knew them all so well. - -Impossible to pretend that there was anything there that she could want! -He collected the most hopeful of them and laid them out on the bed—a -pocket-knife, three books, a photograph frame (rubbed at the edges), a -watch chain that had seemed at first to be silver but now most certainly -wasn’t, a leather pocket-book, a red blotting pad—not a very brilliant -collection. - -He did not now dare to look at the book at all. He put it away in the -bottom of the chest of drawers. He thought that perhaps if he did not -see it nor take it out of its brown paper until the actual day that it -would be easier to give. But he had imagination as, in later years, he -was to find to his cost, and the book grew and grew in his mind, the -pictures flaming like suns, the spirit of the book smiling at him, -saying to him with confidential friendship: “We belong to one another, -you and I. No one shall part us.” - -Then Helen said to him: - -“What are you going to give Mary on her birthday?” - -“Why?” he asked suspiciously. - -“I only wanted to know. I’ve got mine. Everyone knows you went into St. -Mary’s and bought something. Mary herself knows.” - -That was the worst of being part of a family. Everyone knew everything! - -“Perhaps it wasn’t for Mary,” he said. - -Helen sniffed. “Of course, if you don’t want to tell me,” she said, “I -don’t care to know.” - -Then he discovered the little glass bottle with the silver stopper. It -had been given him two years ago on his birthday by a distant cousin who -happened to be staying with them at the time. What anybody wanted to -give a _boy_ a glass bottle with a stopper for Jeremy couldn’t conceive. -Mary had always liked it, had picked it up and looked at it with -longing. Of course she knew that it had been his for two years. He -looked at it, and even as Adam, years ago, with the apple, he fell. - - - III - -Mary’s birthday came, and with it a day of burning, glowing colour. The -first early autumn mists were hanging like veils of thinly-sheeted -bronze before the grass wet with heavy dew, the sky of azure, the sea -crystal pale. In the mist the rectory was a giant box of pearl. The air -smelt of distant fires. - -On such a day who would not be happy? And Mary was perhaps the happiest -little girl in the kingdom. Happy as she was she lost much of her -plainness, her eyes sparkling behind her glasses, her mouth smiling. -Something tender and poignant in her, some distant prophecy of her -maturity, one day beautifully to be fulfilled, coming forth in her, -because she felt that she was beloved even though it were only for an -hour. She was lucky in her presents; her mother gave her a silver watch, -a little darling, quite small, with the hours marked in blue on the -face, and her father gave her a silver watch chain so thin that you -thought that it would break if you looked at it, and in reality so -strong that not the strongest man in the world could break it. Aunt Amy -gave her a muff, soft and furry, and Helen gave her a red leather -blotter, and Uncle Samuel sent her a book, the very “Dynevon Terrace” -that she wanted—how _did_ he know? And Miss Jones gave her a work -basket with the prettiest silk lining inside you ever saw, and a pair of -gloves from Barbara and—a glass bottle with a silver stopper from -Jeremy! - -It seemed that she liked this last present best of all. She rushed up to -Jeremy and kissed him in the wettest possible way. - -“Oh, Jeremy! I _am_ so glad. That’s _just_ what I wanted! I’ve never -seen such a darling. I’ve never had any silver things to stand on my -table and Gladys Sampson has such a lot, and this is prettier than any -that Gladys has. Oh! mother, _do_ look! See what Jeremy’s given me! -Father, see what Jeremy’s given me! Isn’t it pretty, Miss Jones? You are -a _dear_, Jeremy, and I’ll have it all my life!” - -Jeremy stood there, his heart like lead. It may be said with truth of -him that never in his whole existence had he felt such shame as he did -now. Mean, mean, mean! Suddenly, now that it was too late, he hated that -book upstairs lying safely in his bottom drawer. He didn’t want ever to -look at it again. - -And Mary. She must _know_ that this was his old glass bottle that he had -had so long. She had seen it a hundred times. It is true that he had -rubbed it up and got the woman in the kitchen to polish the silver, but -still she must _know_. He looked at her with new interest. Was it all -acting, this enthusiasm? No, it was not. She was genuinely moved and -delighted. Was she pretending to herself that she had never seen it -before, forcing herself to believe that it was new? He would keep the -book and give it to her at Christmas. But that would not be the same -thing. The deed was done now. The shabby, miserable deed. - -He did everything that he could to make her birthday a happy one. He was -with her all the day. He allowed her to read to him a long piece of the -story that she was then writing, a very tiresome business because she -could not read her own script, and because there were so many characters -that he could never keep track of any of them. He went blackberrying -with her in the afternoon and gave her all the best blackberries. But -nothing could raise his spirits. The beautiful day said nothing to him. -He felt sick in the evening from eating too many blackberries and went -to bed directly after supper. - - - IV - -The days that followed could hardly help but be jolly because the -weather was so lovely—still, breathless days, when the world seemed to -be painted in purple and blue on a wall of ivory, when the sea came over -the sand with a ripple of utter content, when the moon appeared early in -the evening, a silver bow, and mounted gently into a sky thick with -stars, when every sound, the rattle of carts, the barks of dogs, the -cries of men, struck the air sharply like blows upon iron. Yet, though -the world was so lovely and everyone—even Aunt Amy—was in the best and -most contented tempers, something hung over him like a black, heavy -cloth. His pride in himself was gone. He had done something shabbier -than even the Dean’s Ernest would do. - -He continued to see Mary with new eyes. She was a decent kid. He looked -back over the past months and saw how much more decent she had been to -him than he had been to her. She had been irritating, of course, but -then that was because she was a girl. All girls were irritating. Just -look at Helen, for instance! Meanwhile he never glanced at the book -again. It lay there neglected in its paper. - -One day Mary received in a letter a postal order for ten shillings. This -was a present from a distant aunt in America who had suddenly remembered -Mary’s birthday. Filled with glee and self-importance, she went in to -St. Mary’s with Miss Jones to spend it. - -That evening when Jeremy was washing his hands there was a knock on his -door and Mary’s voice: “May I come in?” - -“Yes,” he said. - -She came in, her face coloured with mysterious purpose. In her hands she -held a paper parcel. - -“Oh, are you washing your hands, Jeremy?” she said, her favourite -opening in conversation being always a question of the obvious. The red -evening sunlight flooded the room. - -“What is it?” Jeremy asked rather crossly. - -She looked at him pleadingly, as though begging him to save her from the -difficulties of emotion and explanation that crowded in upon her. - -“Oh, Jeremy, St. Mary’s was lovely, and there was a man with an organ -and a monkey, and I gave the monkey a penny and it took it in its hand -and took off its cap. . . . Miss Jones has got a cold,” she added, “and -sneezed all the way home.” - -“She always has a cold,” he said, “or something.” - -“And it goes straight to her face when she has a cold and makes all her -teeth ache—not only one of them, but all. She isn’t coming down to -supper. She’s gone to bed.” - -Still he waited, striving for politeness. - -“I’ve got something for you,” Mary suddenly said, dropping her voice in -the sentimental manner that he hated. Then, as though she were ashamed -of what she had done, she took the parcel to the bed and undid the paper -with clumsy fingers. - -“There,” she said, “I got it for you because I thought you’d like it.” - -He looked at it; it was a book: it was “Swiss Family Robinson”: it was a -companion to his “Robinson Crusoe.” He stared at it: he could say -nothing. - -“You do like it, don’t you?” she asked, gazing at him anxiously. “It’s -got lots and lots of pictures. There was a funny shop at the end of the -street and I went in with Miss Jones and the man was very nice. And I -thought it was just what you’d like. You do like it, don’t you?” she -asked again. - -But he could only stare at it, not coming forward to touch it. He was -buried deep, deep in shame. There came a rattle then on the door and -Helen’s voice: - -“Mary, if you’re in there with Jeremy, mother says you’re to come at -once and have your hair brushed because it’s five minutes to supper.” - -“Oh, dear, I’d forgotten.” And with one last glance of anxiety towards -Jeremy she went. - -Still he did not move. Could anything possibly have happened to prove to -him what a pig he was, what a skunk and a cur? Mary had bought it with -her own money, five and threepence halfpenny out of ten shillings. - -He did not touch the book, but with chin set and eyes resolved, he went -down to supper. When the meal was finished he said to Mary: - -“Come upstairs a minute. I want to speak to you.” - -She followed him tremulously. He seemed to be clothed in his domineering -manner. How often, especially of late, she had determined that she would -not be afraid of him, but would dig up from within her the common sense, -the easy companionship, the laughter that were all there for him, she -knew, could she only be at her ease! She even sympathized with him in -thinking her so often a fool! She _was_ a fool when she was with him, -simply because she cared for him so much and thought him so wonderful -and so clever! - -He didn’t like the book! He was going to thank her for it in the way -that he had when he was trying to be polite, and didn’t find it easy. -She followed him into the bedroom. He carefully closed the door. She saw -at once that the book lay exactly where she had placed it on the -bed—that he had not even opened it. He regarded her sternly. - -“Sit down on that chair!” he said. She sat down. - -“Look here, you oughtn’t to have given me that book. You know that Aunt -Lucy sent that money for you to spend on yourself.” - -“I thought you’d like it,” she said, pushing at her spectacles as she -always did when she was distressed. - -“I do like it,” he said. “It’s splendid. But I’ve done something -awful—and I’ve got to tell you now you’ve given me that.” - -“Oh, Jeremy! something awful! What is it?” - -He set his jaw and, without looking at her, made his confession. - -“That day I went in with Miss Jones to St. Mary’s I was going to buy you -a present. And I did buy you one. I went into that same shop you went to -and I bought ‘Robinson Crusoe’ just like the one you bought me. When I -bought it I meant it for you, of course, but when I got home I liked it -so much I kept it for myself and I gave you that old bottle instead—and -then I didn’t like the rotten book after all and I’ve never looked at it -since your birthday.” - -Mary’s pleasure at being made his confidante in this way was much -greater than her horror at his crime. Her bosom heaved with gratified -importance. - -“I’ve done things like that, Jeremy,” she said. “I got six handkerchiefs -for Miss Jones one Christmas, and I kept three of them because I got a -terrible bad cold just at the time.” - -“That’s not so bad,” he said, shaking his head, “because I gave you an -old thing that I’d had for years.” - -“No,” she interrupted; “I’ve wanted that bottle ever so long. I used to -go up to your room and look at it sometimes when you were at school.” - -He went to the drawer and produced “Robinson Crusoe” and gave it to her. -She accepted it gratefully, but said: - -“And now I shall have to give you back the bottle.” - -“Oh, no, you won’t.” - -“But I can’t have two presents.” - -“Yes, you can. I don’t want the old bottle, anyway. I never used it for -anything. And now we’ll each have a book, so it won’t be like a present -exactly.” - -She smiled with pleasure. