Chapter Ten.Tossed About.Jeffreys, as the reader will have discovered, did not possess the art of doing himself common justice. He had brooded so long and so bitterly over his fatal act of violence at Bolsover, that he had come almost to forget that accident had had anything to do with poor Forrester’s injuries. And now, when confronted with his crime, even by a despicable wretch like Trimble, he had not the spirit to hold up his head and make some effort at any rate to clear himself of all that was charged against him.Jeffreys was still a blunderer, or else his conscience was unusually sensitive. You and I, reader, no doubt, would have put a bold face on the matter, and insisted the whole affair was entirely an accident, and that we were to be pitied rather than blamed for what had happened. And a great many people would have pitied us accordingly. But Jeffreys claimed no pity. He saw nothing but his own ruthless fault; and he chose to take the whole burden of it, and the burden of the accident besides, on his own shoulders.And so it was he left Galloway House without a word, and cast himself and his bad name once more adrift on a pitiless world.But as he walked on he was not thinking of Galloway House, or Farmer Rosher, or Freddy or Teddy. The last words of Trimble rang in his ears, and deafened him to all beside.“He’s dead—Ican tell you that!”It never occurred to him to wonder whence Jonah had derived his information, or whether it was true or false.Mr Brampton’s letter five months ago had left little hope of the boy’s recovery, but not till now had Jeffreys heard any one say, in so many words “He is dead.” Jonah apparently knew the whole story. How he had discovered it, it was useless to guess. And yet for a moment Jeffreys was tempted to return and seize his accuser by the throat and demand the truth of him. But he dismissed the notion with a shudder.His steps turned, half mechanically, half by chance, towards his guardian’s house. He had never been in that quarter of York since the night of his expulsion, and he did not know why of all places he should just now turn thither. His guardian, as he well knew, was even more pitiless and cynical than ever, and any hope of finding shelter or rest under his roof he knew to be absurd. He might, however, be out; indeed, he had spoken of going to America, in which case Mrs Jessop might be there alone.One clings to the idea of a home; and this place, such as it was, was the only place which for Jeffreys had ever had any pretensions to the blessed name. His expectations—if he had any—vanished as he abruptly turned the corner of the street and stood in front of the house. The shutters on the lower floor were closed, and the windows above were curtainless and begrimed with dust. A notice “To let,” stared out from a board beside the front door, and the once cosy little front garden was weed-grown and run to seed.Jeffreys felt a stronger man as he walked out of York in the deepening twilight. He was in the way of old associations just now, for almost without knowing it he found himself quitting York by way of Ash Lane, every step of which by this time was familiar—painfully familiar ground. The bank on which he had last found Jonah’s knife had now new attractions for him. Not so a garden shed, by the back of which he passed, and whence proceeded the glimmer of a light, and the sound of boys’ voices.He could not help standing a moment, and motioning Julius close to his heels, listening.“It’s broken worse than ever now,” said Freddy. “It’s no use trying to mend it.”“Jeff could have done it. I say, Freddy, whatever did father mean?”“I don’t know. All I know is I’ll never forget dear old Jeff; shall you?”“Rather not. I’m going to pray for him once a day, Freddy.”“All serene—so shall I.”Jeffreys stole one hurried glance through the cracked timbers, and then walked away quickly and with a heart brim full.Whenever in after days his soul needed music, he had only to call up the voices of those two little fellows in the shed as he last heard them. Little heeded they what came of their childish words. Little heeded they that they were helping to make a true man of the Jeff they loved, and that whatever true strength he came to possess for fighting life’s battles and bearing life’s burdens, he owed it beyond any one to them!He walked on rapidly and steadily for two hours, until the last lingering glow of the summer light had faded from the sky, and the lights of York behind him were lost in the night. A field of new-mown hay provided him with the most luxurious bedroom man could desire.The thought uppermost in his mind when he awoke next morning was young Forrester. He felt that it would be useless for him to attempt anything or hope for anything till he had ascertained whatever was to be known respecting the boy’s fate. Trimble’s words, which rang in his ears, had a less positive sound about them. At least he would find out for himself whether they were true or false.Grangerham, the small country town in which he had ascertained Forrester lived, and to which he had been removed from Bolsover, was far enough away from York. Jeffreys had many a time sought it out on the map, and speculated on how it was to be reached, should a summons arrive to call him thither. It was seventy miles away as the crow flies. Jeffreys had the way there by heart. He knew what time the trains left York, what were the junctions along the line, and how far the nearest railway station would take him to his journey’s end.Now, however, it was a question of walking, not riding. The two pounds in his pocket, all he possessed, scarcely seemed his at all as long as Mr Frampton’s school bill was unsettled. At any rate, it was too precious to squander in railway fares for a man who could walk for nothing.It was a long, harassing journey, over moors and along stony roads. It was not till the evening of the second day that the footsore traveller read on a sign-post the welcome words, “Four miles to Grangerham.” He had eaten little and rested little on the way, and during the last twelve hours a broiling sun had beaten down pitilessly upon him.If the journey of the two last days had been exhausting, the fruitless search of the day that followed was fully as wearisome. Grangerham was a pretty big manufacturing town, and Jeffreys’ heart sank within him as soon as he entered it. For who among these busy crowds would be likely to know anything of an invalid old lady and her cripple grandson?In vain he enquired in street after street for Mrs Forrester’s address. Some had not heard the name. Some knew a public-house kept by one Tony Forrester. Some recollected an old lady who used to keep a costermonger’s stall and had a baby with fits. Others, still more tantalising, began by knowing all about it, and ended by showing that they knew nothing. At the police-office they looked at him hard, and demanded what he wanted with anybody of the name of Forrester. At the post-office they told him curtly they could not tell him anything unless he could give the old lady’s address.At length, late in the day, he ventured to knock at the door of the clergyman of that part of the town in which the only few residents’ houses seemed to be, and to repeat his question there.The clergyman, a hard-working man who visited a hundred families in a week, at first returned the same answer as everybody else. No, he did not know any one of that name.“Stay,” he said; “perhaps you mean old Mrs Wilcox.”Jeffreys groaned. Everybody had been suggesting the name of some old lady to him different from the one he wanted.“She had a nephew, I think, who was a cripple. The poor fellow had had an accident at school, so I heard. I almost think he died. I never saw him myself, but if you come with me, I’ll take you to the Wesleyan minister. I think he knows Mrs Wilcox.”Thankful for any clue, however slight, Jeffreys accompanied the good man to the Wesleyan minister.“Mrs Wilcox—ah, yes,” said the latter, when his brother pastor had explained their errand. “She died in Torquay five months ago. She was a great sufferer.”“And her nephew?” inquired the clergyman.“Her grandson, you mean.”Jeffreys’ heart leapt. “What was his name?” he asked, excitedly.“Forrester; a dear young fellow he was. His mother, who died out in India, was Mrs Wilcox’s only daughter. Yes, poor Gerard Forrester was brought home from school about six months ago terribly crippled by an accident. It was said one of his school-fellows had—”“But where is he now? tell me, for mercy’s sake!” exclaimed Jeffreys.“I cannot tell you that,” replied the minister. “His grandmother was ordered to Torquay almost as soon as he arrived home. He remained here about a month in charge of his old nurse; and then—”“He’s not dead!” almost shouted Jeffreys.“Then,” continued the minister, “when the news came of his grandmother’s death, they left Grangerham. From all I can hear, Mrs Wilcox died very poor. I believe the nurse intended to try to get him taken into a hospital somewhere; but where or how I never knew. I was away in London when they disappeared, and have never heard of them since.”“Isn’t his father alive?”“Yes. I wrote to him by Mrs Wilcox’s request. He is an officer in India in the Hussars. I have had no reply, and cannot be sure that the letter has reached him, as I see that his regiment has been dispatched to Afghanistan.”“Did you never hear from the nurse?” asked Jeffreys.“Never.”“And was it thought Forrester would recover?”“I believe it was thought that if he got special treatment in a hospital his life might be spared.”This then was all Jeffreys could hear. Jonah Trimble might be right after all. How he abused himself for flying from York as he had done without extracting the truth first! It was too late now. He begged to be taken to see the house where Forrester lived. It was occupied by a new tenant, and all he could do was to pace up and down in front of it, in a lonely vigil, and try to imagine the pale face which only a few months back had gazed wearily from those windows on the active life without, in which he was never more to take a share.He had not the courage to wait that night in Grangerham, although the minister urged him and Julius, tramps as they were, to do so. He felt stifled in these narrow streets, and longed for the fresh heath, where at least he could be alone.He accepted, however, the hospitality of his guide for half an hour in order to write a short note to Mr Frampton. He said:—“I have come here hoping to hear something of Forrester. But I can hear nothing more than what you told me four months ago. He has left here in charge of his old nurse, and has not been heard of since. You will wonder why I have left York. The story of what happened at Bolsover reached the ears of my employer’s son. He accused me of it before all the school, and added that he knew Forrester was dead. I could not stand it, and came away—though I feel now I was foolish not to ascertain first how he had learned what you and I have not yet been able to hear. It is too terrible to believe! and I cannot believe it till I find out for myself. Where I shall go next I do not know, and feel I do not care. My guardian has left York. I saw him two days before I came away, and he told me then he should refuse to pay my last half-term’s bill, which came to £7. I enclose thirty shillings now—all I have; and you may depend on my sending the rest as soon as I can earn it; for I shall be miserable as long as I owe a farthing to Bolsover.”Having written this dismal letter, and having posted it with its enclosure, he bade farewell to Grangerham, and wandered forth with the sympathetic Julius out on to the quiet heath, and there lay down—not to sleep, but to think.
Jeffreys, as the reader will have discovered, did not possess the art of doing himself common justice. He had brooded so long and so bitterly over his fatal act of violence at Bolsover, that he had come almost to forget that accident had had anything to do with poor Forrester’s injuries. And now, when confronted with his crime, even by a despicable wretch like Trimble, he had not the spirit to hold up his head and make some effort at any rate to clear himself of all that was charged against him.
Jeffreys was still a blunderer, or else his conscience was unusually sensitive. You and I, reader, no doubt, would have put a bold face on the matter, and insisted the whole affair was entirely an accident, and that we were to be pitied rather than blamed for what had happened. And a great many people would have pitied us accordingly. But Jeffreys claimed no pity. He saw nothing but his own ruthless fault; and he chose to take the whole burden of it, and the burden of the accident besides, on his own shoulders.
