Chapter Thirty Two.A Night on Scafell Pike.Off at last! Hard work to get off, though; as if a fellow of fifteen wasn’t old enough to take care of himself. Mother cut up as much as if I’d asked leave to go to my own funeral—said I was too young, and knew nothing of the world, and all that sort of thing. But I don’t see what knowing the world has to do with a week’s tramp in the Lakes; not much of the world there—anyhow, where I mean to go.I’ve got it all up in the guide-book, and written out my programme, and given them my address for every day, and promised to keep a diary, and always sleep between blankets, for fear the sheets shouldn’t be aired—and what more can a fellow do?Well, then mother said I must promise to keep in the valleys, and not attempt to climb any of the mountains. Oh, ah! lively work that would be. I might just as well stay at home and walk round Russell Square fifty times a day; and I said so, and repeated off from memory what the guide-book says about the way up Helvellyn. This last fetched them rather, and convinced them I wasn’t undertaking what I didn’t know all about. So at last father said, “Let the boy go, it may do him good and teach him self-reliance.”“But what’ll be the good of that,” sobs mother, “if my Bartholomew falls over a precipice and never comes home?”“Oh, I’ll promise not to fall over a precipice,” said I.And at last it was settled, and here I am in the train, half-way to Windermere.Just been looking through my knapsack. Frightful nuisance! Had it weighed at Euston, and it weighs 4 pounds 8 ounces. I wanted to keep it under 4 pounds! Must be the spare shirt the girls insisted on my bringing, as if I couldn’t wash the one I’ve got on in half a dozen waterfalls a day, and just run myself dry afterwards! Don’t see what I can throw out. Must take the guide-book, and boot-laces, and needle and worsted for my blisters, and a collar for Sunday, and a match-box, and this diary book and a night-shirt. Bother that extra eight ounces.I’m certain it will drag me down. By the way there are the sandwiches and apples! Suppose I eat them now, that’ll make it all right. Good thought that. Here goes!Getting near Windermere now—be there in an hour. May as well put on my knapsack, so as to be ready. By the way, I hope my money’s all right, and I hope father’s given me enough. He paid for my return ticket down here, and he’s given me 6 shillings a day for the rest of the time. Says he did the Lakes once on 5 shillings a day when he was a boy. Somehow don’t fancy there’ll be much change for me out of the 6 shillings, if the guide-book says right; but you won’t catch me spending more! Shan’t ride anywhere where I can walk, and don’t mean to tip any waiters all the time! Shall have to shut up now and look at the scenery at page 52 of the guide-book.8 p.m., Ambleside.—The “Green Unicorn.” Here at last, very fagged. I mean to have a row with the shoemaker when I get home about the hobs on my boots. Two of them are clean out, and all the rest are beginning to get worn already. Anyhow, I sold the coach people by walking. They thought I was bound to drive, but I didn’t. Wouldn’t have minded it, though, once or twice between Windermere and here, for of course I’m not in training yet.Hope this inn isn’t a dear one. It’s the smallest I could find in the place, and I don’t think they’re likely to charge for attendance; if they do, it’ll be a swindle, for I ordered eggs and bacon an hour ago, and they’ve not come yet. I wonder what they’ll charge for the eggs and bacon. Suppose there are two eggs, that’ll be 2 pence; and a slice of bacon, 2 pence; bread, 1 penny; tea, 1 penny; that’s 7 pence; oughtn’t to be more than 10 pence at the outside.Ah, here it comes.Good supper it was, too, and not much left at the end.Mean to do Scafell to-morrow. Highest mountain in England, guide-book says. Two fellows in the inn are going, too; but I don’t intend to hang on to them, as they seem to think no end of themselves. They’re Cambridge fellows, and talk as if they could do anything. I’d like to take the shine out of them.Tuesday, 8 a.m.