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re not angry.” - -“Angry?” he repeated after her. - -“Yes,” she said, getting up from the bed where she had been sitting. “I -thought you were when you asked me to come up here.” - -He looked at her puzzled. She seemed to him a new Mary whom he had never -seen before. - -“Am I often angry?” he asked. - -“Not angry exactly; but I get frightened that you are going to be cross, -and then I say the silliest things—not because I want to, but because I -want to be clever, and then, of course, I never am.” - -He stood staring at her. “Am I as beastly as that?” he asked. - -“Oh, you’re not beastly,” she reassured him. “Never—you’re not,” -forgetting her grammar in her eagerness; “but I’m afraid of you, and I’m -fonder of you than anybody—lots fonder—and I always say to myself, -‘Now I’m not going to be silly _this_ time,’ and then I am. I don’t know -why,” she sighed. “But I’m not nearly as silly as I seem,” she ended. - -No, she wasn’t. He suddenly saw that, and he also suddenly saw that he -had all this time been making a great mistake. Here was a possible -companion, not only possible, but living, breathing, existing. She was -on her own to-night, neither fearful nor silly, meeting him on his own -level, superior to him, perhaps, knowing more than he did about many -things, understanding his feelings. . . . - -“I say, Mary, we’ll do things together. I’m awfully lonely sometimes. I -want someone to tell things to—often. We’ll have a great time next -holidays.” - -It was the happiest moment of Mary’s life. Too much for her altogether. -She just nodded and, clutching “Robinson Crusoe” to her, ran. - - - - - CHAPTER X - UNCLE PERCY - - - I - -The town was ringed with fire, and out of that magic circle, like -Siegfried, Uncle Percy came. The sunset flamed up the hill and wrapped -the top of the monument in crocus shadows, the garden of the Coles was -rose and amber. - -Mary and Jeremy were hanging over the banisters watching for the -arrival. The windows behind them burnt with the sun, and their bodies -also burnt and their hair was in flames. In the hall there was green -dusk until, at the rumble of the cab, Emily suddenly lit the gas, and -the umbrellas and Landseer’s “Dignity and Impudence” were magnificently -revealed. - -The door opened, and out of the evening sun into the hissing gas stepped -Uncle Percy. The children heard him say: - -“Mrs. Cole at home?” and his voice was roaring, laughing, vibrating, -resounding tumultuous. He seemed in his rough grey overcoat too huge to -be human, and when this was taken from him by the smiling Emily—she -always smiled, as Jeremy had long since observed, at gentlemen more than -at ladies—in his bright brown tweeds he was still huge, and, with his -brown hair and red face, like a solid chunk of sunset thrown into the -dark house to cheer it up. He went bursting up the staircase, and the -children fled—only just in time. - -From the schoolroom they heard him erupt into the drawing-room, and then -the bumping of his box up the stairs and the swearing of the cabman. - -This was their Uncle Percy from California, South America, New Zealand, -Hong Kong, and anywhere else you like; the brother of their father, the -only prosperous one of that family, prosperous, according to Aunt Amy, -because for twenty years he had kept away from England; according to -father, because he had always had wonderful health, even as a very small -boy; and to Uncle Samuel because he had never married—although that was -a strange reason for Uncle Samuel to give, because he also had never -married, and he could not, with the best wish in the world, be said to -be prosperous. - -It had been sprung upon them all with the utmost suddenness that he was -coming to pay them a visit. They had but just returned from Caerlyon and -the sea—in another ten days Jeremy would be off to school again—when -the telegram arrived that threw them all into such perturbation. “Arrive -eleventh. Hope you can put me up for day or two—Percy.” Percy! -Fortunately there was for them in the whole world only one Percy or they -might have been in sad confusion, because their Percy was, they -imagined, safe in the suburbs of Auckland, New Zealand. A letter -followed confirming the telegram. Mr. Cole had not seen his brother for -twenty years. They had received one photograph of a large fat staring -man on a large fat staring horse. Such thighs, such a back, both of man -and of horse! “Feed their animals well in New Zealand” was Uncle -Samuel’s only comment, and he, back only that minute from painting the -moors, departed at a moment’s notice for London. - -“Don’t you want to see Uncle Percy?” asked Jeremy. - -“I shall see him better if I study him from a distance,” said Uncle -Samuel. “He’s too large to see properly close to,” and he went—voted -selfish by all because he would not help in the entertaining. “Of course -I’m selfish,” said Uncle Samuel. “No one else cares tuppence about me, -so where should I be if I didn’t look after myself?” - -In any case their Uncle Percy actually was shut into the drawing-room, -and five minutes later the children were sent for. - -It had not been intended that Hamlet should enter with them, but he had -a way of suddenly appearing from nowhere and joining, unobtrusively, any -company that he thought pleasant and amusing. To-day, however, he was -anything but unobtrusive; at the sudden shock of that red flaming figure -with legs spread wide across the centre of the carpet he drew himself -together and barked like a mad thing. Nothing would quiet him, and when -Jeremy dragged him into the passage and left him there he still barked -and barked and barked, quivering all over, in a perfect frenzy of -indignation and horror. He had then to be taken to Jeremy’s bedroom on -the top floor and shut in, and there, too, he barked, stopping only once -and again for a howl. All this disturbed Uncle Percy’s greeting of the -children, but he did not seem to mind. It was obvious at once that -nothing could upset him. Jeremy simply could not take his eyes off him, -off his brown, almost carroty, hair that stood on end almost like an -aureole, off his purple cheeks and flat red nose and thick red neck, off -his flaming purple tie, his waistcoat of red and brown squares, his -bulging thighs, his tartan socks. This his father’s brother, the brother -of his father who sat now, the dim shadow of a shade, pale and -apprehensive upon the sofa. The brother of his father! Impossible! How -could it be possible? - -“Well, kid, what are you staring at?” came suddenly to him. “Know your -old uncle again, hey? Think you’ll recognize him if you meet him in the -Strand, ho? Know him anywhere, won’t you, ha? A likely kid that of -yours, Herbert. Come and talk to your uncle, boy—come and talk to your -uncle.” - -Jeremy moved across the carpet slowly; he was deeply embarrassed, -conscious of the solemn gaze of Aunt Amy, of Helen and Mary. A great red -hand fell upon his shoulder. He felt himself suddenly caught up by the -slack of his pants, held in mid-air, then dropped, cascades of laughter -billowing meanwhile around him. - -“That’s a fine boy, hey? That’s what we do to boys in New Zealand to -make ’em grow. Want to grow, hey? Be a bigger man than your father, ho? -Well, that won’t be difficult, anyway. Never were much of a size, were -you, Herbert? Well, boy, go to school?” - -“Yes,” said Jeremy. - -“Like it?” - -“Yes,” said Jeremy. - -“Bully the boys smaller than yourself?” - -“No,” said Jeremy. - -“Bet you do. I always did when I was at school. Any good at games?” - -“No,” said Jeremy, suddenly to his own surprise determining that he -would tell his uncle nothing. - -“That’s like your father. Never any good at games, were you, Herbert? -Remember when we tossed you in a blanket and your head bumped on the -ceiling?” - -Mr. Cole gave a sickly smile. - -“That was a lark. I can see it as though it were yesterday. With your -legs sticking out of your nightdress——” - -Luckily at this point tea arrived, and everyone was very busy. Uncle -Percy sat down and then was suddenly aware of Helen. She was looking her -prettiest in her blue silk; she knew better than to push herself -forward. She had waited patiently through all the examination of Jeremy, -certain that her time would come. And it did. - -“Why, there’s a pretty one!” he jerked his great body upwards. “Why, I -hardly saw you just now! And you’re Helen!” - -“Yes, uncle.” She smiled that smile so beautifully designed for -worth-while relations. - -He stared at her with all his eyes. “Why, you’re a beauty, ’pon my soul, -you are! Come and sit here beside your old uncle and tell him how all -the boys run after you. I’m sure they do if boys are still the same as -when I was young. Come along, now, and tell me all about it.” - -Helen demurely “came along,” sat beside her uncle and answered his -questions with exactly the right mixture of deference and humour. She -brought him his tea and his cake, and was the perfect hostess—a much -better hostess, as Jeremy noticed, than her mother; and noticing it, -hated her for it. - - - II - -Before twenty-four hours had passed Uncle Percy had made his mark not -only upon his own family, but upon Polchester. One walk up the High -Street and everyone was asking who was that “big, red-faced man”? But it -was not only that he was big and red-faced; he moved with such complete -assurance. He was more like our Archdeacon Brandon (although, of course, -not nearly so handsome) than anyone who had been to our town for years. -He had just the archdeacon’s confidence; it would have been interesting -to watch the two men together. - -He took charge of the Cole family in simply no time at all. For one -thing he smoked all over the house. Uncle Samuel had been hitherto the -only smoker in the family household, and it was understood that he -smoked only in his studio. But Uncle Percy smoked everywhere—and -cigars—and big black terribly-smelling cigars too! He appeared on the -very first morning, just as the bell rang for breakfast, clad only in a -dressing-gown with a great deal of red chest exposed, and thus -confronted Aunt Amy on the way to dining-room prayer. He arrived for -breakfast an hour late and ordered fresh tea. He sat in his brother’s -study most of the morning, talking and smoking. He forced his way into -Uncle Samuel’s studio and laughed at his pictures. (Of course, Uncle -Samuel was in London.) - -“Call them pictures?” he cried all through luncheon. “Those daubs of -paint? Why, I could do better myself if I shut my eyes and splashed -coloured ink on the canvas. And I know something about painting, mind -you. Wasn’t a bad hand myself at it once. Gave it up because I hadn’t -time to waste! Call _them_ pictures!” - -For this Aunt Amy almost forgave him his naked chest. - -“It’s what I’ve always said,” she remarked, “only no one would listen to -me. Samuel’s pictures are folly, folly!” - -During the first day both Hamlet and Jeremy were fascinated. Hamlet -recovered from his first fit of horror, smelt something in the stockings -and knickerbockers in which Uncle Percy now appeared that fascinated -him. He followed those stockings all round the house, his nose just a -little ahead of his body, and he had to move quickly because Uncle Percy -was never still for a moment. Uncle Percy, of course, laughed at Hamlet. - -“Call that a dog!” he cried. “I call it a dog-fight!” and laughed -immoderately. - -But Hamlet bore him no grudge; with his beard projecting and his eyes -intent on the pursuit, he followed the stockings. Such a smell! and such -calves! Both smell and calves were new in his experience—to lick the -one and bite the other! What a glorious ambition! - -Jeremy, on his part, was at the beginning dazzled. He had never before -seen such superb despotism! For those twenty-four hours he admired it -all immensely—the unceasing flow of words, the knowledge of every -imaginable quarter of the globe, the confident, unfaltering answer to -every possible question, the definite assumption of universal -superiority, the absence of every doubt, hesitation or shyness. - -Jeremy was as yet no analyser of human nature, but, young as he was, he -knew his own shynesses, awkwardnesses and reticences, and for -twenty-four hours he did wish he were like his Uncle Percy. He even -envied his calves and looked at his own in his bedroom looking-glass to -see how they were getting along. - -It cannot, however, be denied that every member of the Cole family went -that night to bed feeling desperately weary; it was as though they had -spent a day with a thunder-storm or sat for twelve hours in the very -middle of Niagara Falls, or lodged for an hour or two in the west tower -of the cathedral amongst the bells. They were tired. Their bedrooms -seemed to them strangely, almost ominously silent. - -It was as though they had passed quite suddenly into a deaf and mute -world. - -On the second day it might have been noticed, had there been anyone here -or there especially observant, that Uncle Percy was beginning to be -bored. He looked around him for some fitting entertainment and -discovered his brother Herbert. - -Although it was twenty years since he had seen his brother, it was -remarkable with what swiftness he had slipped back into his childhood’s -attitude towards him. He had laughed at him then; he laughed at him now -with twice his original heartiness because Herbert was a clergyman, and -clergymen seemed to Uncle Percy very laughable things. Our colonies -promote a directer form of contact between individuals than is our -custom at home; it is a true word that there are no “frills” in the -colonies. You let a man know what you think of him for good or ill -without any disguise. Uncle Percy let his brother know what he thought -of him at once, and he let everyone else know too—and this was, for his -brother, a very painful experience. - -The Rev. Herbert Cole had been brought up in seclusion. People had taken -from the first trouble that his feelings should not be hurt, and when it -was understood that he was “destined for the ministry,” a mysterious -veil had been drawn in order that for the rest of his days he never -should see things as they were. No one, for twenty long years, had been -rude to him. If he wanted to be angry he was angry; if things were wrong -he said so; if he felt ill he said so; if he had a headache he said so; -and if he felt well he didn’t say so quite as often as he might have -done. He believed himself to be a good honest God-fearing man, and on -the whole he was so. But he did not know what he would be were anyone -rude to him; he did not know until Percy came to stay with him. He had, -of course, disliked Percy when they were small boys together, but that -was so long ago that he had forgotten all about it; and during the first -twenty-four hours he put everything down to Percy’s high animal spirits -and delight at being home again and pleasure at being with his -relations. - -It was not until luncheon on the second day that he began to realize -what was happening. Over the chops he said something in his well-known -definite authoritative manner about “the Church not standing it, and the -sooner those infidels in Africa realized it the better.” - -“Bosh!” said Uncle Percy. “Bosh!” - -“My dear Percy . . .” began Mr. Cole. - -“Don’t ‘dear Percy’ me,” came from the other