And so it was he left Galloway House without a word, and cast himself and his bad name once more adrift on a pitiless world.
But as he walked on he was not thinking of Galloway House, or Farmer Rosher, or Freddy or Teddy. The last words of Trimble rang in his ears, and deafened him to all beside.
“He’s dead—Ican tell you that!”
It never occurred to him to wonder whence Jonah had derived his information, or whether it was true or false.
Mr Brampton’s letter five months ago had left little hope of the boy’s recovery, but not till now had Jeffreys heard any one say, in so many words “He is dead.” Jonah apparently knew the whole story. How he had discovered it, it was useless to guess. And yet for a moment Jeffreys was tempted to return and seize his accuser by the throat and demand the truth of him. But he dismissed the notion with a shudder.
His steps turned, half mechanically, half by chance, towards his guardian’s house. He had never been in that quarter of York since the night of his expulsion, and he did not know why of all places he should just now turn thither. His guardian, as he well knew, was even more pitiless and cynical than ever, and any hope of finding shelter or rest under his roof he knew to be absurd. He might, however, be out; indeed, he had spoken of going to America, in which case Mrs Jessop might be there alone.
One clings to the idea of a home; and this place, such as it was, was the only place which for Jeffreys had ever had any pretensions to the blessed name. His expectations—if he had any—vanished as he abruptly turned the corner of the street and stood in front of the house. The shutters on the lower floor were closed, and the windows above were curtainless and begrimed with dust. A notice “To let,” stared out from a board beside the front door, and the once cosy little front garden was weed-grown and run to seed.
Jeffreys felt a stronger man as he walked out of York in the deepening twilight. He was in the way of old associations just now, for almost without knowing it he found himself quitting York by way of Ash Lane, every step of which by this time was familiar—painfully familiar ground. The bank on which he had last found Jonah’s knife had now new attractions for him. Not so a garden shed, by the back of which he passed, and whence proceeded the glimmer of a light, and the sound of boys’ voices.
He could not help standing a moment, and motioning Julius close to his heels, listening.
“It’s broken worse than ever now,” said Freddy. “It’s no use trying to mend it.”
“Jeff could have done it. I say, Freddy, whatever did father mean?”
“I don’t know. All I know is I’ll never forget dear old Jeff; shall you?”
“Rather not. I’m going to pray for him once a day, Freddy.”
“All serene—so shall I.”
Jeffreys stole one hurried glance through the cracked timbers, and then walked away quickly and with a heart brim full.
Whenever in after days his soul needed music, he had only to call up the voices of those two little fellows in the shed as he last heard them. Little heeded they what came of their childish words. Little heeded they that they were helping to make a true man of the Jeff they loved, and that whatever true strength he came to possess for fighting life’s battles and bearing life’s burdens, he owed it beyond any one to them!
He walked on rapidly and steadily for two hours, until the last lingering glow of the summer light had faded from the sky, and the lights of York behind him were lost in the night. A field of new-mown hay provided him with the most luxurious bedroom man could desire.
The thought uppermost in his mind when he awoke next morning was young Forrester. He felt that it would be useless for him to attempt anything or hope for anything till he had ascertained whatever was to be known respecting the boy’s fate. Trimble’s words, which rang in his ears, had a less positive sound about them. At least he would find out for himself whether they were true or false.
Grangerham, the small country town in which he had ascertained Forrester lived, and to which he had been removed from Bolsover, was far enough away from York. Jeffreys had many a time sought it out on the map, and speculated on how it was to be reached, should a summons arrive to call him thither. It was seventy miles away as the crow flies. Jeffreys had the way there by heart. He knew what time the trains left York, what were the junctions along the line, and how far the nearest railway station would take him to his journey’s end.
Now, however, it was a question of walking, not riding. The two pounds in his pocket, all he possessed, scarcely seemed his at all as long as Mr Frampton’s school bill was unsettled. At any rate, it was too precious to squander in railway fares for a man who could walk for nothing.
It was a long, harassing journey, over moors and along stony roads. It was not till the evening of the second day that the footsore traveller read on a sign-post the welcome words, “Four miles to Grangerham.” He had eaten little and rested little on the way, and during the last twelve hours a broiling sun had beaten down pitilessly upon him.
If the journey of the two last days had been exhausting, the fruitless search of the day that followed was fully as wearisome. Grangerham was a pretty big manufacturing town, and Jeffreys’ heart sank within him as soon as he entered it. For who among these busy crowds would be likely to know anything of an invalid old lady and her cripple grandson?
In vain he enquired in street after street for Mrs Forrester’s address. Some had not heard the name. Some knew a public-house kept by one Tony Forrester. Some recollected an old lady who used to keep a costermonger’s stall and had a baby with fits. Others, still more tantalising, began by knowing all about it, and ended by showing that they knew nothing. At the police-office they looked at him hard, and demanded what he wanted with anybody of the name of Forrester. At the post-office they told him curtly they could not tell him anything unless he could give the old lady’s address.
At length, late in the day, he ventured to knock at the door of the clergyman of that part of the town in which the only few residents’ houses seemed to be, and to repeat his question there.
The clergyman, a hard-working man who visited a hundred families in a week, at first returned the same answer as everybody else. No, he did not know any one of that name.
“Stay,” he said; “perhaps you mean old Mrs Wilcox.”
Jeffreys groaned. Everybody had been suggesting the name of some old lady to him different from the one he wanted.
“She had a nephew, I think, who was a cripple. The poor fellow had had an accident at school, so I heard. I almost think he died. I never saw him myself, but if you come with me, I’ll take you to the Wesleyan minister. I think he knows Mrs Wilcox.”
Thankful for any clue, however slight, Jeffreys accompanied the good man to the Wesleyan minister.
“Mrs Wilcox—ah, yes,” said the latter, when his brother pastor had explained their errand. “She died in Torquay five months ago. She was a great sufferer.”
“And her nephew?” inquired the clergyman.
“Her grandson, you mean.”
Jeffreys’ heart leapt. “What was his name?” he asked, excitedly.
“Forrester; a dear young fellow he was. His mother, who died out in India, was Mrs Wilcox’s only daughter. Yes, poor Gerard Forrester was brought home from school about six months ago terribly crippled by an accident. It was said one of his school-fellows had—”
“But where is he now? tell me, for mercy’s sake!” exclaimed Jeffreys.
“I cannot tell you that,” replied the minister. “His grandmother was ordered to Torquay almost as soon as he arrived home. He remained here about a month in charge of his old nurse; and then—”
“He’s not dead!” almost shouted Jeffreys.
“Then,” continued the minister, “when the news came of his grandmother’s death, they left Grangerham. From all I can hear, Mrs Wilcox died very poor. I believe the nurse intended to try to get him taken into a hospital somewhere; but where or how I never knew. I was away in London when they disappeared, and have never heard of them since.”
“Isn’t his father alive?”
“Yes. I wrote to him by Mrs Wilcox’s request. He is an officer in India in the Hussars. I have had no reply, and cannot be sure that the letter has reached him, as I see that his regiment has been dispatched to Afghanistan.”
“Did you never hear from the nurse?” asked Jeffreys.
“Never.”
“And was it thought Forrester would recover?”
“I believe it was thought that if he got special treatment in a hospital his life might be spared.”
This then was all Jeffreys could hear. Jonah Trimble might be right after all. How he abused himself for flying from York as he had done without extracting the truth first! It was too late now. He begged to be taken to see the house where Forrester lived. It was occupied by a new tenant, and all he could do was to pace up and down in front of it, in a lonely vigil, and try to imagine the pale face which only a few months back had gazed wearily from those windows on the active life without, in which he was never more to take a share.
He had not the courage to wait that night in Grangerham, although the minister urged him and Julius, tramps as they were, to do so. He felt stifled in these narrow streets, and longed for the fresh heath, where at least he could be alone.
He accepted, however, the hospitality of his guide for half an hour in order to write a short note to Mr Frampton. He said:—
“I have come here hoping to hear something of Forrester. But I can hear nothing more than what you told me four months ago. He has left here in charge of his old nurse, and has not been heard of since. You will wonder why I have left York. The story of what happened at Bolsover reached the ears of my employer’s son. He accused me of it before all the school, and added that he knew Forrester was dead. I could not stand it, and came away—though I feel now I was foolish not to ascertain first how he had learned what you and I have not yet been able to hear. It is too terrible to believe! and I cannot believe it till I find out for myself. Where I shall go next I do not know, and feel I do not care. My guardian has left York. I saw him two days before I came away, and he told me then he should refuse to pay my last half-term’s bill, which came to £7. I enclose thirty shillings now—all I have; and you may depend on my sending the rest as soon as I can earn it; for I shall be miserable as long as I owe a farthing to Bolsover.”
Having written this dismal letter, and having posted it with its enclosure, he bade farewell to Grangerham, and wandered forth with the sympathetic Julius out on to the quiet heath, and there lay down—not to sleep, but to think.
Chapter Eleven.Wildtree Towers.Jeffreys spoke truly when he wrote to Mr Frampton that he did not know and did not care where he was going next. When he awoke in his heathery bed next morning, he lay indolently for a whole hour for no other reason than because he did not know whether to walk north, south, east or west. He lacked the festive imagination which helps many people under similar circumstances. It did not occur to him to toss up, nor was he aware of the value of turning round three times with his eyes closed and then marching straight before him. Had he been an errant knight, of course his horse would have settled the question; but as it was, he was not a knight and had not a horse. He had a dog, though. He had found Julius in possession of the caretaker at his guardian’s house, and had begged her to let him have him.“Which way are we going, Julius?” inquired the dog’s master, leaning upon his elbow, and giving no sign which the dog could possibly construe into a suggestion.Julius was far too deep an animal not to see through an artless design like this. But for all that he undertook the task of choosing. He rose from his bed, shook himself, rubbed a few early flies off his face, and then, taking up the bundle in his teeth, with a rather contemptuous sniff, walked sedately off, in the direction of the North Pole. Jeffreys dutifully followed; and thus it was that one of the most momentous turns in his life was taken in the footsteps of a dog.Let us leave him, reader, tramping aimlessly thus o’er moor and fell, and hill and dale, leaving behind him the smoke of the cotton country and the noisy shriek of the railway, and losing himself among the lonely valleys and towering hills of Westmoreland—let us leave him, footsore, hungry, and desponding, and refresh ourselves in some more cheery scene and amidst livelier company.Where shall we go? for we can go anywhere. That’s one of the few little privileges of the storyteller. Suppose, for instance, we take farewell of humble life altogether for a while, and invite ourselves into some grand mansion, where not by the remotest possibility could Jeffreys or Jeffreys’ affairs be of the very slightest interest.What do you say to this tempting-looking mansion, marked in the map as Wildtree Towers, standing in a park of I should not like to say how many acres, on the lower slopes of one of the grandest mountains in the Lake country?On the beautiful summer afternoon on which we first see it, it certainly looks one of the fairest spots in creation. As we stand on the doorstep, the valley opens out before us, stretching far to the south, and revealing reaches of lake and river, broad waving meadows and clustering villages, wild crags and pine-clad fells.We, however, do not stand on the doorstep to admire the view, or even to ask admission. We have the storyteller’s latchkey and invisible cap. Let us enter. As we stand in the great square hall, hung round in baronial style with antlers, and furnished in all the luxury of modern comfort, wondering through which of the dozen doors that open out of the square it would be best worth our while to penetrate, a footman, bearing a tray with afternoon tea, flits past us. Let us follow him, for afternoon tea means that living creatures are at hand.We find ourselves in a snug little boudoir, furnished and decorated with feminine skill and taste, and commanding through the open French windows a gorgeous view down the valley. Two ladies, one middle-aged, one young, are sitting there as the footman enters. The elder, evidently the mistress of the mansion, is reading a newspaper; the younger is dividing her time between needlework and looking rather discontentedly out of the window.It is quite evident the two are not mother and child. There is not the slightest trace of resemblance between the handsome aquiline face of the elder, stylishly-dressed woman, and the rounder and more sensitive face of her quietly-attired companion. Nor is there much in common between the frank eyes and mock-demure mouth of the girl, and the half-imperious, half-worried look of her senior.“Tell Mr Rimbolt, Walker,” says the mistress, as she puts down her paper, and moves her chair up to the tea-table, “and Master Percy.”A handsome gentleman, just turning grey, with an intellectual and good-humoured face, strolls into the room in response to Walker’s summons.“I was positively nearly asleep,” he says; “the library gets more than its share of the afternoon sun.”“It would be better for you, dear, if you took a drive or a walk, instead of shutting yourself up with your old books.”The gentleman laughs pleasantly, and puts some sugar in his tea.“You are not very respectful to my old friends,” said he. “You forget how long we’ve been parted. Where’s Percy?”“Walker has gone to tell him.”“I think he is out,” said the young lady; “he told me he was going down to the river.”“I consider,” said Mrs Rimbolt rather severely, “he should tellmewhat he is going to do, not you.”“But, aunt, I didn’t ask him. He volunteered it.”“Fetch your uncle’s cup, Raby.”Raby’s mouth puckers up into a queer little smile as she obeys.Walker appears in a minute to confirm the report of Master Percy’s absence. “He’s been gone this three hours, mem.”“Let some one go for him at once, Walker.”“I get so terrified when he goes off like this,” says the mother; “there’s no knowing what may happen, and he is so careless.”“He has a safe neck,” replies the father; “he always does turn up. But if you are so fidgety, why don’t you send Raby to look after him?”“If any one went with him, it would need to be some one who, instead of encouraging him in his odd ways, would keep him in hand, and see he did not come to any harm.”“Oh,” says Raby, laughing, “he wouldn’t take me with him if I paid him a hundred pounds. He says girls don’t know anything about science and inventions.”“He is probably right,” observes Mrs Rimbolt severely.“Certainly, as regards the sciencehepractises,” says her husband. “What was it he had in hand last week? Some invention for making people invisible by painting them with invisible paint? Ha! ha! He invited me to let him try it on me.”“Hedidtry it on me,” chimes in Raby.“It is nothing to laugh about,” says the mother; “it is much better for him to be of an inquiring turn of mind than—idle,” adds she, looking significantly at her niece’s empty hand.“It strikes me it is we who are of an inquiring turn of mind just now,” said the father. “I fancy he’ll turn up. He generally does. Meanwhile, I will go and finish my writing.” And he politely retires.“Raby, my dear,” says Mrs Rimbolt—Raby always knows what is coming when a sentence begins thus—“Raby, my dear, it does not sound nice to hear you making fun of your cousin. Percy is very good to you—”“Oh yes!” interrupts Raby, almost enthusiastically.“Which makes it all the less nice on your part to make a laughing-stock of him in the presence of his own father. It may seem unlikely that people should be rendered invisible—”Mrs Rimbolt stops, conscious she is about to talk nonsense, and Raby gallantly covers her retreat.“I’m sure I wish I knew half what he does about all sorts of things.”“I wish so too,” replies the aunt, severely and ungratefully.Several hours pass, and still Master Percy does not put in an appearance. As Mrs Rimbolt’s uneasiness increases, half a dozen servants are sent out in various directions to seek the prodigal. It is an almost daily ceremony, and the huntsmen set about their task as a matter of course. No one can recollect an occasion on which Master Percy has ever come home at the right time without being looked for. If the appointed hour is four, every one feels well treated if his honour turns up at five. Nor, with the exception of his mother, and now and then Raby, does any one dream of becoming agitated for three or four hours later.When therefore, just as the family is sitting down to dinner at half-past six, Walker enters radiant to announce that Master Percy has come in, no one thinks any more about his prolonged absence, and one or two of the servants outside say to one another that the young master must be hungry to come home at this virtuous hour.This surmise is probably correct, for Percy presents himself in a decidedly dishevelled condition, his flannel costume being liberally bespattered with mud, and his hair very much in need of a brush and comb.You cannot help liking the boy despite the odd, self-willed solemnity of his face. He is between fourteen and fifteen apparently, squarely built, with his mother’s aquiline features and his father’s strong forehead. The year he has spent at Rugby has redeemed him from being a lout, but it is uncertain whether it has done anything more. The master of his house has been heard to predict that the boy would either live to be hanged or to become a great man. Some of his less diplomatic school-fellows had predicted both things, and when at the end of a year he refused point blank to return to school, and solemnly assured his father that if he was sent back he should run away on the earliest opportunity, it was generally allowed that for a youth of his age he had some decided ideas of his own.The chief fault about him, say some, is that he has too many ideas of his own, and tries to run them all together. But we are digressing, and keeping him from his dinner.“My dear boy, where have you been?” says the mother; “we have been looking for you everywhere.”“Oh, out!” replies Percy, hastily taking stock of the bill of fare.“Well, run and dress yourself, or dinner will be cold.”“I’m too fagged,” says Percy, coolly taking a seat. “Some soup, please.”“I can’t have you sit down in that state, Percy,” says Mr Rimbolt; “it is not polite to your mother and Raby.”“If the poor boy is tired,” says Mrs Rimbolt, “we must excuse him this once.”So Mr Rimbolt, as has happened more than once before, gives in, and Percy does as he pleases.He does full justice to his dinner, and takes no part in the conversation, which is chiefly carried on by Mr Rimbolt, sometimes with his wife, sometimes with Raby. At length, however, the first cravings of appetite being subdued, he shows a readiness to put in his oar.“How goes the invisible paint, Percy?” asks his father, with a twinkle in his eye.“Used up,” replies the boy solemnly. “I’m sure it would answer. I painted Hodge with it, and could scarcely see him at all from a distance.”“I believe you paint yourself,” says Raby, laughing, “and that’s why the men can’t find you.”Percy is pleased at this, and takes it as a recognition of his genius. He has great faith in his own discovery, and it is everything to him to find some one else believing in it too.“If you like to come to the river to-morrow, I’ll show you something,” says he condescendingly. “It licks the paint into fits!”“Raby will be busy in the village to-morrow,” says her aunt. “What is it you are doing at the river?”“Oh, ah!” solemnly responds the son, whose year at a public-school has not taught him the art of speaking respectfully to his parents; “wouldn’t you like to know?”“I wish you’d play somewhere else, dear. It makes me so uneasy when you are down by the river.”“Play!” says Percy rather scornfully; “I don’t play there—I work!”“I fear you are neglecting one sort of work for another, my boy,” says Mr Rimbolt; “we never got through Virgil yet, you know—at least, you didn’t. I’ve been through three books since you deserted our readings.”“Oh, Virgil’s jolly enough,” replied the boy; “I’m going to finish it as soon as my experiments are over.”“What experiments?”“Oh, it’s a dodge to—I’d show it you as soon as it’s finished. It’s nearly done now, and it will be a tremendous tip.”This is all that can be extracted from the youthful man of science—at least, by the elders. To Raby, when the family retires to the drawing-room, the boy is more confidential, and she once more captivates him by entering heart and soul into his project and entreating to be made a party in the experiments.“I’d see,” says he; “but mind you don’t go chattering!”Mr Rimbolt gravitates as usual to his library, and here it is that half an hour later his son presents himself, still in his working garb.“Father,” says the hopeful, “please can you give me some money?”“Why, you have had ten shillings a week since you came home!”“Aren’t you a millionaire, father?”“Some people say so.”“Doesn’t that mean you’ve got a million pounds?”“That’s what ‘millionaire’ means.”“Ten shillings a week is only twenty-six pounds a year.”“Quite right, and few boys get such good pocket-money.”“When I come into the property I shall allow my son more than that,” says Percy gravely.“Not if you love him as much as I love my son,” says Mr Rimbolt, with a pleasant smile.