end of the table. “I say -it’s bosh! What do you know of Africa or of the Church for the matter of -that? You’ve never been outside this piffling little town for twenty -years and wouldn’t have noticed anything if you had. That’s the worst of -you miserable parsons—never seeing anything of life or the world, and -then laying down the law as though you were God Almighty. It fair makes -me sick! But you were always like that, Herbert. Even as a boy you’d -hide behind some woman’s skirts and then lay claim to someone else’s -actions. Don’t you talk about Africa, Herbert. You know nothing about it -whatever. Here, Helen, my girl, pass up the potatoes!” - -Had a large iron thunderbolt crashed through the ceiling and broken the -room to pieces consternation could not have been more general. Mr. Cole -at first simply did not believe the evidence of his ears, then as it -slowly dawned upon him that his brother had really said these things, -and before a mixed company (Emily was at that moment handing round the -cabbage), a dull pink flush stole slowly over his cheeks and ended in -fiery crimson at the tips of his ears. - -Mrs. Cole and Amy were, of course, devastated, but dreadful was the -effect upon the children. Three pairs of eyes turned instantly towards -Mr. Cole and then hurriedly withdrew. Mary attacked once again the bone -of her chop, already sufficiently cleaned. Helen gazed at her uncle, her -eyes full of a lovely investigating interest. Jeremy stared at the -tablecloth. He himself could not at once realize what had occurred. He -had been accustomed for so long now to hear his father speak with -authority upon every conceivable topic and remain uncontradicted. Even -when visitors came—and they were so often curates—his opinions were -generally confirmed with a “Quite so,” or “Is that so indeed?” or “Yes, -yes; quite.” His first interest now was to see how his father would -reply to this attack. They all waited. - -Mr. Cole feebly smiled. - -“Tee. Tee. Violent as ever, Percy. I dare say you’re correct. Of course, -I never was in Africa.” - -Capitulation! Complete capitulation! Jeremy’s cheeks burnt hot with -family shame. Was nobody going to stand up to the attack? Were they to -allow it to pass like that? They were apparently. The subject was -changed. Bread-and-butter pudding arrived. The world went on. - -Uncle Percy himself had no conception that anything unusual had -occurred. He had been shouting people down and bullying them for years. -Something subconsciously told him that his brother was going to be easy -game; perhaps deep down in that mighty chest of his something chuckled; -and that was all. - -But for Jeremy that was not all. He went up to his room and considered -the matter. Readers of this chronicle and the one that preceded it will -be aware that his relations with his father had not been altogether -happy ones. He had not quite understood his father, and his father had -not quite understood him, but he had always felt awe of his father and -had cherished the belief that he must be infinitely wise. Uncle Samuel -was wise too, but in quite another way. Uncle Samuel was closer, far -closer, and he could talk intimately to him about every sort of thing, -but people laughed at Uncle Samuel quite openly and said he was no good, -and Uncle Samuel himself confessed this. - -His father had been remote, august, Olympian. It was true that last -Christmas he had hit his father and tried to bite him; but that had been -in a fit of rage that was madness, neither more nor less. When you were -mad you might do anything. His father had been august—but now? - -Jeremy dared not look back over the luncheon scene, dared not face once -again the nervous flush, the silly laugh, the feeble retort. His father -was a coward and the honour of the family was at stake. - -After that luncheon outburst, however, the situation moved so swiftly -that it went far beyond poor Jeremy. I don’t suppose that Uncle Percy -was aware of anything very much save his own happiness and comfort, but -to any outsider it would have seemed that he now gave up the whole of -his time and energy to baiting his brother. He was not a bad man nor -deliberately unkind, but he loved to have someone to tease, as the few -women for whom in his life he had cared had discovered in time to save -themselves from marrying him. - -I say that he was unconscious of what he was doing; and so in a fashion -was the Cole family unconscious. That is, Mrs. Cole and Aunt Amy and the -children realized that Uncle Percy was being rude, but they did _not_ -realize that the work of years was, in a few days, being completely -undone. So used to custom and tradition are we that in our daily life we -will accept almost any figure in the condition in which we receive it -and then proceed to add our own little “story” to the structure already -presented to us. - -Mrs. Cole did not wish, Aunt Amy even did not wish, to see their Herbert -“a fool”; very much better for their daily life and happiness that he -should not be one, and yet in a short two days that was what he was, so -that Aunt Amy, without realizing it, spoke sharply to him and Mrs. Cole -disagreed with him about the weather prospects. Of course the women did -their best to stand up for him and defend him in his weak attempts at -resistance, but, after all, Percy was a visitor and wouldn’t be here for -long, and “hadn’t been home for such a time that naturally his way of -looking at things couldn’t be quite ours,” and then at Sunday supper -they were forced to laugh against their will, but “one was glad of -_anything_ by Sunday evening to make things a little bright,” at Percy’s -account of Herbert when he was a boy tumbling out of the wagonette on a -picnic and nobody missing him until they got home that night. It _was_ -funny as Percy told it. Poor Herbert! running after the wagonette and -shouting and nobody noticing, and then losing himself and not getting -home until midnight. Aunt Amy was forced to laugh until she cried, and -even Mrs. Cole, regarding her husband with tender affection, said: “So -like you, Herbert, dear, not to _ask_ somebody the way!” - -The only member of the family who did not see something funny in all of -this was Jeremy. He was conscious only of his father. He was aware -exactly of how he was feeling. He so thoroughly himself detested being -laughed at, especially when it was two to one—and now it was about five -to one! As he watched his father’s white face with the slow flushes -rising and falling, the pale nervous eyes wandering in their gaze from -place to place, the expression of bewilderment as Uncle Percy’s loud -tones surged up to him, submerged him and then slowly withdrew, Jeremy -was reminded of his own first evening at Thompson’s, when in the -dormitory he had been suddenly delivered up to a wild troop of savages -who knew neither law nor courtesy. As it had been with him then, so was -it with his father now. - -Uncle Percy had all the monotony of the unimaginative. One idea was -enough for him, and his idea just now was to take it out of “old -Herbert.” I can only repeat that he did not mean it unkindly; he thought -that he was being vastly amusing for the benefit of those poor dull -women who never had any fun from one year’s end to the other. His -verdict, after he had left him and gone on somewhere else, would be: -“Well, I gave those poor mugs a merry week. Hard work, but one must do -one’s best.” - -Meanwhile Jeremy watched his father. - - - III - -Soon he saw his father hurrying off, book under his arm, umbrella in -hand. - -“Where are you going, father?” - -“To the Greybank Schools.” - -“I’ll walk up with you.” - -“Well, hurry, then. I haven’t much time.” - -He did not reveal his surprise. It was the first time in all their lives -together that Jeremy had suggested going with him anywhere. They set off -together. It was a fine day of early autumn, red mist and faint blue -sky, leaves thick upon the ground, the air peppermint in the mouth. -Jeremy had to walk fast to keep pace with his father’s long strides. - -Mr. Cole suddenly said: - -“I’ve got a headache—a bad headache. It’s better out of the house than -in.” - -In every way it was better, as Jeremy knew. During luncheon, just -concluded, Uncle Percy had roared with laughter over his memories of -what Herbert was like when, as a small boy, in the middle of the night -he thought he heard a burglar. - -“When does Uncle Percy go, father?” - -“Well—I thought he was going the day after to-morrow—but now he thinks -he’ll stay another week.” - -“I don’t like Uncle Percy, father,” Jeremy panted a little with his -efforts to keep up. - -“You mustn’t say that, my boy.” - -“It doesn’t matter if I say it to you. Was he like he is now when he was -young?” - -“Yes; very much. But you must remember that it was a long time ago. I -don’t quite clearly recollect my childhood. Nor, I think—does he his.” -Mr. Cole coughed. - -“We never had very much in common as boys,” he said suddenly. - -“He doesn’t know much about England, does he, father? He says the most -awfully silly things.” - -“You mustn’t say that about your uncle, my boy.” - -“No, but he does. Why, he hasn’t been _anywhere_ in England—not even to -Drymouth.” - -“No, my boy, he hasn’t. You see, when people have lived in the colonies -all their lives they get a little—ahem—out of touch.” - -“Yes, father.” - -Delightful to think of Uncle Percy being out of touch. Quite a savage, a -barbarian. Father and son laughed a little together. - -“I bet the boys at Thompson’s would laugh at him,” said Jeremy, “like -anything.” - -“One has to be polite,” said Mr. Cole. “After all, he is our guest. -Don’t forget that, my boy.” - -“No, father. . . . I bet he was frightened at the burglar, father; more -than you were.” - -“Well, as a matter of fact, Jeremy, he was. I remember the incident -perfectly. Percy hid in a cupboard. He’s forgotten that, I’ve no doubt.” - -Father and son laughed. - -“It would have to be a very large cupboard, father,” said Jeremy; and -then they laughed again. - -Here they were at the schools, where Mr. Cole was going to teach the -little girls their Catechism. They parted, and Jeremy ran all the way -down the hill home. - - - IV - -Uncle Percy loved the world and desired that, in natural return, the -world should love him. It seemed to him that the world did so. Once and -again the net of his jollity and fun seemed to miss some straggling fish -who gaped and then swam away, but he was of that happy temperament thus -described by one of the most lovable of our modern poets: - - “Who bears in mind misfortunes gone, - Must live in fear of more; - The Happy Man, whose heart is light, - Gives no such shadows power; - He bears in mind no haunting past - To start his week on Monday: - No graves are written on his mind - To visit on a Sunday; - He lives his life by days, not years, - Each day’s a life complete, - Which every morning finds renewed - With temper calm and sweet.” - -How could the world help but love him, jolly, amiable, sensible man that -he was? - -But once and again . . . once and again. . . . And so it was now. And -the fish that was eluding him was young Jeremy Cole. - -On the seventh or eighth day he was aware of it. At breakfast he looked -across the table and saw the small square-shaped boy gravely winking at -Mary. Why was he winking at his sister? It could not be, surely it could -not be because of anything that he himself had said? And yet, looking -behind him, so to speak, he could not remember that anyone else had been -talking. This was enough to make him think, and, thinking, it occurred -to him that that small boy had from the very first been aloof and -reserved. Not natural for small boys to be reserved with jolly uncles. -And it was not as though the boy were in general a reserved child. No, -he had heard him laughing and jumping about the house enough to bring -the roof down. Playing around with that dog of his. . . . Quite a -normal, sporting boy. Come to think of it, the best of the family. By -far the best of the family. You’d never think, to look at him, that he -was Herbert’s son. - -Therefore after breakfast in the hall he cried in his jolly, hearty -tones: - -“I say, Jeremy, what do you say to taking your old uncle round the town -this morning, eh? Showing him the shops and things, what? Might be -something we’d like to buy. . . .” - -Jeremy was half-way up the stairs. He came slowly down again. On the -bottom step, looking very gravely at his uncle, he said: - -“I’m very sorry, Uncle Percy, but I’m going to school to-morrow morning, -and I promised mother——” - -But Mrs. Cole was at this moment coming out of the dining-room. Looking -up and smiling, she said: - -“Never mind, Jeremy. Go with Uncle Percy this morning, dear. I can -manage about the shirts. . . .” - -Jeremy appeared not to have heard his mother. - -“I’m sorry I can’t go out this morning, Uncle Percy. There’s my holiday -task too. I’ve got to swot at it—” and then turned and slowly -disappeared round the corner of the staircase. - -Uncle Percy was chagrined. Really he was. He stood with his large body -balanced on his large legs, hesitating, in the hall. - -“It is his last morning, Percy,” said Mrs. Cole, looking a little -distressed. “He’s a funny child. He’s always making his own plans.” - -“Obstinate. That’s what I call it,” said Uncle Percy. “Damned -obstinate.” He went out that morning alone. He thought that he would buy -something for the kid, something really rich and impressive. It could -not be that the boy disliked him, and yet . . . All that morning he was -haunted by the boy’s presence. Going to school to-morrow, was he? Not -much time left for making an impression. He could not find anything that -morning that would precisely do. Rotten shops, the Polchester ones. He -would tip the boy handsomely to-morrow morning. No boy