“Good-night, father.”“Good-night! Why, it’s only half-past seven.”“I know. I’m going togetup early; I’ve got a lot of work to do. Besides, I’m miserable.”“Why?”“Because I can’t get any money.”“Why not earn some? I want some one to catalogue my books for me. What do you say to doing it? I shall pay half a crown a shelf.”Percy hesitates a bit, and looks at the bookcases, and makes a mental calculation.“That will be about twelve pounds, won’t it? Have you got a book to write the names on?”“What! Are you going to begin now?”“Yes.”And Percy sits up till eleven o’clock, and succeeds in that time in cataloguing after a fashion, and not badly for a first attempt, two of the smallest shelves in the library, for which he receives then and there five shillings, much to his own comfort and to his father’s amusement.Mrs Rimbolt comes into the library just as the business is concluded.“Why, Percy, not in bed—and so tired too!”“Oh, I’ve been doing some work for father,” says the boy, chinking the two half-crowns in his pocket.“But your father, I’m sure, would not wish you to injure your health.”“Certainly not. Percy was hard up, and has just been earning five shillings.”“What do you mean—earning five shillings?”“Yes—father’s been tipping me for cataloguing his books. Jolly hard work, but he pays on the nail, don’t you, father?”“My dear boy,” said the mother, as she and her son walks across the hall, “why did you not tell me you wanted money? You know I do not grudge it. I don’t like you to stay up so late to earn it, when you ought to be resting.”“Well, I wouldn’t mind another five shillings, mother.”The mother gives him a half-sovereign and kisses him.Percy, as he walks up the stairs, ruminating on his good luck, feels considerably more self-respect when he looks at the two half-crowns than when looking at the half-sovereign.At the top of the stairs he shouts down to Walker:—“I say, wake me at six, will you? and leave my waterproof and top-boots on the hall table; and, I say, tell Mason to cut me a dozen strong ash sticks about a yard long; and, I say, leave a hammer and some tacks on the hall table too; and tell Appleby to go by the early coach to Overstone and get me a pound of cork, and some whalebone, and some tar. Here’s five shillings to pay for them. Don’t forget. Tell him to leave them at the lodge before twelve, and I’ll fetch them. Oh, and tell Raby if she wants to see what I was telling her about, she had better hang about the lodge till I come. I’m sure to be there somewhere between twelve and four.”With which the young lord of creation retires to his cubicle, leaving Walker scratching his head, and regarding the five shillings in his hand in anything but a joyful mood.“He ought to be put on the treadmill a week or two; that’s what would do him good,” observed the sage retainer to himself; “one thing at a time, and plenty of it. A dozen ash sticks before six o’clock in the morning! What does he want with ash sticks? Now his schoolmaster, if he’d got one, would find them particular handy.”With which little joke Walker goes off to agitate Appleby and Mason with the news of their early morning duties, and to put the servants’ hall in a flutter by announcing for the fiftieth time that summer that either he or the young master would have to leave Wildtree Towers, because, positively—well, they would understand—a man’s respect for himself demanded that he should draw the line somewhere, and that was just what Master Percy would not allow him to do.We have changed the scene once already in this chapter. Just before we finish let us change it once more, and leaving beautiful Wildtree and its happy family, let us fly to a sorry, tumbledown, desolate shed five miles away, on the hill-side. It may have once belonged to a farm, or served as a shelter for sheep on the mountain-slopes. But it now scarcely possesses a roof, and no sign of a habitation is anywhere visible.The night has come on rainy and dark, and a weary tramp with his dog has been thankful to crawl into its poor shelter and rest his limbs. The wind has risen and howls dismally round the shed, breaking every now and then through the loose planks, and stirring up the straw which carpets the place. But the traveller is too weary to heed it or the rain which intrudes along with it, and crouching with his dog in the darkest corner, curls himself up in true tramp fashion, and settles down to sleep.He has lain there two hours or more, and the mountain storm begins to abate. The dog has been uneasy for some time, and now in the midst of a peal of thunder awakens his master with a gruff yap. The sleeper sits up in an instant. It is not the thunder that has disturbed the dog, nor is it thunder that the tramp now listens to close at hand. It is the sound of voices, either inside the shed or just outside it.Not a strange thing, perhaps, in a storm like this, for two wayfarers like himself to seek shelter—and yet the tramp seems startled by the sound, and signals to the dog to lie down and hold his peace.“Will it do?” says one voice; and the tramp perceives that the speakers are standing outside the shed under the shelter of the projecting eaves.“No. No good. Too well looked after, and the people about the wrong sort.”“There’s a pile of swag there—heaps.”“Know that. Better wait till the family are away.”“There’s a child, isn’t there?”“A boy—fourteen—only child.”“Might work it that way; eh? Get a trifle for him eh?”“A thousand, and no questions asked. It’s settled.”“It is! Why didn’t you say so? How are you going to do it?”“Never you mind. Corporal and I have worked it out. It will be done to-night. Moon’s down at ten. You be here at midnight, and have your hay-cart handy. Corporal and I will bring him here. We know where to find him in daylight, and can keep him quiet in the woods till dark.”“What then? Who’s to keep him?”“Wait till you’ve got him.”“Are you sure they’ll go a thousand for him?”“Probably two. Sheer off now, and don’t forget, twelve o’clock.”The footsteps move away through the wet heather, and the tramp, waiting motionless till the last sound has faded away, draws a long breath and curls himself back into his roost.But not to sleep—to meditate a campaign.“Julius,” says he to the dog, who appears to be fully alive to the brewing storm, “you and I will have to stop this business. There’ll be three to two, unless the boy fights too. We must be here at eleven, and tackle one of them before the other two come. What do you say to that?”Julius looks only sorry the business is not to begin at once.Then the tramp and he go carefully into the plan of their little campaign, and, as soon as day dawns, go out for a walk, Julius taking care before quitting the shed to acquaint himself with the scent of the two gentlemen who had lately sheltered outside it.The tramp spends a quiet day on the mountain, reading Homer, and admiring the view. Towards nightfall he descends to Overstone and spends a few of his remaining pence in a frugal meal. Then, as the moon dips behind the shoulder of Wild Pike, he betakes himself, with the faithful Julius close at his heels, to the shed on the mountain-side.
Jeffreys spoke truly when he wrote to Mr Frampton that he did not know and did not care where he was going next. When he awoke in his heathery bed next morning, he lay indolently for a whole hour for no other reason than because he did not know whether to walk north, south, east or west. He lacked the festive imagination which helps many people under similar circumstances. It did not occur to him to toss up, nor was he aware of the value of turning round three times with his eyes closed and then marching straight before him. Had he been an errant knight, of course his horse would have settled the question; but as it was, he was not a knight and had not a horse. He had a dog, though. He had found Julius in possession of the caretaker at his guardian’s house, and had begged her to let him have him.
“Which way are we going, Julius?” inquired the dog’s master, leaning upon his elbow, and giving no sign which the dog could possibly construe into a suggestion.
Julius was far too deep an animal not to see through an artless design like this. But for all that he undertook the task of choosing. He rose from his bed, shook himself, rubbed a few early flies off his face, and then, taking up the bundle in his teeth, with a rather contemptuous sniff, walked sedately off, in the direction of the North Pole. Jeffreys dutifully followed; and thus it was that one of the most momentous turns in his life was taken in the footsteps of a dog.
Let us leave him, reader, tramping aimlessly thus o’er moor and fell, and hill and dale, leaving behind him the smoke of the cotton country and the noisy shriek of the railway, and losing himself among the lonely valleys and towering hills of Westmoreland—let us leave him, footsore, hungry, and desponding, and refresh ourselves in some more cheery scene and amidst livelier company.
Where shall we go? for we can go anywhere. That’s one of the few little privileges of the storyteller. Suppose, for instance, we take farewell of humble life altogether for a while, and invite ourselves into some grand mansion, where not by the remotest possibility could Jeffreys or Jeffreys’ affairs be of the very slightest interest.
What do you say to this tempting-looking mansion, marked in the map as Wildtree Towers, standing in a park of I should not like to say how many acres, on the lower slopes of one of the grandest mountains in the Lake country?
On the beautiful summer afternoon on which we first see it, it certainly looks one of the fairest spots in creation. As we stand on the doorstep, the valley opens out before us, stretching far to the south, and revealing reaches of lake and river, broad waving meadows and clustering villages, wild crags and pine-clad fells.
We, however, do not stand on the doorstep to admire the view, or even to ask admission. We have the storyteller’s latchkey and invisible cap. Let us enter. As we stand in the great square hall, hung round in baronial style with antlers, and furnished in all the luxury of modern comfort, wondering through which of the dozen doors that open out of the square it would be best worth our while to penetrate, a footman, bearing a tray with afternoon tea, flits past us. Let us follow him, for afternoon tea means that living creatures are at hand.
We find ourselves in a snug little boudoir, furnished and decorated with feminine skill and taste, and commanding through the open French windows a gorgeous view down the valley. Two ladies, one middle-aged, one young, are sitting there as the footman enters. The elder, evidently the mistress of the mansion, is reading a newspaper; the younger is dividing her time between needlework and looking rather discontentedly out of the window.
It is quite evident the two are not mother and child. There is not the slightest trace of resemblance between the handsome aquiline face of the elder, stylishly-dressed woman, and the rounder and more sensitive face of her quietly-attired companion. Nor is there much in common between the frank eyes and mock-demure mouth of the girl, and the half-imperious, half-worried look of her senior.
“Tell Mr Rimbolt, Walker,” says the mistress, as she puts down her paper, and moves her chair up to the tea-table, “and Master Percy.”
A handsome gentleman, just turning grey, with an intellectual and good-humoured face, strolls into the room in response to Walker’s summons.
“I was positively nearly asleep,” he says; “the library gets more than its share of the afternoon sun.”
“It would be better for you, dear, if you took a drive or a walk, instead of shutting yourself up with your old books.”
The gentleman laughs pleasantly, and puts some sugar in his tea.
“You are not very respectful to my old friends,” said he. “You forget how long we’ve been parted. Where’s Percy?”
“Walker has gone to tell him.”
“I think he is out,” said the young lady; “he told me he was going down to the river.”
“I consider,” said Mrs Rimbolt rather severely, “he should tellmewhat he is going to do, not you.”
“But, aunt, I didn’t ask him. He volunteered it.”
“Fetch your uncle’s cup, Raby.”
Raby’s mouth puckers up into a queer little smile as she obeys.
Walker appears in a minute to confirm the report of Master Percy’s absence. “He’s been gone this three hours, mem.”
“Let some one go for him at once, Walker.”
“I get so terrified when he goes off like this,” says the mother; “there’s no knowing what may happen, and he is so careless.”
“He has a safe neck,” replies the father; “he always does turn up. But if you are so fidgety, why don’t you send Raby to look after him?”