could resist -that. Really handsomely—as he had never been tipped before. - -Nothing further occurred to him, and that evening he was especially -funny about his brother. That story of Herbert when he was round fifteen -and quite a grown boy being afraid of a dog chained up in a yard, and -how he, Percy, made Herbert go and stroke it. How Herbert trembled and -how his knees shook! Oh! it was funny, it was indeed. You’d have roared -had you seen it. Percy roared; roared until the table shook beneath him. - -But to-night, for some reason or another, Herbert did not seem to mind. -He laughed gently and admitted that he was still afraid of -dogs—bulldogs especially. Uncle Percy had Jeremy in his mind all that -evening; he caught him once again by the slack of his breeches and swung -him in the air—just to show what a jolly pleasant uncle he was. - -When Mrs. Cole explained that always on Jeremy’s last evening she read -to him in the schoolroom after supper, he said that he would come too, -and sat there in an easy chair, watching benevolently the children -grouped in the firelight round their mother, while “The Chaplet of -Pearls” unfolded its dramatic course. A charming picture! And the boy -really looked delightful, gazing into the fire, his head against his -mother’s knee. Uncle Percy almost wished that he himself had married. -Nice to have children, a home, somewhere to come to; and so fell asleep, -and soon was snoring so loudly that Mrs. Cole had to raise her voice. - -Next morning there was all the bustle of Jeremy’s departure. This was -not so dramatic as other departures had been, because Jeremy was now so -thoroughly accustomed to school-going and, indeed, could not altogether -conceal from the world at large that this was football-time, the time of -his delight and pride and happiness. - -He went as usual into his father’s study to say good-bye, but on this -occasion, for some strange reason, there was no stiffness nor -awkwardness. Both were at their ease as they had never been together -before. Mr. Cole put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. - -“Mind you get into the football team,” he said. - -“If I don’t you won’t mind, father, will you?” said Jeremy, looking very -fine indeed in a new light-grey overcoat. - -“I know you’ll do your best, my boy,” said Mr. Cole, and kissed him. - -Outside in the hall, with the others, was Uncle Percy. He motioned to -him mysteriously. “I say, kid, come here.” - -Jeremy followed him into the dining-room, where they were alone. Uncle -Percy shut the door. - -“Here’s something for you, my boy, to take back to school. Buy something -you want with it and remember your uncle isn’t such a bad sort after -all.” - -Jeremy crimsoned up to the tips of his ears. On the red palm of his -uncle’s big hand there were lying three golden sovereigns. - -“No, thank you, uncle.” - -“What?” - -“No, thank you, uncle. I’ve got——Father gave me——I don’t want——” - -“You won’t take it? You won’t——?” - -“No, thank you, uncle.” - -“But what the devil——” - -Jeremy turned away. His uncle caught him by the shoulder. - -“Now, what’s all this about? A boy of your age refuse a tip? Now, what’s -this mean?” - -Jeremy wriggled himself free. Suddenly he said hotly: “Father’s as good -as you, every bit as good. Even though you have been everywhere and he -hasn’t. People like father awfully in Polchester, and they say his -sermons are better than anybody’s. Father’s just as good as you -are——I——” and then suddenly burst from the room. - -Uncle Percy stood there. This may be said to have been the greatest -shock of his life. The boy’s father? What was he talking about? The -boy’s father? As good as he was? The boy hated him so much that he -wouldn’t even take the money. Three pounds, and he wouldn’t take it! -Wouldn’t take money from him because he hated him so! But hang it! Lord, -how that dog was howling! What a horrible noise! What was he howling -for? . . . Wouldn’t take the money? But had anyone ever heard the like? -. . . But, hang it, three pounds! - - - - - CHAPTER XI - THE RUNAWAYS - - - I - -Jeremy, on his return to Thompson’s that term, found that he had been -changed to what was known as the Baby Dorm. - -Hitherto he had been in a perfect barrack of a dormitory that contained -at least twenty beds. The Baby Dorm was a little room with three beds, -and it was a distinction to be there—a true sign that you were rising -in the world. This was fully appreciated by Jeremy, and when he also -discovered that his two companions were Pug Raikes and Stokesley Maj the -cup of his joy was full. Raikes and Stokesley were just the companions -he would have chosen, short, of course, of Riley. But Riley was away in -the other wing of the house protecting, to his infinite boredom, some -new kids. There was no hope of _his_ company. - -Raikes and Stokesley were both older than Jeremy; they had been at -Thompson’s a year longer than he. Pug Raikes was a fat, round boy, -rather like Tommy Winchester at home. It was said that he could eat more -at one go than any three boys at Thompson’s put together. But with all -his fat he was no mean sportsman. He was the best fives player in the -school, and quite a good bat. He had an invaluable character for games; -nothing disturbed him; he was imperturbable through every crisis. He had -been bitten once in the hand by a ferret, and had not uttered a sound. - -Stokesley was opposite from Raikes in every way except that he was a -good cricketer, and perhaps it was this very attraction of their -opposites that brought them together. They had been quite inseparable -ever since their first suffering from tossing in the same blanket on the -first night of their arrival at Thompson’s, two and a half years ago. -Stokesley was a very good-looking boy, thin and tall, straight and -strong, with black eyes, black hair and thick eyebrows. He was known as -“Eyebrows” among his friends. He was as excitable as Raikes was -apparently phlegmatic. He was always up to some new “plot” or fantasy, -always in hot water, always extricating himself from the same with the -airs of a Spanish grandee. It was rumoured that Thompson was afraid of -his father, who was a baronet. Thirty years ago baronets counted. - -Jeremy would never have been admitted into their friendship had it not -been for his football. They considered him “a plucky little devil,” and -prophesied that he would go far. They were a little condescending, of -course, and the first night Stokesley addressed him thus: - -“Look here, young Stocky, it’s jolly lucky for you being in with us. -None of your cheek, and if you snore you know what you’ll get. You don’t -walk in your sleep, do you?” - -“No, I don’t,” said Jeremy. - -“Well, if you do, you’ll have the surprise of your life. Won’t he, Pug?” - -“Rather,” said Raikes. - -“And remember you’re playing footer this term for the honour of this -dorm. If you play badly you’ll get it like anything in here afterwards.” - -However, in a night or two there was very little to choose between them. -Boys are extraordinarily susceptible to atmosphere. During the cricket -term young Cole had been of no account at all; quite a decent kid, but -no use at cricket. But before the autumn term was a week old he was -spoken of as the probable scrum half that year, kid though he was. -Stokesley was in the first fifteen as a forward, but his place was a -little uncertain, and Pug Raikes was nowhere near the first fifteen at -all and cared nothing for football. - -It happened, therefore, that Jeremy was soon taken into the confidences -of the two older boys, and very exciting confidences they were. -Stokesley was never happy unless he had some new scheme on foot. Some of -them were merely silly and commonplace, like dressing up as ghosts and -frightening the boys in the Lower Dorm or putting white mice in the -French master’s desk; but he had at times impulses of real genius, like -the Pirates’ Society, of which there is no space here to tell, or the -Cribbers’ Kitchen, a rollicking affair that gave Thompson the fits for a -whole week. - -Jeremy managed to keep himself out of most of these adventures. He had -the gift of concentrating utterly on the matter in hand, and the matter -in hand this term was getting into the first fifteen. He went in most -conscientiously for training, running round Big Field before First Hour, -refusing various foods that he longed to enjoy, and refusing to smoke -blotting paper on Sunday afternoon in Parker’s Wood. People jeered at -him for all this seriousness, and, had he made a public business of his -sporting conscience, he might have earned a good deal of unpopularity. -But he said very little about it and behaved in every way like an -ordinary mortal. - -Luckily for him, his school work that term was easy. He had been for two -terms in the Lower Fourth, and now was near the top of it, and -inevitably at the end of this term would be moved out of it. Malcolm, -his form master, liked him, being himself a footballer of no mean size. -It was not, therefore, until the end of the first fortnight that Jeremy -discovered that something very serious was going forward between his two -dormitory companions, something in which he was not asked to share. They -whispered together continually, and the whispering took the form of -Stokesley persuading Pug over and over again. “Oh, come on, Pug. Don’t -spoil sport.” “You’re afraid—yes, you are. You’re a funk.” “I can’t do -it without you. Of course I can’t.” “We’ll never have a chance again.” - -At last Jeremy, who had more than his natural share of curiosity, could -endure it no longer. He sat on the edge of his bed, kicking his naked -toes, and cried: - -“I say, you two, what’s all this about? You might let me in.” - -“It’s nothing to do with you, Stocky. You go to sleep.” - -“You’d much better tell me. You know I never sneak.” - -“This is too important to let a kid like you know about it.” - -“I’m not such a kid, if it comes to that. Perhaps I can help?” - -“No, you can’t. You shut your mouth and go to sleep.” - -Two nights later than this, however, Jeremy was told. - -“I’m going to tell Stocky,” said Raikes, “and see what he says.” - -“Oh, all right,” said Stokesley, in the sulks. “I don’t care what you -do.” - -Jeremy sat up in his bed and listened. The whispering voices stole on -and on, one voice supplementing the other. Soon Stokesley overbore the -other and was dominant. Jeremy distrusted his ears. Beyond the window -the night was lovely, a clean sweep of dark velvet sky, with two -tree-tops and a single star, so quiet, not a sound anywhere; and this -adventure was the most audacious conceived of by man. Neither more nor -less than to run away to sea, to anywhere; but, before finally -vanishing, to have a week, a fortnight, a month in London at the very -finest hotels, with heaps to eat and drink and theatres every night. - -“You see,” explained Stokesley eagerly, warmed up now by the narration -of his idea, “we’re sick of this place. It’s so dull. You must feel that -yourself, Stocky, even with your beastly football. Nothing ever happens, -and it’s ages before we go to Rugby. You’d much better come too. Of -course, you’re a bit young, but they’ll probably want a cabin-boy on the -ship; and then we’ll be in the South Seas, where you bathe all the time, -and can shy at cokernuts, and there are heaps and heaps of monkeys, and -you shoot tigers, and——” - -He paused for breath. - -A cabin-boy! Had it not been one of his earliest dreams? His mind flew -back to that day, now so long ago, when he had begged the sea captain to -take him. The sea captain! His heart beat thickly. Then came the -practical side of him. - -“But won’t you want an awful lot of money?” he asked. - -“Oh, we’ve thought of that, of course,” said Stokesley. “My father gave -me five pounds to come back with, and Pug’s uncle gave him two and his -aunt gave him another and his cousin gave him ten and six, and I’ve got -my gold watch and chain, which will mean a tenner at least, and Pug’s -got his gold pin that his dead uncle left him. Altogether, it will be -about fifteen pounds anyway, and it’ll cost us about a pound a day in -London, and then we’ll go to Southampton and go to a boat and say we -want to work our way, and of course they’ll let us. Pug and I are -awfully strong, and you—you carry the plates and things.” - -London! It was the first time in all his life that that place had been -brought within his reach. Of course, he had heard the grown-ups mention -it, but always as something mysterious, far-away, magical. London! He -had never conceived that he himself would one day set foot in it. How -his world was extending! First, simply the house, then Polchester, then -Rafiel and Caerlyon, then Thompson’s, then Craxton, and now London! - -Nevertheless, he was still practical. - -“How will you get to the station?” he asked. - -“Oh, we’ve thought all about it. It will be a Sunday—probably next -Sunday. We’re allowed off all the afternoon, and there’s a train at -Saroby Junction that goes to London at four o’clock. We’ll be in London -by seven.” - -“If they catch you,” said Jeremy slowly, “there’ll be the most awful -row.” - -“Of course,” said Stokesley contemptuously. “But they won’t. How can -they? We’ll be in London by call-over; and we’ll move to different -hotels, and as soon as we think they’re on to us we’ll be off to -Southampton. There are boats go every day.” - -It was plain that Raikes was caught more and more deeply as Stokesley -developed the plan. Jeremy himself felt to the full the wonderful -adventure of it. The trouble was that now, at once, as soon as you had -heard of it, the school looked dull and stupid. It had been all right as -he came up to bed. He had been contented and happy, but now a longing -for freedom surged through him, and for a moment he would like to climb -through that window and run and run and run. . . . - -But the football saved him. If he went on this adventure he would never -be half-back for the school; he would never be half-back for any school. -He would in all probability never play football again. They did not play -football in the South Seas. It was too hot. What was bathing compared -with football? - -“I don’t think I’ll come,” he said slowly. “I’d only be in your way.” - -“Of course, if you funk it——” said Stokesley hotly. - -“I don’t funk it. But——” - -There was a knock on the door, and one of the junior masters walked in. - -“That’s enough talking, you kids,” he said. “If there’s another word, -you’ll hear of it.” - -They lay then like images. - - - II - -We all know how adventures, aspirations, longings that seem quite -reasonable and attainable in the evening light are absurdly impossible -in the morning cold. Jeremy next morning, as he ran round the football -ground, felt that he could not have heard Stokesley aright. It was the -kind of story that the dormitory tale-teller retailed before people -dropped off to sleep. Stokesley was just inventing; he could not have -meant a word of it. Nevertheless, later in the day, Raikes took him into -a corner of the playground and whispered dramatically: - -“We’re going to do it. It’s all settled.” - -“Oh!” gasped Jeremy. - -“It’s to be next Sunday. You’re right about not coming. You’re too -young.” Raikes sounded very old indeed as he said this. “You swear you -won’t tell a living soul?” - -“Of course I won’t.” - -“You’ll swear by God Almighty?” - -“I swear by God Almighty.” - -“Never to breathe a word to any boy, master or animal?” - -“Never to breathe a word to any boy, master or animal.” - -“You’re a good sort, Stocky. Somehow, one can trust you—and one can’t -most of them. They’ll be on to you after we’re gone, you know!” - -“I don’t care.” - -“They’ll try to get it out of you.” - -“I don’t care. They shan’t.” - -“In any way they can. Perhaps they’ll stop your football.” - -Jeremy drew a deep breath. “I don’t care,” he repeated slowly. - -“We’ll have a great time,” Raikes said, as though addressing his -reluctant half. “We’ll come back ever so rich in a year or two, and then -won’t you wish you’d come with us!” - -What Jeremy did wish was that they had told him nothing about it. Oh, -how he wished it! Why had they dragged him in? Suppose they _did_ stop -his football? Oh, but they couldn’t! It wasn’t his fault that he’d heard -about it. - -“Look here, Raikes,” he said, “don’t you tell me any more. I don’t want -to know anything about it. . . . Then they can’t come on me afterwards.” - -“That’s sound,” said Raikes. “All right; we won’t.” - -The days, then, that intervened before Sunday could have only one -motive. It seemed incredible to Jeremy that the two conspirators should -appear now so ordinary; they should have had in some way a flaring mark, -a scarlet letter, to set them aside from the rest of mankind. Not at -all. They followed their accustomed duties, ate their meals, did their -impositions, played their games just as they had always done. - -Even at night, when they were left alone in the dormitory, they spoke -very little about it. Jeremy was outside it now, and although they -trusted him, “one never knew,” and they were not going to give anything -away. - -The great Sunday came, a day of blazing autumnal gold, enough breeze to -stir the leaves and send them like ragged scraps of brown paper lazily -through the air. The Sunday bells came like challenges to guilty -consciences upon the misty sky. Jeremy did not see the two of them after -breakfast. Indeed, in the strange way that these terrific events have of -suddenly slipping for half an hour from one’s consciousness, during -morning chapel he forgot about the whole affair, and stared half asleep -through the long chapel window out into the purple field, wondering -about a thousand little things—some lines he had to write, a pot of jam -that he was going to open that night at tea for the first time, and how -Hamlet was in Polchester and what, just then, he would be doing. - -He went his accustomed Sunday walk with Riley, and it was only when they -were hurrying back over the leaf-thickened paths towards a sun like a -red orange that he suddenly remembered. Why, at this very moment they -would be making for the station! He stopped in the path. - -“By gum!” he said. - -“What is it?” asked Riley. “Been stung by a bee?” - -“No; just thought of something.” - -“You _do_ look queer!” - -“It’s nothing.” He moved on. It seemed impossible that the woods should -stay just as they were, unmoved by this great event, hanging like old -coloured tapestry with their thin dead leaves between the black poles of -trees. Unmoved! No one knew. No one but himself. - -The great moment came. When in chapel, looking across to the other side, -he saw that their places were empty. Nothing much in that for the -ordinary world—fellows were often late for chapel—but for him it meant -everything. The deed was positively accomplished. They must be actually -at this moment in the train, and he was the only creature in the whole -school who knew where they were. - -Call-over followed chapel. He heard the names called. “Stokesley!” and -then, more impatiently, after a little pause, “Stokesley!” again. Then -“Raikes!” and, after a moment, “Raikes!” again. Nothing, after that, -happened for an hour. Then call-over once more at supper. Raikes and -Stokesley again called and again absent. - -Five minutes after supper the school sergeant came for him. - -“Mr. Thompson to see you in his study at once!” - -Jeremy went. - -Thompson was walking about, and very worried he looked. He had been -talking to the matron, and wheeled round when Jeremy came in. - -“Ah, Cole. . . . Leave us for a moment, matron, please.” - -They were alone. Jeremy felt terribly small, shrivelled to nothing at -all. He shuffled his feet and looked anywhere but at Thompson’s anxious -eyes. He liked Thompson, and was aware, with a sudden flash, that this -was more than a mere game—that it might be desperately serious for -someone. - -“Come here, Cole. I want you to keep this to yourself. Not to say a word -to anyone, do you understand?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Good. It seems that Stokesley and Raikes have run away. They were -neither at chapel nor at supper. Some of their things are missing. Now, -you’re the only other boy in their dormitory. Do you know anything at -all about this?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Nothing?” - -“No, sir.” - -“They said nothing at all to you about this going?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Gave you no idea that they were thinking of it?” - -“No, sir.” - -Thompson paused, looked out of the window, walked up and down the room a -little, then said: - -“I make it a rule always to believe what any boy tells me. I’ve never -found you untruthful, Cole. I don’t say that you’re not telling the -truth now, but I know what your boys’ code is. You mustn’t sneak about -another boy whatever happens. That’s a code that has something to be -said for it. It happens to have nothing to be said for it just now. -You’re young, and I don’t expect you realize what this means. It -involves many people beside themselves—their fathers and mothers and -everyone in this school. You may be doing a very serious thing that will -affect many people’s lives if you don’t tell me what you know. Do you -realize that?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Well, then, did they say nothing at all about going away?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Nothing at all to you?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Very well. You may go.” - -Jeremy went. Outside he found the school in a ferment. Everyone knew. -Stokesley and Raikes had run away. He was surrounded by a mob. They -pressed in upon him from every side—big boys, little boys, old boys, -young boys—everyone. - -“Stocky! Where have they gone to? What did Thompson say to you? Did he -whack you? Is he going to? Is it true that they’ve stolen a lot of the -matron’s money? What did they tell you? . . . Oh, rot! Of course you -know? Where have they gone to, Stocky? We’ll give you the most awful -hiding if you don’t say. Come on, Stocky, out with it! When did they go? -Just before chapel? Is Thompson awfully sick?” - -But Jeremy stood his ground. He knew nothing at all. Nothing at all. -They had said nothing to him. - - - III - -During the four days that followed the characters, bodies and souls of -the fugitives swelled into epic proportions. Four days in such -circumstances can, at a small school, resemble centuries of time. No one -thought or discussed anything but this, and there was not a boy in the -place, from the eldest to the youngest, but envied those two -passionately and would have given a year of holiday to be with them. - -On Monday Mr. Thompson went up to London. The rumours that sprang to -life were marvellous. Stokesley had been seen at a theatre in London, -and had been chased all the way down the Strand by an enormous crowd. -Raikes had struck a policeman, and been put in a cell. They had been to -Buckingham Palace, and interviewed Her Majesty. They had started on a -slaver for the South Seas. They had taken up jobs as waiters in a London -restaurant. . . . - -To Jeremy these days were torture. In the first place he was dazzled by -their splendour. Why had he been such a fool as to refuse to go with -them? One might die to-morrow. Here was his great adventure offered to -him, and he had rejected it. - -As the tales circulated round him the atmosphere became more and more -romantic. He forgot the real Stokesley and saw no longer the genuine -Raikes. It no longer occurred to him that Stokesley had warts; he -refused to see that so familiar picture of Raikes washing himself in the -morning, trickling the cold water over his head, his two large ears, -projecting, crimson. Clothed in gold and silver, they swung dazzling -through the air, rosy clouds supporting them, to the haven where they -would be—the haven of the South Seas, with gleaming, glittering sands, -blue waters, monkeys in thousands, and pearls and diamonds for the -asking. - -Under these alluring visions even the football faded into grey monotony. -In a practice game on Monday he played so badly that he expected to lose -all chance of playing in the match at the end of the week; but, -fortunately for him, everyone else played badly too. The mind of the -school was in London, following the flight, the chase, the final -escape—no time now for football or anything else. - -The heroes that Stokesley and Raikes now were! Anyone who had an -anecdote, however trivial, was listened to by admiring crowds. It was -recalled how Stokesley, when a new boy, had endured the first tossing in -the blanket with marvellous phlegm and indifference; how Raikes, when -receiving a hamper from an affectionate aunt, had instantly distributed -it round all his table, so that almost at once there was none of it -remaining. How Stokesley had once conducted a money-lending -establishment with extraordinary force and daring for more than a -fortnight; how Raikes had fought Bates Major, a boy almost twice his -size, and had lasted into the sixth round—and so on, and so on. - -Jeremy, of course, was affected by all this reminiscence, and himself -recalled how, in the dormitory, Stokesley had said this clever thing, -and Raikes had been on that occasion strangely daring. But behind this -romance there was something more. - -He was strangely and, as the hours advanced, quite desperately bothered -by the question of his lie. In the first immediate instance of it he had -not been bothered by it at all. When he had stood in Thompson’s study it -had not seemed to him a lie at all; so thickly clothed was he by his -school convention that it had seemed the natural, the absolutely -inevitable thing to do. His duty was not to give Stokesley and Raikes -away, that was all. - -But afterwards Thompson’s troubled face came back to him, and that -serious warning that perhaps, if he kept his knowledge back, the lives -of hundreds of people might be affected. It was true that by the -following morning everything that he knew was known by everyone else. -The station-master from the junction came up after breakfast and gave -information about the boys. He had thought it strange that they should -be going up to London by themselves, but they had seemed so completely -self-possessed that he had not liked simply on his own authority to stop -them. - -But had Jeremy told all that he knew on that first Sunday evening many -precious hours might have been gained and the fugitives caught at once. -Alone in that little dormitory at night, the two empty beds staring at -him, he had fallen into dreams, distressing, accusing nightmares. By -Tuesday morning he was not at all sure that he was not a desperate -criminal, worthy of prison and perhaps even of hanging. - -He longed—how desperately he longed!