“If any one went with him, it would need to be some one who, instead of encouraging him in his odd ways, would keep him in hand, and see he did not come to any harm.”
“Oh,” says Raby, laughing, “he wouldn’t take me with him if I paid him a hundred pounds. He says girls don’t know anything about science and inventions.”
“He is probably right,” observes Mrs Rimbolt severely.
“Certainly, as regards the sciencehepractises,” says her husband. “What was it he had in hand last week? Some invention for making people invisible by painting them with invisible paint? Ha! ha! He invited me to let him try it on me.”
“Hedidtry it on me,” chimes in Raby.
“It is nothing to laugh about,” says the mother; “it is much better for him to be of an inquiring turn of mind than—idle,” adds she, looking significantly at her niece’s empty hand.
“It strikes me it is we who are of an inquiring turn of mind just now,” said the father. “I fancy he’ll turn up. He generally does. Meanwhile, I will go and finish my writing.” And he politely retires.
“Raby, my dear,” says Mrs Rimbolt—Raby always knows what is coming when a sentence begins thus—“Raby, my dear, it does not sound nice to hear you making fun of your cousin. Percy is very good to you—”
“Oh yes!” interrupts Raby, almost enthusiastically.
“Which makes it all the less nice on your part to make a laughing-stock of him in the presence of his own father. It may seem unlikely that people should be rendered invisible—”
Mrs Rimbolt stops, conscious she is about to talk nonsense, and Raby gallantly covers her retreat.
“I’m sure I wish I knew half what he does about all sorts of things.”
“I wish so too,” replies the aunt, severely and ungratefully.
Several hours pass, and still Master Percy does not put in an appearance. As Mrs Rimbolt’s uneasiness increases, half a dozen servants are sent out in various directions to seek the prodigal. It is an almost daily ceremony, and the huntsmen set about their task as a matter of course. No one can recollect an occasion on which Master Percy has ever come home at the right time without being looked for. If the appointed hour is four, every one feels well treated if his honour turns up at five. Nor, with the exception of his mother, and now and then Raby, does any one dream of becoming agitated for three or four hours later.
When therefore, just as the family is sitting down to dinner at half-past six, Walker enters radiant to announce that Master Percy has come in, no one thinks any more about his prolonged absence, and one or two of the servants outside say to one another that the young master must be hungry to come home at this virtuous hour.
This surmise is probably correct, for Percy presents himself in a decidedly dishevelled condition, his flannel costume being liberally bespattered with mud, and his hair very much in need of a brush and comb.
You cannot help liking the boy despite the odd, self-willed solemnity of his face. He is between fourteen and fifteen apparently, squarely built, with his mother’s aquiline features and his father’s strong forehead. The year he has spent at Rugby has redeemed him from being a lout, but it is uncertain whether it has done anything more. The master of his house has been heard to predict that the boy would either live to be hanged or to become a great man. Some of his less diplomatic school-fellows had predicted both things, and when at the end of a year he refused point blank to return to school, and solemnly assured his father that if he was sent back he should run away on the earliest opportunity, it was generally allowed that for a youth of his age he had some decided ideas of his own.
The chief fault about him, say some, is that he has too many ideas of his own, and tries to run them all together. But we are digressing, and keeping him from his dinner.
“My dear boy, where have you been?” says the mother; “we have been looking for you everywhere.”
“Oh, out!” replies Percy, hastily taking stock of the bill of fare.
“Well, run and dress yourself, or dinner will be cold.”
“I’m too fagged,” says Percy, coolly taking a seat. “Some soup, please.”
“I can’t have you sit down in that state, Percy,” says Mr Rimbolt; “it is not polite to your mother and Raby.”
“If the poor boy is tired,” says Mrs Rimbolt, “we must excuse him this once.”
So Mr Rimbolt, as has happened more than once before, gives in, and Percy does as he pleases.
He does full justice to his dinner, and takes no part in the conversation, which is chiefly carried on by Mr Rimbolt, sometimes with his wife, sometimes with Raby. At length, however, the first cravings of appetite being subdued, he shows a readiness to put in his oar.
“How goes the invisible paint, Percy?” asks his father, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Used up,” replies the boy solemnly. “I’m sure it would answer. I painted Hodge with it, and could scarcely see him at all from a distance.”
“I believe you paint yourself,” says Raby, laughing, “and that’s why the men can’t find you.”
Percy is pleased at this, and takes it as a recognition of his genius. He has great faith in his own discovery, and it is everything to him to find some one else believing in it too.
“If you like to come to the river to-morrow, I’ll show you something,” says he condescendingly. “It licks the paint into fits!”
“Raby will be busy in the village to-morrow,” says her aunt. “What is it you are doing at the river?”
“Oh, ah!” solemnly responds the son, whose year at a public-school has not taught him the art of speaking respectfully to his parents; “wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I wish you’d play somewhere else, dear. It makes me so uneasy when you are down by the river.”
“Play!” says Percy rather scornfully; “I don’t play there—I work!”
“I fear you are neglecting one sort of work for another, my boy,” says Mr Rimbolt; “we never got through Virgil yet, you know—at least, you didn’t. I’ve been through three books since you deserted our readings.”
“Oh, Virgil’s jolly enough,” replied the boy; “I’m going to finish it as soon as my experiments are over.”
“What experiments?”
“Oh, it’s a dodge to—I’d show it you as soon as it’s finished. It’s nearly done now, and it will be a tremendous tip.”
This is all that can be extracted from the youthful man of science—at least, by the elders. To Raby, when the family retires to the drawing-room, the boy is more confidential, and she once more captivates him by entering heart and soul into his project and entreating to be made a party in the experiments.
“I’d see,” says he; “but mind you don’t go chattering!”
Mr Rimbolt gravitates as usual to his library, and here it is that half an hour later his son presents himself, still in his working garb.
“Father,” says the hopeful, “please can you give me some money?”
“Why, you have had ten shillings a week since you came home!”
“Aren’t you a millionaire, father?”
“Some people say so.”
“Doesn’t that mean you’ve got a million pounds?”
“That’s what ‘millionaire’ means.”
“Ten shillings a week is only twenty-six pounds a year.”
“Quite right, and few boys get such good pocket-money.”
“When I come into the property I shall allow my son more than that,” says Percy gravely.
“Not if you love him as much as I love my son,” says Mr Rimbolt, with a pleasant smile.
“Good-night, father.”
“Good-night! Why, it’s only half-past seven.”
“I know. I’m going togetup early; I’ve got a lot of work to do. Besides, I’m miserable.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t get any money.”
“Why not earn some? I want some one to catalogue my books for me. What do you say to doing it? I shall pay half a crown a shelf.”
Percy hesitates a bit, and looks at the bookcases, and makes a mental calculation.
“That will be about twelve pounds, won’t it? Have you got a book to write the names on?”
“What! Are you going to begin now?”
“Yes.”
And Percy sits up till eleven o’clock, and succeeds in that time in cataloguing after a fashion, and not badly for a first attempt, two of the smallest shelves in the library, for which he receives then and there five shillings, much to his own comfort and to his father’s amusement.
Mrs Rimbolt comes into the library just as the business is concluded.
“Why, Percy, not in bed—and so tired too!”
“Oh, I’ve been doing some work for father,” says the boy, chinking the two half-crowns in his pocket.
“But your father, I’m sure, would not wish you to injure your health.”
“Certainly not. Percy was hard up, and has just been earning five shillings.”
“What do you mean—earning five shillings?”
“Yes—father’s been tipping me for cataloguing his books. Jolly hard work, but he pays on the nail, don’t you, father?”
“My dear boy,” said the mother, as she and her son walks across the hall, “why did you not tell me you wanted money? You know I do not grudge it. I don’t like you to stay up so late to earn it, when you ought to be resting.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind another five shillings, mother.”
The mother gives him a half-sovereign and kisses him.
Percy, as he walks up the stairs, ruminating on his good luck, feels considerably more self-respect when he looks at the two half-crowns than when looking at the half-sovereign.
At the top of the stairs he shouts down to Walker:—
“I say, wake me at six, will you? and leave my waterproof and top-boots on the hall table; and, I say, tell Mason to cut me a dozen strong ash sticks about a yard long; and, I say, leave a hammer and some tacks on the hall table too; and tell Appleby to go by the early coach to Overstone and get me a pound of cork, and some whalebone, and some tar. Here’s five shillings to pay for them. Don’t forget. Tell him to leave them at the lodge before twelve, and I’ll fetch them. Oh, and tell Raby if she wants to see what I was telling her about, she had better hang about the lodge till I come. I’m sure to be there somewhere between twelve and four.”
With which the young lord of creation retires to his cubicle, leaving Walker scratching his head, and regarding the five shillings in his hand in anything but a joyful mood.
“He ought to be put on the treadmill a week or two; that’s what would do him good,” observed the sage retainer to himself; “one thing at a time, and plenty of it. A dozen ash sticks before six o’clock in the morning! What does he want with ash sticks? Now his schoolmaster, if he’d got one, would find them particular handy.”
With which little joke Walker goes off to agitate Appleby and Mason with the news of their early morning duties, and to put the servants’ hall in a flutter by announcing for the fiftieth time that summer that either he or the young master would have to leave Wildtree Towers, because, positively—well, they would understand—a man’s respect for himself demanded that he should draw the line somewhere, and that was just what Master Percy would not allow him to do.
We have changed the scene once already in this chapter. Just before we finish let us change it once more, and leaving beautiful Wildtree and its happy family, let us fly to a sorry, tumbledown, desolate shed five miles away, on the hill-side. It may have once belonged to a farm, or served as a shelter for sheep on the mountain-slopes. But it now scarcely possesses a roof, and no sign of a habitation is anywhere visible.
The night has come on rainy and dark, and a weary tramp with his dog has been thankful to crawl into its poor shelter and rest his limbs. The wind has risen and howls dismally round the shed, breaking every now and then through the loose planks, and stirring up the straw which carpets the place. But the traveller is too weary to heed it or the rain which intrudes along with it, and crouching with his dog in the darkest corner, curls himself up in true tramp fashion, and settles down to sleep.
He has lain there two hours or more, and the mountain storm begins to abate. The dog has been uneasy for some time, and now in the midst of a peal of thunder awakens his master with a gruff yap. The sleeper sits up in an instant. It is not the thunder that has disturbed the dog, nor is it thunder that the tramp now listens to close at hand. It is the sound of voices, either inside the shed or just outside it.
Not a strange thing, perhaps, in a storm like this, for two wayfarers like himself to seek shelter—and yet the tramp seems startled by the sound, and signals to the dog to lie down and hold his peace.
“Will it do?” says one voice; and the tramp perceives that the speakers are standing outside the shed under the shelter of the projecting eaves.
“No. No good. Too well looked after, and the people about the wrong sort.”
“There’s a pile of swag there—heaps.”
“Know that. Better wait till the family are away.”
“There’s a child, isn’t there?”
“A boy—fourteen—only child.”
“Might work it that way; eh? Get a trifle for him eh?”
“A thousand, and no questions asked. It’s settled.”
“It is! Why didn’t you say so? How are you going to do it?”
“Never you mind. Corporal and I have worked it out. It will be done to-night. Moon’s down at ten. You be here at midnight, and have your hay-cart handy. Corporal and I will bring him here. We know where to find him in daylight, and can keep him quiet in the woods till dark.”
“What then? Who’s to keep him?”
“Wait till you’ve got him.”
“Are you sure they’ll go a thousand for him?”
“Probably two. Sheer off now, and don’t forget, twelve o’clock.”
The footsteps move away through the wet heather, and the tramp, waiting motionless till the last sound has faded away, draws a long breath and curls himself back into his roost.
But not to sleep—to meditate a campaign.
“Julius,” says he to the dog, who appears to be fully alive to the brewing storm, “you and I will have to stop this business. There’ll be three to two, unless the boy fights too. We must be here at eleven, and tackle one of them before the other two come. What do you say to that?”
Julius looks only sorry the business is not to begin at once.
Then the tramp and he go carefully into the plan of their little campaign, and, as soon as day dawns, go out for a walk, Julius taking care before quitting the shed to acquaint himself with the scent of the two gentlemen who had lately sheltered outside it.
The tramp spends a quiet day on the mountain, reading Homer, and admiring the view. Towards nightfall he descends to Overstone and spends a few of his remaining pence in a frugal meal. Then, as the moon dips behind the shoulder of Wild Pike, he betakes himself, with the faithful Julius close at his heels, to the shed on the mountain-side.
Chapter Twelve.Kidnapping.Percy Rimbolt, despite his unusual literary labours of the past evening, rose promptly when Walker knocked at his door at six o’clock, and arrayed himself once more in his flannels.The storm of the night, which had disturbed Jeffreys and his dog five miles away, had not spread as far as Wildtree, and the early summer sun was already hot as he sallied forth with his waterproof over one arm, and his dozen ash sticks under the other in the direction of the river. Kennedy, at the lodge, was considerably astonished to be awakened by a shower of gravel against his window, and to perceive, on looking out, the young master in full fishing order standing below, “Kennedy, Appleby’s going to leave some things here for me about twelve o’clock. Mind you’re in, and wait till I come for them. And if Raby comes, tell her I’ll be up about then; tell her not to go away.”“Do you want me down at the river, sir?” asked the old keeper.“No, keep away; and don’t let any one else come below Rodnet Bridge.” With which injunction the youthful man of science went on his way, leaving Kennedy to shake his head and wonder what little game the young master was up to now.Percy plodded on a couple of miles down the stream, considerably beyond the park boundaries, till he reached Rodnet Bridge, under which the mountain torrent slipped in a swift, deep stream. Just below the bridge, among the trees which crowded down to the water’s edge, was a little hut, used by the Wildtree keepers for depositing their baskets and nets, but now appropriated by the young heir of Wildtree for far more important purposes.It was here, in fact, that during the last two days he had conceived, and begun to put into practice, the never-before-heard-of invention of a machine for enabling a swimmer to swim up-stream at the rate of eight to ten miles an hour!Percy’s recent career had been made up of a large number of magnificent projects, admirable in every respect but one—they never quite came off. Just as they neared perfection they “gave out,” and something new took their place. It would be treason, however, to hint that the “anti-current swimmer” was ever likely to give out. There certainly seemed no signs of it in the manner in which the inventor set about his task that morning. He had been provident enough to bring some sandwiches in his pockets (provided at the last moment by the much-enduring Walker), and on the strength of these he laboured half the morning. It would puzzle me to explain on what scientific principle the wonderful apparatus was laid down, what mixture between the wing of a bird, the tail of a fish, and the screw of a steamer it embodied. I never was good at mechanics, and certainly Percy Rimbolt’s mechanics were such as it is given but to few to follow. Suffice it to say that by eleven o’clock the structure had reached a critical stage, and stood still for want of the cork which Appleby had been charged to procure.The day was hot, and an hour at least must elapse before the messenger could return from Overstone. Percy, therefore, improved the shining hour by a bathe in the clear stream, with whose depths he was evidently familiar. He made no attempt, pending the completion of the machine, to oppose the swift current, but diving into it from the bridge, allowed himself luxuriously to be carried down into the shallows a hundred yards below, and without even the trouble of swimming. This refreshing performance ended, he returned to the hut and dressed. He was in the act of locking the door, preparatory to his journey up to Kennedy’s lodge, when a sack was suddenly thrown over his head from behind, and next moment he found himself pinned to the ground in the clutches of two men. Before he was well aware of what had happened, his feet were tied together, and his arms firmly lashed to his sides. The sack was lifted from his mouth, but not long enough to enable him to shout, for a gag was roughly forced between his teeth; and then, while one of his captors held his head, the other bandaged his eyes so completely that, had he not known it, he could not have told whether it was mid-day or midnight. Thus, in almost less time than it takes to narrate it, in broad daylight, and on the borders of his own father’s estate, the unfortunate Percy was made captive, without so much as being able to give an alarm or to see the faces of his assailants.He was deposited comfortably on the floor of his own hut, by the side, oh, cruel fate! of his own machine, and there left to work out any number of problems which might occur to him during the next six hours; while his custodians, having carefully padlocked the door, retired to a respectful distance among the trees, where they could smoke their pipes in peace, and at the same time keep an eye on the approaches to their young ward’s dungeon.It did not take Percy many minutes to convince himself that any attempt to struggle or extricate himself from his bonds would be labour thrown away. His captors were evidently well up to their business, and there was no wriggling out of their neatly-tied bonds. Nor did the onslaught which the boy made with his teeth on the gag result in anything but disaster. It loosened at least two of his teeth, and gave him during the remainder of the day considerable pain in some of the others. As to his eyes, he rubbed his forehead and the side of his head on the floor, in the hopes of shifting the bandage, but all in vain. He got it over his ears as well as his eyes for his pains, and could scarcely hear a sound.As the afternoon went on, the sun slanted its rays cruelly through the little skylight on to the spot where he lay, and the flies, attracted by the rare chance, swarmed in under the door and through the cracks to make merry with their defenceless victim. Had the sun been seven times as hot, or the flies venomous and deadly, he would have preferred it, for it would have shortened his misery considerably. When at last the sun got across the window, and left him at peace, he was scarcely in a position to appreciate his mercies.Not long after the distant Overstone chimes had sounded four, his heart (about the only unfettered portion of him) leapt to his mouth as he heard his name called in Raby’s voice outside. Nor was his the only heart whom that cheery sound caused to palpitate. The two watchers in the wood above heard it, and prepared to decamp at a moment’s notice, should the girl display any undue curiosity as to the contents of the hut.But she did not. She was used to seeing it padlocked, and to listen in vain for an answer to her call. Percy was evidently abroad, probably waiting for her up at Kennedy’s lodge. So she hurried back. As soon as she had disappeared beyond the bridge, the two men put their pipes into their pockets.“If they’ve begun looking for him we’d best sheer off, Corporal.”“That’s right,” replied Corporal—“at once.”Whereupon they descended from their perches, and having looked carefully up and down, unlocked the dungeon door.Their prisoner was lying so still and motionless, that for an instant they had their misgivings as to whether the gag had not been a trifle too much for his respiration. But a moment’s examination satisfied them the boy was alive—much to their relief.The sack was once more brought into requisition, and turned out to be a great deal larger than it looked, for it was found quite roomy enough to accommodate the whole of the person of Percy Rimbolt, who in this dignified retreat quitted the scene of his labours on the back of one of his captors. The hut having been once more carefully padlocked, the party travelled at least a mile into the depths of the lonely woods, where at least there was no lack of shade and seclusion.Percy was deposited somewhat unceremoniously on the ground, and left in the sack (with just sufficient aperture in the region of his nose to allow of respiration) for some hours more, unheeded by his custodians except when he attempted to move or roll over, on which occasions he was sharply reminded of his duty to his company by an unceremonious kick.Some time later—it may have been an hour or two, or only five minutes—he was aware of a conversation taking place outside his sack.“Risky,” said one voice.“More risky not to do it,” said the other. “What use would he be if he was a dead ’un? Besides, how are we to carry him all that way?”“All right, have it your way,” said the other surlily.Then Percy was conscious of some one uncording the mouth of the sack and uncovering his head.“Young feller,” said the gruffer of the two voices, “do you want your throat cut?”Percy shook his head in mild deprecation of such a desire.“Do you want your tongue cut out?”Once more Percy disclaimed any consuming anxiety in that direction.“Then you won’t move a step or speak a word unless you’re told. Do you mark that?”The boy nodded; he did mark it.Thereupon, much to his relief, the gag was taken from his mouth, and he felt himself hauled out of the ignominious sack.“A drink!” he gasped.“There he goes; I said he’d do it. Clap the gag on again.”Poor blindfolded Percy could only wave his head appealingly. He would sooner have his throat cut than feel that gag back between his teeth. His captors let him off this once, and one of them untied the cords from his legs. He was too cramped to attempt to make any use of this partial liberty, even had he been so minded, and sank down, half fainting, to the ground.