—to discuss the matter with Riley. -Riley was so full of wisdom and common sense and knew so much more than -did Jeremy about life in general. But, having gone so far, he would not -turn back, but he moved about on that Tuesday like Christian with his -pack. - -Then, on Tuesday evening, came the great news. They had been -caught—they had given themselves up. They had spent all their money. -Thompson was bringing them back with him on Wednesday morning. - -The school waited breathlessly for the arrival. No one saw anything; -only by midday it was whispered by everyone that they were there. By the -afternoon it was known that they were shut away in the infirmary. No one -was to see them or to speak to them. - -During that morning how swiftly the atmosphere had changed! Only -yesterday those two had been sailing for the South Seas; now, -ostracized, waiting in horrible confinement for some terrible doom; they -were only glorious, like one of Byron’s heroes, in their “damned -prospects” and “fatal overthrow.” All that day Jeremy thought of them, -feeling in some unanalysed way as though he himself were responsible for -their failure. Had he not done this, had he thought of that—and what -would Thompson do? - -At the end of breakfast next morning it was known. He made them a -speech, speaking with a new gravity that even the smallest boy in the -school (young Phipps, Junr., only about two feet high) could feel. He -said that, as was by this time known to all of them, two of their number -had run away, had spent several days in London, had been found, and -brought back to the school. They would all understand how serious a -crime this was, the unhappiness that it must have brought on the boys’ -parents, the harm that it might have done to the school itself. The boys -were young; they had, apparently, no especial grievance with their -school life, and they had done what they had from a silly, false sense -of adventure rather than from any impulse of wickedness or desire for -evil. - -Nevertheless, they had wilfully made many people unhappy and broken laws -upon whose preservation the very life of their school, that they all -loved, depended. He was not sure that they had not done even more than -that. He could not tell, of course, whether there were any boys in that -room who had known of this before it occurred—he hoped from the bottom -of his heart that no boy had told him an untruth; he knew that they had -a code of their own, that whatever happened they were never to “tell” -about another boy. That code had its uses, but it could be carried too -far. All the misery of these four days might have been spared had some -boy given information at once. He would say no more about that. The boys -had been given a choice between expulsion and a public flogging. They -had both, without hesitation, chosen the flogging. The whole school was -to be present that evening in Big Hall before first preparation. - - - IV - -Every seat in Big Hall was filled. The boys sat in classes, motionless, -silent, not even an occasional whisper. The hissing of a furious gas-jet -near the door was the only sound. - -Jeremy would never forget that horrible half-hour. _He_ was the -criminal. He sat there, scarcely breathing, his eyes hot and dry, -staring, although he did not know that he was staring, at the platform, -empty save for a table and a chair, pressing his hands upon his knees, -wishing that this awful thing might pass, thinking not especially of -Stokesley or of Raikes, but of something that was himself and yet not -himself, something that was pressed down into a dark hole and every tick -of the school clock pressed him further. He saw the rows and rows of -heads as though they had been the pattern of a carpet; and he was -ashamed, desperately ashamed, as though he were standing up in front of -them all naked. - -The door behind the platform opened and Thompson came in. He was white -and black and flat, like a drawing upon a sheet of paper. The gas gave a -hysterical giggle at sight of him. Behind him came Raikes and Stokesley, -looking as they had always looked and yet quite different—actors -playing a part. Behind them was the school sergeant, Crockett, a burly -ex-sailorman, a friend of everyone when in a good temper. He looked -sheepish now, shuffling on his feet. He looked terrible, too, because -his coat was off and his sleeves rolled up, showing the ship and anchor -tattoo that he showed as a favour to boys who had done their drill well. - -Thompson came forward. He said: - -“I don’t want to prolong this, but you are all here because I wish you -to remember this all your lives. I wish you to remember it, not because -it is the punishment of two of your friends—indeed, it is my special -wish that, as soon as it is over, you shall receive Stokesley and Raikes -among you again as though nothing had occurred—but I want you all, from -the youngest to the eldest, to remember that there must be government, -there must be rules, if men are to live in any sort of society together. -We owe something to ourselves, we owe something to those who love us, we -owe something to our country, and we owe something to our school. We -cannot lead completely selfish lives—God does not mean us to do so. Our -school is our friend. We belong to it, and we must be proud of it.” - -He stepped back. The school sergeant came forward and whispered -something to Stokesley. Stokesley himself undid his braces. His trousers -fell down over his ankles. He bent forward over the table, hiding his -face with his hands. Jeremy could not look. He felt sick; he wanted to -cry. He heard the sound of the descending birch. One, two, three, four, -five, six, seven—would it never end?—eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. - -He heard the whole school draw a breath. Still he did not look. -Stokesley had not made a sound. - -There was a pause. Still he did not look. Now Raikes was there. The -birch again. One, two, three, four——Then, as though someone were -tearing the wall in two, a shrill cry: “Oh! Oh!” . . . -Horrible—beastly. He was trembling from head to foot. He was low down -in that hole now, and someone was pushing the earth in over his head. -And now with the switch of the birch there was a low, monotonous -sobbing, and then the sharp cry again that, at this second time, seemed -to come from within Jeremy himself. Everything was dark. A longer pause, -and the shuffling of feet. It was all over, and the boys were filing -out. He raised his eyes to a world of crimson and flashing lights. - - - V - -That night they were restored to their fellow-citizens. They were -sitting on their beds in the Baby Dorm examining their wounds. Raikes -could think of nothing but that he had cried. Stokesley consoled him. As -a last word he said to Jeremy: “Very decent of you, Stocky, not to give -us away. We won’t forget it, will we, Pug?” - -“No, we won’t,” said Pug, a naked, writhing figure, because he was -trying to see his stripes. - -“All the same,” said Stokesley, “it was smart of you not to come. It was -rotten; all of it. They were beastly to us at the hotel, and just took -our money. We went to a rotten theatre; and it rained all the time, -didn’t it, Pug?” - -“Beastly,” said Raikes. - -The room was silent. So that was the end of the adventure. Jeremy, -slipping off to sleep, suddenly loved the school, didn’t want to leave -it—no, never. Saw the rooms, one by one, the class-room, the -dining-room, Big Hall—Thompson, the matron, Crockett. All warm and safe -and cosy. - -And London. Swimming in rain, chasing you, hating you, catching you up -at the last with a birch. - -Good old school—the end of _that_ adventure. . . . - - - - - CHAPTER XII - A FINE DAY - - - I - -It was a fine day. Jeremy, waking and turning over in his bed, could see -beyond and above Stokesley’s slumbering form a thin strip of pale blue -sky gleaming like a sudden revelation of water behind folds of amber -mist. It would be a real thumping autumn day and he was to play half for -the first fifteen against The Rest that afternoon. He also had three -hundred lines to do for the French master that he had not even begun, -and it must be handed up completed at exactly 11.30 that same morning. -He had also every chance of swapping a silver frame containing a -photograph of his Aunt Amy with Phipps minor for a silver pencil, and he -was to have half Raseley’s sausage for breakfast that morning in return -for mathematical favours done for him on the preceding day. As he -thought of all these various things he rolled round like a kitten in his -bed, curling up as it was his pleasantest habit into a ball so that his -toes nearly met his forehead and he was one exquisite lump of warmth. -Rending through this came the harsh sound of the first bell, murmurs -from other rooms, patterings down the passage, and then suddenly both -Stokesley and Raikes sitting up in bed simultaneously, yawning and -looking like bewildered owls. In precisely five minutes the three boys -were washed, dressed and down, herding with the rest in the long cold -class-room waiting for call-over. When they had answered their names -they slipped across the misty playground into chapel and sat there like -all their companions in a confused state of half sleep, half -wakefulness, responding as it were in a dream, screaming out the hymn -and then all shuffling off to breakfast again like shadows in a Japanese -pageant. - -It was not, in fact, until the first five minutes at breakfast, when -Raseley strongly resisted the appeal for half his sausage, that Jeremy -woke to the full labours of the day. Raseley was sitting almost opposite -to him and he had a very nice sausage, large and fat and properly -cracked in the middle. Jeremy’s sausage was a very small one, so that, -whereas on other days he might have passed over the whole episode, being -of a very generous nature, to-day he was compelled to insist on his -rights. “I didn’t,” protested Raseley. “I said you could have half a -sausage if you did the sums, and you only did two and a half.” - -“I did them all,” said Jeremy stoutly. “It wasn’t my fault that that -beastly fraction one was wrong. I only said I’d do them. I never said -I’d do them right.” - -“Well, you can jolly well come and fetch it,” said Raseley, pursuing in -the circumstances the wisest plan, which was to eat his sausage as fast -as he could. - -“All right,” said Jeremy indifferently. “You know what you’ll get -afterwards if you don’t do what you said,” and this was bold of Jeremy -because he was smaller than Raseley, but he was learning already whom he -might threaten and whom he might not, and he knew that Raseley was as -terrified of physical pain as Aunt Amy was of a cow in a field. With -very bad grace Raseley pushed the smaller half of the sausage across, -and Jeremy felt that his day was well begun. - -He did not know why, but he was sure that this would be a splendid day. -There are days when you feel that you are under a special care of the -gods and that they are arranging everything for you, background, -incident, crisis, and sleep at the end in a most delightful, generous -fashion. Nothing would go wrong to-day. - -On the whole, human beings are divided into the two classes of those who -realize when they may step out and challenge life, and those to whom one -occasion is very much the same as another. - -Jeremy, even when he was eight years old and had sat in his sister -Helen’s chair on his birthday morning, had always realized when to step -out. He was going to step out now. - -The insufferable Baltimore, who was a wonderful cricketer and therefore -rose to great glories in the summer term, but was no footballer at all, -and equally, therefore, was less than the dust in the autumn, came with -his watery eyes and froggy complexion to ask Jeremy to lend him -twopence. Jeremy had at that moment threepence, but there were a number -of things that he intended to do with it. Because he detested Baltimore -he lent him his twopence with the air of Queen Elizabeth accepting Sir -Walter Raleigh’s cloak, and got exquisite pleasure from doing so. All -these little things, therefore, combined to put him in the best of -spirits when, at half-past eleven, Monsieur Clemenceau (not then a name -known the wide world over) requested Monsieur Cole to be kind enough to -allow him to peruse the three hundred lines which should have been done -several days before so admirably provided by him. - -Jeremy wore the cloak of innocence, sitting in the back row of the -French class with several of his dearest friends and all the class ready -to support him in any direction that he might follow. - -“I beg your pardon, sir,” Jeremy said. “Did you say three hundred -lines?” - -“That is the exact amount,” said M. Clemenceau, “that I require from you -_immediatement_.” - -“I beg your pardon,” said Jeremy politely. - -“I need not repeat,” said M. Clemenceau. “Three hundred lines by you at -once for impertinence three days previous.” - -“Why, sir, surely,” said Jeremy, “you told me that I need not do them -this term because . . .” - -“No because,” interrupted M. Clemenceau at the top of a rather squeaky -voice. “There is no because.” - -“But, sir,” began Jeremy; and from all sides of the class there broke -out: “Why, certainly, sir, don’t you remember——” and “Cole is quite -right, sir; you said——” and “I think you’ve forgotten, sir, that——” -and “It really wouldn’t be fair, sir, if——” A babel arose. As the boys -very well knew, M. Clemenceau had a horror of too much noise, because -Thompson was holding a class in the next room, and on two occasions that -very term had sent a boy in to request that if it were possible M. -Clemenceau should conduct his work a little more softly. And this had -been agony for M. Clemenceau’s proud French spirit. “I will have -silence,” he shrieked. “This is no one’s business but mine and the young -Cole. Let no one speak until I tell them to do so. Now, Cole, where are -the three hundred lines?” - -There was a complete and absolute silence. - -“Vill you speak or vill you not speak?” M. Clemenceau cried. - -“Do you mean me, sir?” asked Jeremy very innocently. - -“Of course, I mean you.” - -“You said, sir, that no one was to speak until you told them to.” - -“Well, I tell you now.” - -Jeremy looked very injured. “I didn’t understand,” he said. “If I could -explain to you quietly.” - -“Well, you shall explain afterwards,” said M. Clemenceau, and Jeremy -knew that he was saved because he could deal _à deux_ with M. Clemenceau -by appealing to his French heart, his sense of honour, and a number of -other things, and might even, with good fortune, extract an invitation -to tea, when M. Clemenceau, in his very cosy room, had