“Give him a drink,” said one of the voices; and in a moment or two he felt a cup of delicious water held to his parched lips, reviving him as if by magic. A few coarse pieces of bread were also thrust between his lips; these he swallowed painfully, for his jaws were stiff and aching, and his teeth had almost forgotten their cunning. However, when the meal was over he felt better, and would gladly have slept upon it for an hour or two, had he been allowed.But this was no part of his captors’ programme. They had not relaxed his bonds to indulge any such luxurious craving. Overstone Church had already sounded eleven, and they were due in an hour at the mountain shed.“Get up and step out,” said one of them, pulling the boy roughly to his feet.“All very well,” said Percy to himself, as he stumbled forward on his cramped limbs; “they’ll have to give me a leg up if they want me to go the pace. Where are we going to next, I’d like to know?”“Come, stir yourself,” said the man again, accompanying his words by a rough shake.Percy responded by toppling over on his face. He who knew the way to swim against stream ten miles an hour, was just now unable to walk half a dozen paces on solid ground.“Best shove him in the sack again,” growled the other man.The bare mention of that sack startled poor Percy to his feet. If he might only have spoken he could easily have explained the trifling difficulty which prevented his “stepping out.” As it was, all he could do was to struggle forward bravely for a few more paces, and then again fall. The men seemed to perceive that there was something more than mere playfulness in this twice-repeated performance, and solved the difficulty by clutching him one under each arm, and materially assisting his progress by dragging him.Any of Percy’s acquaintances would have been greatly shocked had they been privileged to witness this triumphal midnight progress across the moors; his dragging legs feebly trying to imitate the motions of walking, but looking much more like kneeling, his head dropped forward on his chest, his shoulders elevated by the grip of his conductors under his pinioned arms, and his eyes bandaged as never a blind-man’s-buff could bind them.It was a long weary march that; but to Percy it was luxury compared with the morning among the flies on the hut floor. His conductors settled into a jog-trot, which the light weight of the boy did not much impede; and Percy, finding the motion not difficult, and on the whole soothing, dropped off into a half-doze, which greatly assisted in passing the time.At length, however, he became aware of a halt and a hurried consultation between his captors.“Is he there? Whistle?”Corporal gave a low whistle, which after a second or two was answered from the hill-side.“That’s all right!” said the other, in tones of relief. “See anything of the cart?”Corporal peered round in the darkness.“Yes—all right down there.”“Come on, then. Keep your eye on Jim, though, he’s a mighty hand at going more than his share.”“Trust me,” growled Corporal.Then Percy felt himself seized again and dragged forward.In about five minutes they halted again, and the whistle was repeated.The answer came from close at hand this time.“All square?” whispered Corporal.“Yes!” replied a new indistinct voice—“come on.”“Jim’s screwed again,” said the other man; “I can tell it by his voice; there’s no trusting him. Come on.”They had moved forward half a dozen steps more, when Corporal suddenly found his head enveloped in a sack—a counterpart of his own—while at the same moment the other man was borne to the ground with a great dog’s fangs buried in his neckcloth.“Hold him!” called Jeffreys to the dog, as he himself applied his energies to the subjugation of the struggling Corporal.It was no easy task. But Jeffreys, lad as he was, was a young Samson, and had his man at a disadvantage. For Corporal, entangled with the sack and unprepared for the sudden onslaught, staggered back and fell; and before he could struggle to his feet Jeffreys was on him, almost throttling him. It was no time for polite fighting. If Jeffreys did not throttle his man, his man, as he perfectly well knew, would do more than throttle him. So he held on like grim death, till Corporal, half smothered by the sack and half-choked by his assailant’s clutch, howled for quarter.Then for the first time Jeffreys felt decidedly perplexed. If he let Corporal go, Corporal, not being a man of honour, might turn on him and make mincemeat of him. If, on the other hand, he called the dog off the other man to hold Corporal while he bound him captive, the other man might abuse his opportunity in a like manner. The boy was evidently too exhausted to take any part in the encounter? What could he do?After turning the matter over, he decided that Julius was the most competent individual to settle the business. The dog was having a very easy time with the abject villain over whom he was mounting guard, and could well undertake a little more than he had at present on his hands.“Fetch him here, Julius,” called Jeffreys, giving Corporal an additional grip; “come here, you fellow, along with the dog.”The fellow had nothing for it but to obey; and in a couple of minutes he was lying across the body of Corporal, while Julius stood fiercely over them both.“Come here, boy,” called Jeffreys next to Percy; “let me take off those cords.” Percy groped his way to him.“What are you going to do with me?” he gasped.“Loose you; and if you’re half a man you’ll help me tie up these brutes. Come on—watch them there, Julius. Why, you’re blindfolded, too, and how frightfully tight you’re corded!”“I’ve been like that since twelve o’clock.”A few moments sufficed to unfasten the captive’s arms and clear his eyes.“Now you,” said Jeffreys, indicating the topmost of Julius’s captives with his toe, “put your hands behind your back!”The fellow obeyed hurriedly; he had had quite enough of Julius’s attentions already to need more.Jeffreys and Percy between them lashed first his wrists together, and then his elbows tightly to his sides. Then they secured his feet and knees in the same manner.“He’ll do—let him go, Julius,” and prisoner Number 1 was rolled over, to make room for Number 2 to undergo a similar process of pinioning.It was fortunate that the hay-cart below, of which and its owner Jeffreys and Julius had already taken possession at their leisure, had been liberally provided with cord, or their supply would have been inadequate to the strain put upon it.At last, however, Corporal and his friend were as securely tied up as they themselves could have done it, and dragged into the shed. It was pitch dark, and they neither of them at first perceived a third occupant of the tenement in the person of their fellow-conspirator, who was lying, bound like themselves, on the floor, where for an hour at least he had been enjoying the sweets of solitary meditation.“Now, Julius,” said Jeffreys, when his three guests were duly deposited, “you’ll have to watch them here till I come back. Hold your tongues, all of you, or Julius will trouble you. Watch them, good dog, and stay here.”“Now,” said he to the boy, when they found themselves outside, “what’s your name?”“Percy Rimbolt.”“Where do you live?”“Wildtree Towers, five miles away.”“We can be there in an hour. We may as well use this cart, which was meant to drive you in another direction. Can you walk to it, or shall I carry you?”Percy, as one in a dream, walked the short distance leaning on his rescuer’s arm. Then, deposited on the soft hay, too weary to trouble himself how he got there, or who this new guardian might be, he dropped off into an exhausted sleep, from which he was only aroused by the sound of his parents’ voices as the cart pulled up at the door of Wildtree Towers.
Percy Rimbolt, despite his unusual literary labours of the past evening, rose promptly when Walker knocked at his door at six o’clock, and arrayed himself once more in his flannels.
The storm of the night, which had disturbed Jeffreys and his dog five miles away, had not spread as far as Wildtree, and the early summer sun was already hot as he sallied forth with his waterproof over one arm, and his dozen ash sticks under the other in the direction of the river. Kennedy, at the lodge, was considerably astonished to be awakened by a shower of gravel against his window, and to perceive, on looking out, the young master in full fishing order standing below, “Kennedy, Appleby’s going to leave some things here for me about twelve o’clock. Mind you’re in, and wait till I come for them. And if Raby comes, tell her I’ll be up about then; tell her not to go away.”
“Do you want me down at the river, sir?” asked the old keeper.
“No, keep away; and don’t let any one else come below Rodnet Bridge.” With which injunction the youthful man of science went on his way, leaving Kennedy to shake his head and wonder what little game the young master was up to now.
Percy plodded on a couple of miles down the stream, considerably beyond the park boundaries, till he reached Rodnet Bridge, under which the mountain torrent slipped in a swift, deep stream. Just below the bridge, among the trees which crowded down to the water’s edge, was a little hut, used by the Wildtree keepers for depositing their baskets and nets, but now appropriated by the young heir of Wildtree for far more important purposes.
It was here, in fact, that during the last two days he had conceived, and begun to put into practice, the never-before-heard-of invention of a machine for enabling a swimmer to swim up-stream at the rate of eight to ten miles an hour!
Percy’s recent career had been made up of a large number of magnificent projects, admirable in every respect but one—they never quite came off. Just as they neared perfection they “gave out,” and something new took their place. It would be treason, however, to hint that the “anti-current swimmer” was ever likely to give out. There certainly seemed no signs of it in the manner in which the inventor set about his task that morning. He had been provident enough to bring some sandwiches in his pockets (provided at the last moment by the much-enduring Walker), and on the strength of these he laboured half the morning. It would puzzle me to explain on what scientific principle the wonderful apparatus was laid down, what mixture between the wing of a bird, the tail of a fish, and the screw of a steamer it embodied. I never was good at mechanics, and certainly Percy Rimbolt’s mechanics were such as it is given but to few to follow. Suffice it to say that by eleven o’clock the structure had reached a critical stage, and stood still for want of the cork which Appleby had been charged to procure.
The day was hot, and an hour at least must elapse before the messenger could return from Overstone. Percy, therefore, improved the shining hour by a bathe in the clear stream, with whose depths he was evidently familiar. He made no attempt, pending the completion of the machine, to oppose the swift current, but diving into it from the bridge, allowed himself luxuriously to be carried down into the shallows a hundred yards below, and without even the trouble of swimming. This refreshing performance ended, he returned to the hut and dressed. He was in the act of locking the door, preparatory to his journey up to Kennedy’s lodge, when a sack was suddenly thrown over his head from behind, and next moment he found himself pinned to the ground in the clutches of two men. Before he was well aware of what had happened, his feet were tied together, and his arms firmly lashed to his sides. The sack was lifted from his mouth, but not long enough to enable him to shout, for a gag was roughly forced between his teeth; and then, while one of his captors held his head, the other bandaged his eyes so completely that, had he not known it, he could not have told whether it was mid-day or midnight. Thus, in almost less time than it takes to narrate it, in broad daylight, and on the borders of his own father’s estate, the unfortunate Percy was made captive, without so much as being able to give an alarm or to see the faces of his assailants.
He was deposited comfortably on the floor of his own hut, by the side, oh, cruel fate! of his own machine, and there left to work out any number of problems which might occur to him during the next six hours; while his custodians, having carefully padlocked the door, retired to a respectful distance among the trees, where they could smoke their pipes in peace, and at the same time keep an eye on the approaches to their young ward’s dungeon.