a large supply of -muffins and played on the flute. “Yes,” he thought to himself as they -pursued up and down the class-room, sometimes ten at a time, sometimes -only three or four, the intricacies of that French grammar that has to -do with the pen of my aunt and the cat of my sister-in-law and “this is -going to be a splendid day.” - - - II - -Coming out of school at half-past twelve, he found to his exquisite -delight that there was a letter for him. He was, of course, far from -that grown-up attitude of terror and misgiving at the sight of the daily -post. Not for him yet were bills and unwelcome reminiscence, broken -promises and half-veiled threats. He received from his mother one letter -a week, from his father perhaps three a term, and from his sister Mary -an occasional confused scribbling that, like her stories, introduced so -many characters one after another that the most you obtained from them -was a sense of life and of people passing and of Mary’s warm and -emotional heart. Once and again he had a letter from Uncle Samuel, and -these were the real glories. It was natural that on this day of days -there should be such a letter. The very sight of his uncle’s -handwriting—a thin, spidery one that was in some mysterious way charged -with beauty and colour—cockled his heart and made him warm all over. He -sat in a corner of the playground where he was least likely to be -disturbed and read it. It was as follows. It began abruptly, as did all -Uncle Samuel’s letters: - - Your mother has just taken your Aunt Amy to Drymouth on a - shopping expedition. The house is so quiet you wouldn’t know it. - I am painting a very nice picture of two cows in a blue field. - The cows are red. If you were here I would put you into the - picture as a dog asleep under a tree. Because you aren’t here, I - have to take that wretched animal of yours and use him instead. - He is not nearly as like a dog as you are. I had two sausages - for breakfast because your Aunt Amy is going to be away for two - whole days. I generally have only one sausage and now just about - five o’clock this evening I shall have indigestion which will be - one more thing I shall owe your Aunt Amy. The woman came in - yesterday and washed the floor of the studio. It looks beastly, - but I shall soon make it dirty again, and if only you were here - it would get dirty quicker. There’s a rumour that your Uncle - Percy is coming back to stay with us again. I am training your - dog to bite the sort of trousers that your Uncle Percy wears. I - have a pair very like his and I draw them across the floor very - slowly and make noises to your dog like a cat. The plan is very - successful but to-morrow there won’t be any trousers and I shall - have to think of something else. Mrs. Sampson asked your mother - whether she thought that I would like to paint a portrait of her - little girl. I asked your mother how much money Mrs. Sampson - would give me for doing so and your mother asked Mrs. Sampson. - Mrs. Sampson said that if she liked it when it was done she’d - hang it up in her drawing-room where everybody could see and - that that would be such a good advertisement for me that there - wouldn’t need to be any payment, so I told your mother to tell - Mrs. Sampson that I was so busy sweeping a crossing just now - that I was afraid I wouldn’t have time to paint her daughter. - When I have done these cows, if they turn out really well, - perhaps I’ll send the best of them to Mrs. Sampson and tell her - that that’s the best portrait of her daughter I was capable of - doing. Some people in Paris like my pictures very much and two - of them have been hanging in an exhibition and people have to - pay to go in and see them. I sold one of them for fifty pounds - and therefore I enclose a little bit of paper which if you take - it to the right person will help you buy enough sweets to make - yourself sick for a whole week. Don’t tell your mother I’ve done - this. - - Your sister Mary is breaking out into spots. She has five on her - forehead. I think it’s because she sucks her pencil so hard. - - Your sister Barbara tumbled all the way down the stairs - yesterday but didn’t seem to mind. She is the best of the family - and shortly I intend to invite her into the studio and let her - lick my paint box. - - Outside my window at this moment there is an apple tree and the - hills are red, the same colour as the apples. Someone is burning - leaves and the smoke turns red as it gets high enough and then - comes white again when it gets near the moon, which is a new one - and exactly like one of your Aunt Amy’s eyelashes. - - I am getting so fat that I think of living in a barrel, as a - very famous man about whom I’ll tell you one day, used to do. I - think I’ll have a barrel with a lid on the top of it so that - when people come into the studio whom I don’t want to see, I - shall just shut the lid and they won’t know I’m there. I think - I’ll have the barrel painted bright blue. - - Your dog thinks there’s a rat just behind my bookcase. He lies - there for hours at a time purring like a kettle. There may be a - rat but knowing life as well as I do there never is a rat where - you most expect one. That’s one of the things your father hasn’t - learnt yet. He is writing his sermon in his study. If he knew - there weren’t any rats he wouldn’t write so many sermons. - - I’ve been reading a very funny book by a man called France, and - the funny thing is that he is also a Frenchman. Isn’t that a - funny thing? You shall read it one day when you’re older and - then you’ll understand your Uncle Samuel better than you do now. - - Well, good-bye. I hope you’re enjoying yourself and haven’t - entirely forgotten your - - UNCLE. - - P.S.—I promise you that the lid shall never be on the barrel - when you’re there, and if you don’t get too fat, there’s room - for two inside. - -He read the letter through three times before finishing with it; then, -sitting forward on the old wooden bench scarred with a thousand -penknives, he went over the delicious details of it. How exactly Uncle -Samuel realized the things that he would want to know! No one else in -the family wrote about anything that was exciting or intriguing. Uncle -Samuel managed in some way to make you see things. The studio, the sky -with the little moon, the red apples, Hamlet flat on the floor, his head -rigid, his eyes fixed; Aunt Amy shopping in Drymouth, Barbara tumbling -downstairs. That whole world came towards him and filled the playground -and blotted out the school, so that for a moment school life was unreal, -shadowy, and did not matter. He sighed with happy contentment. Young -though he was, he realized that great truth that one person in the world -is quite enough. One human being who understands your strange mixture -equalizes five million who think you are simply black, white or purple. -All you want is to be reassured about your own suspicions of yourself. A -devoted dog is almost enough, and one friend ample. Jeremy went in to -dinner with his head in the air, trailing after him, like Peter Pan, one -shadow of the world immediately around him, the world in which the -school sergeant was carving the mutton at the end of the table so -ferociously that it might have been the corpse of his dearest enemy, and -the masters at the high table were getting fried potatoes and the boys -only boiled, and Jeremy was not having even those because he had got to -play football in an hour’s time; and the other world, where there was -Aunt Amy’s eyelash high in the air, and the cathedral bells ringing, and -Uncle Samuel painting cows. Jeremy would have liked to consider the -strange way in which these two worlds refused to mingle, to have -developed the idea of Uncle Samuel carving the mutton instead of the -sergeant, and the sergeant watching the evening sky instead of Uncle -Samuel, and why it was that these two things were so impossible! His -attention was occupied by the fact that Plummy Smith, who was a fat boy, -was sitting in his wrong place and making a “squash” on Jeremy’s side of -the table, which led quite naturally to the game of trying to squeeze -Plummy from both ends of the table into a purple mass, and to do it -without Thompson noticing. Little pathetic squeals came from Plummy, who -loved his food, and saw his mutton mysteriously whisked away on to some -other plate, and knew that he would be hungry all the afternoon in -consequence. He was one of those boys who had on the first day of his -arrival, a year earlier, unfortunately confided to those whom he thought -his friends that he lived with two aunts, Maria and Alice. His fate was -sealed from the moment of that unfortunate confidence. He did not know -it, and he had been in puzzled bewilderment ever since as to why the way -of life was made so hard for him. He meant no one any harm, and could -not understand why the lower half of his person should be a constant -receptacle for pins of the sharpest kind. The point in this matter about -Jeremy was that, as with Miss Jones years before, he could not resist -pleasant fun at the expense of the foolish. He had enough of the wild -animal in him to enjoy sticking pins into Plummy, to enjoy squeezing the -breath out of his fat body, to enjoy seeing him without any mutton; and -yet, had it been really brought home to him that Plummy was a miserable -boy, sick for his aunts, dazed and puzzled, spending his days in an orgy -of ink, impositions and physical pain, he would have been horrified that -himself could be such a cad. He was not a cad. It was a fine day, he was -in splendid health and spirits, he had had a letter from Uncle Samuel, -and so he stuck pins into Plummy. - -When the meal was over he walked down to the football ground with Riley, -and told him about Uncle Samuel. He told Riley everything, and Riley -told him everything. He never considered Riley as an individual human -being, but rather as part of himself, so that if he were kicked in the -leg it must hurt Riley too; and there was something in Riley’s funny -freckled forehead, his large mouth, and his funny, clumsy way of -walking, as though he were a baby elephant, that was as necessary to -Jeremy and his daily life as putting on his clothes and going to sleep. -He showed Riley the piece of paper that Uncle Samuel had sent to him. -“By gosh!” said Riley, “that’s a pound.” - -“It’s an awful pity,” said Jeremy, “that you are not in Little Dorm. -Perhaps you could come in to-night. I’m sure Stokesley and Pug wouldn’t -mind. We’re going to have sardines and marmalade and dough-nuts.” - -“If I get a chance, I will,” said Riley; “but I don’t want to be caught -out just now, because I’ve been in two rows already this week. Perhaps -you could keep two sardines for me, and I’ll have them at breakfast -to-morrow.” - -“All right; I’ll try,” said Jeremy. He looked about and sniffed the air. -It was an ideal day for football. It was cold, and not too cold. The -hills above the football field were veiled in mist. The ground was soft, -but not too soft. It ought to be a good game. - -“Do you feel all right?” asked Riley. - -They proceeded in the accustomed manner to test this. Jeremy hurled -himself at Riley, caught him round the middle, tried to twine his legs -round Riley’s, and they both fell to the ground. They rolled there like -two puppies. Jeremy exerted all his strength to bring off what he had -never yet succeeded in doing, namely, to turn Riley over and pin his -elbows to the ground. Riley wriggled like a fish. Jeremy was very strong -to-day, and managed to get one elbow down and was in a very good way -towards the other when they heard an awful voice above them. “And what -may this be?” They scrambled to their feet, flushed and breathless, and -there was old Thompson staring at them very gravely in that way that he -had so that you could not tell whether he were displeased or no. - -“We were only wrestling, sir,” said Jeremy, panting. - -“Excellent thing for your clothes,” said Thompson. “What do you suppose -the gym is for?” - -“It was only a minute, sir,” said Riley. “Cole wanted to see whether he -was all right.” - -“And he is?” asked Thompson. - -Jeremy perceived that Olympus was smiling. - -“I’m a little out of breath,” he said, “but of course it’s just after -dinner. The ground isn’t muddy yet.” - -“You’d better wait until you’re in football things,” Thompson said, -“then you can roll about as much as you like.” - -He walked away, rolling a little as he went. The two boys looked after -him and suddenly adored him. Their feelings about him were always -undergoing lightning changes. At one moment they adored, at another they -detested, at another they admired from a distance, and at another they -wondered. - -“Wasn’t that decent of him?” said Riley. - -“That’s because he’s just had his dinner,” said Jeremy. “It’s his glass -of beer. My uncle’s just the same.” - -“Oh, you and your uncle,” said Riley. “I’ll race you to the end of the -playground.” - -They ran like hares, and Jeremy led by a second. - - - III - -He was in the changing-room when suddenly the atmosphere of the coming -game was close about him. He had that strange mixture of fear and -excitement, terror and pleasure. He suddenly felt cold in his jersey and -shorts, and shivered a little. At the other side of the room was -Turnbull, one of the three-quarters playing for the “Rest,” a large, -bony boy with projecting knees. The mere thought that he would have in -all probability to collar Turnbull and bring him to the ground made -Jeremy feel sick. His confidence suddenly deserted him. He knew that he -was going to play badly. Worse than ever in his life before. He wished -that he could suddenly develop scarlet fever and be carried off to the -infirmary. He even searched his bare legs for spots. He had rather a -headache and his throat felt queer, and he