It did not take Percy many minutes to convince himself that any attempt to struggle or extricate himself from his bonds would be labour thrown away. His captors were evidently well up to their business, and there was no wriggling out of their neatly-tied bonds. Nor did the onslaught which the boy made with his teeth on the gag result in anything but disaster. It loosened at least two of his teeth, and gave him during the remainder of the day considerable pain in some of the others. As to his eyes, he rubbed his forehead and the side of his head on the floor, in the hopes of shifting the bandage, but all in vain. He got it over his ears as well as his eyes for his pains, and could scarcely hear a sound.
As the afternoon went on, the sun slanted its rays cruelly through the little skylight on to the spot where he lay, and the flies, attracted by the rare chance, swarmed in under the door and through the cracks to make merry with their defenceless victim. Had the sun been seven times as hot, or the flies venomous and deadly, he would have preferred it, for it would have shortened his misery considerably. When at last the sun got across the window, and left him at peace, he was scarcely in a position to appreciate his mercies.
Not long after the distant Overstone chimes had sounded four, his heart (about the only unfettered portion of him) leapt to his mouth as he heard his name called in Raby’s voice outside. Nor was his the only heart whom that cheery sound caused to palpitate. The two watchers in the wood above heard it, and prepared to decamp at a moment’s notice, should the girl display any undue curiosity as to the contents of the hut.
But she did not. She was used to seeing it padlocked, and to listen in vain for an answer to her call. Percy was evidently abroad, probably waiting for her up at Kennedy’s lodge. So she hurried back. As soon as she had disappeared beyond the bridge, the two men put their pipes into their pockets.
“If they’ve begun looking for him we’d best sheer off, Corporal.”
“That’s right,” replied Corporal—“at once.”
Whereupon they descended from their perches, and having looked carefully up and down, unlocked the dungeon door.
Their prisoner was lying so still and motionless, that for an instant they had their misgivings as to whether the gag had not been a trifle too much for his respiration. But a moment’s examination satisfied them the boy was alive—much to their relief.
The sack was once more brought into requisition, and turned out to be a great deal larger than it looked, for it was found quite roomy enough to accommodate the whole of the person of Percy Rimbolt, who in this dignified retreat quitted the scene of his labours on the back of one of his captors. The hut having been once more carefully padlocked, the party travelled at least a mile into the depths of the lonely woods, where at least there was no lack of shade and seclusion.
Percy was deposited somewhat unceremoniously on the ground, and left in the sack (with just sufficient aperture in the region of his nose to allow of respiration) for some hours more, unheeded by his custodians except when he attempted to move or roll over, on which occasions he was sharply reminded of his duty to his company by an unceremonious kick.
Some time later—it may have been an hour or two, or only five minutes—he was aware of a conversation taking place outside his sack.
“Risky,” said one voice.
“More risky not to do it,” said the other. “What use would he be if he was a dead ’un? Besides, how are we to carry him all that way?”
“All right, have it your way,” said the other surlily.
Then Percy was conscious of some one uncording the mouth of the sack and uncovering his head.
“Young feller,” said the gruffer of the two voices, “do you want your throat cut?”
Percy shook his head in mild deprecation of such a desire.
“Do you want your tongue cut out?”
Once more Percy disclaimed any consuming anxiety in that direction.
“Then you won’t move a step or speak a word unless you’re told. Do you mark that?”
The boy nodded; he did mark it.
Thereupon, much to his relief, the gag was taken from his mouth, and he felt himself hauled out of the ignominious sack.
“A drink!” he gasped.
“There he goes; I said he’d do it. Clap the gag on again.”
Poor blindfolded Percy could only wave his head appealingly. He would sooner have his throat cut than feel that gag back between his teeth. His captors let him off this once, and one of them untied the cords from his legs. He was too cramped to attempt to make any use of this partial liberty, even had he been so minded, and sank down, half fainting, to the ground.
“Give him a drink,” said one of the voices; and in a moment or two he felt a cup of delicious water held to his parched lips, reviving him as if by magic. A few coarse pieces of bread were also thrust between his lips; these he swallowed painfully, for his jaws were stiff and aching, and his teeth had almost forgotten their cunning. However, when the meal was over he felt better, and would gladly have slept upon it for an hour or two, had he been allowed.
But this was no part of his captors’ programme. They had not relaxed his bonds to indulge any such luxurious craving. Overstone Church had already sounded eleven, and they were due in an hour at the mountain shed.
“Get up and step out,” said one of them, pulling the boy roughly to his feet.
“All very well,” said Percy to himself, as he stumbled forward on his cramped limbs; “they’ll have to give me a leg up if they want me to go the pace. Where are we going to next, I’d like to know?”
“Come, stir yourself,” said the man again, accompanying his words by a rough shake.
Percy responded by toppling over on his face. He who knew the way to swim against stream ten miles an hour, was just now unable to walk half a dozen paces on solid ground.
“Best shove him in the sack again,” growled the other man.
The bare mention of that sack startled poor Percy to his feet. If he might only have spoken he could easily have explained the trifling difficulty which prevented his “stepping out.” As it was, all he could do was to struggle forward bravely for a few more paces, and then again fall. The men seemed to perceive that there was something more than mere playfulness in this twice-repeated performance, and solved the difficulty by clutching him one under each arm, and materially assisting his progress by dragging him.
Any of Percy’s acquaintances would have been greatly shocked had they been privileged to witness this triumphal midnight progress across the moors; his dragging legs feebly trying to imitate the motions of walking, but looking much more like kneeling, his head dropped forward on his chest, his shoulders elevated by the grip of his conductors under his pinioned arms, and his eyes bandaged as never a blind-man’s-buff could bind them.
It was a long weary march that; but to Percy it was luxury compared with the morning among the flies on the hut floor. His conductors settled into a jog-trot, which the light weight of the boy did not much impede; and Percy, finding the motion not difficult, and on the whole soothing, dropped off into a half-doze, which greatly assisted in passing the time.
At length, however, he became aware of a halt and a hurried consultation between his captors.
“Is he there? Whistle?”
Corporal gave a low whistle, which after a second or two was answered from the hill-side.
“That’s all right!” said the other, in tones of relief. “See anything of the cart?”
Corporal peered round in the darkness.
“Yes—all right down there.”
“Come on, then. Keep your eye on Jim, though, he’s a mighty hand at going more than his share.”
“Trust me,” growled Corporal.
Then Percy felt himself seized again and dragged forward.
In about five minutes they halted again, and the whistle was repeated.
The answer came from close at hand this time.
“All square?” whispered Corporal.
“Yes!” replied a new indistinct voice—“come on.”
“Jim’s screwed again,” said the other man; “I can tell it by his voice; there’s no trusting him. Come on.”
They had moved forward half a dozen steps more, when Corporal suddenly found his head enveloped in a sack—a counterpart of his own—while at the same moment the other man was borne to the ground with a great dog’s fangs buried in his neckcloth.
“Hold him!” called Jeffreys to the dog, as he himself applied his energies to the subjugation of the struggling Corporal.
It was no easy task. But Jeffreys, lad as he was, was a young Samson, and had his man at a disadvantage. For Corporal, entangled with the sack and unprepared for the sudden onslaught, staggered back and fell; and before he could struggle to his feet Jeffreys was on him, almost throttling him. It was no time for polite fighting. If Jeffreys did not throttle his man, his man, as he perfectly well knew, would do more than throttle him. So he held on like grim death, till Corporal, half smothered by the sack and half-choked by his assailant’s clutch, howled for quarter.
Then for the first time Jeffreys felt decidedly perplexed. If he let Corporal go, Corporal, not being a man of honour, might turn on him and make mincemeat of him. If, on the other hand, he called the dog off the other man to hold Corporal while he bound him captive, the other man might abuse his opportunity in a like manner. The boy was evidently too exhausted to take any part in the encounter? What could he do?
After turning the matter over, he decided that Julius was the most competent individual to settle the business. The dog was having a very easy time with the abject villain over whom he was mounting guard, and could well undertake a little more than he had at present on his hands.
“Fetch him here, Julius,” called Jeffreys, giving Corporal an additional grip; “come here, you fellow, along with the dog.”
The fellow had nothing for it but to obey; and in a couple of minutes he was lying across the body of Corporal, while Julius stood fiercely over them both.
“Come here, boy,” called Jeffreys next to Percy; “let me take off those cords.” Percy groped his way to him.
“What are you going to do with me?” he gasped.
“Loose you; and if you’re half a man you’ll help me tie up these brutes. Come on—watch them there, Julius. Why, you’re blindfolded, too, and how frightfully tight you’re corded!”
“I’ve been like that since twelve o’clock.”
A few moments sufficed to unfasten the captive’s arms and clear his eyes.
“Now you,” said Jeffreys, indicating the topmost of Julius’s captives with his toe, “put your hands behind your back!”
The fellow obeyed hurriedly; he had had quite enough of Julius’s attentions already to need more.
Jeffreys and Percy between them lashed first his wrists together, and then his elbows tightly to his sides. Then they secured his feet and knees in the same manner.
“He’ll do—let him go, Julius,” and prisoner Number 1 was rolled over, to make room for Number 2 to undergo a similar process of pinioning.
It was fortunate that the hay-cart below, of which and its owner Jeffreys and Julius had already taken possession at their leisure, had been liberally provided with cord, or their supply would have been inadequate to the strain put upon it.
At last, however, Corporal and his friend were as securely tied up as they themselves could have done it, and dragged into the shed. It was pitch dark, and they neither of them at first perceived a third occupant of the tenement in the person of their fellow-conspirator, who was lying, bound like themselves, on the floor, where for an hour at least he had been enjoying the sweets of solitary meditation.
“Now, Julius,” said Jeffreys, when his three guests were duly deposited, “you’ll have to watch them here till I come back. Hold your tongues, all of you, or Julius will trouble you. Watch them, good dog, and stay here.”
“Now,” said he to the boy, when they found themselves outside, “what’s your name?”
“Percy Rimbolt.”
“Where do you live?”
“Wildtree Towers, five miles away.”
“We can be there in an hour. We may as well use this cart, which was meant to drive you in another direction. Can you walk to it, or shall I carry you?”
Percy, as one in a dream, walked the short distance leaning on his rescuer’s arm. Then, deposited on the soft hay, too weary to trouble himself how he got there, or who this new guardian might be, he dropped off into an exhausted sleep, from which he was only aroused by the sound of his parents’ voices as the cart pulled up at the door of Wildtree Towers.