was not at all sure that he -could see straight. One of those silly fools who always comes and talks -to you at the wrong moment sniggered and said he felt awfully fit. It -was all right for _him_; he was one of the forwards playing for the -“Rest.” It would be perfectly easy for him to hide himself in the scrum -and pretend to be pushing when he was not. No one ever noticed. But the -isolation of a half was an awful thing to consider, and that desperate -moment when you had to go down to the ball, with at least five hundred -enormous boots all coming at your head at the same moment, was horrible -to contemplate. Millett, the scrum half playing for the “Rest,” and -Jeremy’s bitterest rival for the place in the fifteen, was looking -supremely self-confident and assured. Certainly he was not as good as -Jeremy on Jeremy’s day, but was this Jeremy’s day? No, most certainly it -was not. - -They went out to the field, and everything was not improved by the fact -that a large crowd was gathered behind the ropes to watch them. This was -an important game. The big school match was a fortnight from to-day, and -Millett might get his colours on to-day’s game quite easily. And then -suddenly the feel of the turf under his feet, the long, sweeping -distance of the good grey sky above his head, the tang of autumn in the -air, brought him confidence again. He was not aware that a lady visitor -who had come out with Mr. Thompson to watch the game was saying at that -moment, “Why, what a tiny boy! You don’t mean to say, Mr. Thompson, that -he’s going to play with all those big fellows?” And Thompson said, “He’s -the most promising footballer we have in the school. The half-back has -to be small, you know.” - -“Oh, I do hope he won’t get hurt,” said the lady visitor. - -“Won’t do him any harm if he is,” said Mr. Thompson. - -The whistle went and the game began. Almost at once Jeremy was in -trouble. Within the first minute the school fifteen were lining out in -their own half of the field, and a moment later some of the “Rest” -forwards had broken through, dribbled, tried to pass, thrown forward, -and there was a scrum within Jeremy’s twenty-five. This is the kind of -thing to make you show your mettle. To be attacked before you have found -your atmosphere, realized the conditions of the day, got your feel of -yourself as part of the picture, gained your first win, to have to fight -for your team’s life with your own goal looming like the gallows just -behind you, and to know that the loss of three or five points in the -first few minutes of the game is very often a decisive factor in the -issue of the battle—all this tests anybody’s greatness. Jeremy in that -first five minutes was anything but great. He had a consciousness of his -own miserable inadequacy, a state not common to him at all. He seemed to -be one large cranium spread out balloon-wise for the onrush of his -enemies. As he darted about at the back of the scrum waiting for the -ball to be thrown in, he felt as though he could not go down to it; and -then, of course, the worst possible thing happened. The “Rest” forwards -broke through the scrum; he tried to fling himself on the ball, and -missed it, and there they were sliding away past him, making straight -for the goal-line. Fortunately, the man with the ball was flung to touch -just in time, and there was a breathing space. Jeremy, nevertheless, was -tingling with his mistake as acutely as though a try had been scored. He -knew what they were saying on the other side of the rope. He knew that -Baltimore, for instance, was winking his bleary eyes with pleasure, that -all the friends of his rival half were saying in chorus, “Well, young -Cole’s no good; I always said so,” and that Riley was glaring fiercely -about him and challenging anyone to say a word. He knew all this and, -unfortunately, for more than a minute had time to think of it, because -one of the cool three-quarters got away with the ball and then kicked it -to touch, and there was a line out and a good deal of scrambling before -the inevitable scrum. This time it was for him to throw in the ball, -crying in his funny voice, now hoarse, now squeaky, “Coming on the -right, school—shove!” They did shove, and carried it on with them; and -then the “Rest” half got it, threw it to one of his three-quarters, who -started racing down the field, with only Jeremy in his way before he got -to the back. It was that very creature with the bony knees whom Jeremy -had watched in the changing-room. The legs wobbled towards him as though -with a life of their own. He ran across, threw himself at the knees, and -missed them. He went sprawling on to the ground, was conscious that he -had banged his nose, that somebody near him was calling out “Butters,” -and that his career as a football half was finally and for ever -concluded. After that he could do nothing right. The ball seemed -devilishly to slip away from him whenever he approached it. He was -filled with a demon of anger, but that did not serve him. He again went -now here, now there, and always he seemed to be doing the wrong thing. -For once that strange sure knowledge innate in him, part of his blood -and his bones, of the right, inevitable thing to do, had left him, and -he could only act on impulse and hope that it would turn out well, which -it never did. The captain, who was a forward, pausing beside him for a -moment, said, “Go on, Cole, you can play better than that.” He knew that -his worst forebodings were fulfilled. - -Then just before the whistle went for half-time, just when he was at his -busiest, he had a curious, distinct picture of Uncle Samuel, the red -apple tree, and Hamlet lying on the floor of the studio waiting for his -rat. People talk about concentration and its importance, and nobody who -has ever played a game well but will agree that to let your mind wander -at a very critical moment is fatal; but this was not so much the actual -wandering of a mind as of a curious insistence from without of this -other picture that went with the scene in which he was figuring. It was -like the pouring of cold clear water upon his hot and muddled brain. It -was also as though Uncle Samuel, in his thick, good-natured voice, had -said to him, “Now, look here, I know nothing about this silly game that -you’re trying to play, but I’m here to see you go through it, and the -two of us together it’s impossible to beat.” The whistle went before he -had time to realize the effects of this little intrusion. He stood about -during the interval talking to no one, wishing he were dead, but -armoured in a cold resolve. After all, he would not write to Uncle -Samuel and tell him that he had been left out of the school fifteen -because he had not played well enough. No one as yet had scored. The -teams seemed to be very evenly matched, which was a bad thing for the -school. Everyone in the school team was depressed, and the men in the -“Rest” were equally elated. If the whole truth were known, the play in -the first half had been very ragged indeed, but, as Mr. Thompson -explained to the lady visitor, “You mustn’t expect anything else early -in the term.” She made the fatuous remark that “after all, they were -such _little_ boys,” which made Mr. Thompson reply, with more heat than -true politeness required, that his boys, even though they were all under -fourteen, could on their day show as good a game as any public school, -to which the lady visitor replied that she was sure that they could—she -thought they played wonderfully for such little boys. - -The whistle sounded, and the game tumbled about, up and down, in and -out. Jeremy knew now that all was well. His “game sense” had suddenly -come back to him, and the ball seemed to know its master, to tumble to -him just when he wanted it, to stick in his hands when he touched it, -and even to smile at him when it was quite a long way away, as though it -were saying to him, “I’m yours now, and you can do what you like with -me.” He brought off a neat piece of collaring, then a little later -passed the ball back to his three-quarters, who got, for the first time -that day, a clear run, leading to a try in the far corner of the field. -Then there came a moment when all the “Rest” forwards were dribbling the -ball, the school forwards at their heels, but not fast enough to stop -their opponents; and he was down on the ball, had it packed tight under -his arm, lying flat upon it, and the whole world of boots, legs, knees, -bodies seemed to charge over him. A queer sensation that was, everything -falling upon him as though the ceiling of the world had suddenly -collapsed. Then the sensation of being buried deep in the ground, bodies -wriggling and heaving on top of him, his nose, chin, eyes deep in earth, -some huge leg with a gigantic boot at the end of it hovering like a wild -animal just above his head; and then the whistle and the sudden clearing -of the ground away from him; his impulse to move, and his discovery that -his right leg hurt like a piercing sword. He tried to rise, and could -not. He was quite alone now, the sky and the wind, the field and the -distant hills encircling him, with nobody else in the world. The game -stopped, people came back to him. They felt his leg, and it hurt -desperately, but not, he knew at once, so desperately that he never -would be able to use it again. They rubbed his calf and jerked his knee. -He heard somebody say, “Only a kick—no bones broken,” and he set his -teeth and stumbled to his feet and stood for a moment feeling exquisite -pain. Then, like an old man of ninety, tottered along. At this there was -universal applause from behind the ropes. There were cries of “Well -stopped, Stocky! Good old Stocky!” and he would not have exchanged that -moment for all the prizes in the bookshop or all the tuckshops in -Europe. “Are you all right?” his captain shouted across to him. He -nodded his head because he certainly would have burst into tears if he -had spoken, and he was biting his lower lip until his teeth seemed to go -through to his gums. But, in that marvellous fashion that all -footballers know, his leg became with every movement easier, and -although there was a dull, grinding pain there, he found he could move -about quite easily and soon was in the thick of it once more. He was -only a “limper” to the end of that game, but he did one or two things -quite nicely, and had the happiness of seeing the school score another -two tries, which put the issue of the game beyond doubt. At the end, -after cheers had been given and returned, the pain in his leg reasserted -itself once more, and he could only limp very feebly off the field, but -he had the delirious happiness of the captain—who was going to Rugby -next year, and was therefore very nearly a man—putting his hand on his -shoulder and saying, “That was a plucky game of yours, Cole. Hope your -leg isn’t bad.” - -“Oh, it isn’t bad at all, thank you,” he said very politely. “I almost -don’t feel it,” which was a terrific lie. He had done well. He knew that -from the comments on every side of him. The crowd had forgotten his -earlier failure, which, if he had only known it, should have taught him -that word of wisdom invaluable to artists and sportsmen alike: “Don’t be -discouraged by a bad beginning. It’s the last five minutes that count.” -Finally there was Riley. “You didn’t play badly,” he said. “You were -better than Millett.” - - - IV - -Later he was sitting with Riley, squashed into a corner of Magg’s, -eating dough-nuts. The crowd in there was terrific and the atmosphere -like a slab of chocolate. Riley and he were pressed close together, with -boys on every side of them. The noise was deafening. It was the last ten -minutes before Magg’s closed. It was Saturday evening, and everyone had -pocket-money. The two boys did not speak to one another. Jeremy’s leg -was hurting him horribly, but he was as happy as “Five kings and a -policeman,” which was one of Uncle Samuel’s ridiculous, meaningless -phrases. His arm was round Riley’s neck, more for support than for -sentiment, but he did _like_ Riley and he did _like_ Magg’s. He was, -perhaps, at that moment as completely alive as he was ever to be. He was -so small that he was almost entirely hidden, but somebody caught sight -of his hair, which would never lie down flat, and cried across the room, -“Three cheers for Stocky, the football hero!” The cheers were hearty if -a little absent-minded, the main business of the moment being food, and -not football. Jeremy, of course, was pleased, and in his pleasure -overbalanced from the edge of the table where he was sitting, slipped -forward, and disappeared from men. His leg hurt him too much, and he was -too comfortable on the floor and too generally sleepy to bother to get -up again, so he stayed there, his arm round Riley’s leg, swallowing his -last dough-nut as slowly as possible, feeling that he would like to give -dough-nuts in general to all the world. - -Yes, it had been a _fine_ day, a splendid day, and there would be days -and days and days. . . . - -Magg’s was closing. He limped to his feet, and, with their arms round -one another’s necks, Riley and he vanished into the dark. - - - - - PRINTED BY - CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, - LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E. C.4. - F85.823 - - - - - TRANSCRIBER NOTES - - -Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed. - -Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained. - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Jeremy and Hamlet, by Hugh Walpole - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JEREMY AND HAMLET *** - -***** This file should be named 60325-0.txt or 60325-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/3/2/60325/ - -Produced by David T. 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