—Just fancy, the swindlers here charged me 2 shillings for that tea, 2 shillings 6 pence for my bed, and 1 shilling for attendance—5 shillings 6 pence! I call it robbery, and told them so, and said they needn’t suppose they could takemein. They said it was the usual charge, and they didn’t make any difference for small boys, as they found they ate quite as much as grown-up people. The two Cambridge fellows seemed to find something to laugh at in this, and one of them said I didn’t mind being taken in, but I didn’t like being taken in and done for. I suppose he thought this was a joke. Some idiots can grin at anything.I told the hotel people I should certainly not pay for attendance, as I didn’t consider I had had any. The waiter said very well, my boots would do as well, and they would keep them till I settled the bill, and they had no time to stand fooling about with a whipper-snapper. Of course I had to shell out, as my boots were worth more than the whole bill—although my bootmaker has taken me in pretty well over the hobnails. I told them I should take good care to tell every one what sort of people they were, and I wouldn’t have any breakfast there to pay them out.Fancy this made them look rather blue, but the lesson will be good for them. Catch me getting done like that again! I’m going to start now, 8 a.m., as I want to get ahead of the Cambridge idiots. Page 54 of the guide-book has all about the scenery at Ambleside.12 o’clock, Dungeon Ghyl.—Stopping here for lunch. Awful grind up the valley in the sun with an empty stomach. Going in for a 9 pence lunch here. The fellow says the weather is going to break this afternoon, and I’d better mind what I’m up to, going up Scafell Pike. He wants me to take a guide, that’s his little dodge. As if I couldn’t take care of myself! I’ve got it all up in the guide-book, and guess I could find the top blindfold. I’ll laugh if I get up before the Cambridge fellows. They’ll probably funk it, though, or miss the way, and have to get me to give them a leg up. It’ll be a good lesson for them.Don’t think much of the inn here, so I’m glad I shan’t be putting up here for the night. The waiter looks as if he expects to be tipped for everything. He seemed regularly cut up when I told him I was going on to Wastdale Head from the top, and shouldn’t be staying here. Of course he tried to get me to come back, and said I could never get over to Wastdale this night. All stuff, I know, for it’s no distance on the map. “Oh,” he said, “don’t you believe in the maps; they’re no guide. Take my advice, and don’t try to go to Wastdale, my boy.” I was a good mind to be down on him for being so familiar, but what was the use? As if he knew better than the guide-books! Ah! here comes my lunch.4 p.m., top of Rosset Ghyl.—Had to pay 1 shilling for that 9 pence lunch after all, as they charged 3 pence for attendance in the bill. Didn’t care to have a row, as the Cambridge fellows turned up just that minute. Beastly the way they always grin when they see me. As if they couldn’t grin at one another. I cleared out as soon as they came, and started up here.There was a mile or so of pretty level path to the bottom of this ravine, and then it was a tremendous climb up to the top. You have to scramble nearly straight up among the rocks on each side of the waterfall, and if one of my hobnails went off, I’m certain half a dozen did. I’ll tell my father not to pay that cobbler at all. I can’t make out how the sheep manage to go up and down this place as they do. I know I’m glad I’m not coming back this way. I thought I was over once or twice as it was, owing to those wretched boots.The Cambridge duffers caught me about half-way up, trying to look as if they weren’t fagged. I knew better—never saw fellows so blown. They appeared to be greatly amused because I happened to slip backwards down a grass slope just as they passed, as if there was anything funny in that. One of them called out, “It’s the other way up, youngster,” and the other said, “We’ll tell them you’re on the way at the top.” I was a good mind to shut them up, but I got some earth in my mouth at the moment, and as they didn’t wait, it wasn’t any use going after them. However, I expect I shall find them regularly done up when I get a little higher, and then perhaps they’ll be sorry they cheeked me. All about the view from Rosset Ghyl in page 72 of the guide-book. Awful sell; it’s coming on to rain, and quite misty, too. I’d better go on, or I shan’t get the view from the top.6 o’clock.—Don’t exactly know where I am. Regular Scotch mist come down over the hills, and I can’t see twenty yards. Only sitting down now because I’m not quite sure whether I’m right or wrong. Been looking it up in the guide-book, but there’s not much to guide you there when you can’t see your way. The only thing is, it says there are little cairns marking the way up to the top, every fifty yards or so. It would be rather a tip to find one of them.The wind is making a noise, exactly like the sea, against the side of the mountain. I saw the side a little while ago, like a great black cliff, but it’s too misty to see it now. Hope it’ll clear up soon, or I may be late getting down to Wastdale. By the way, I wonder if they call this heap of stones I’m sitting on one of the cairns? Good idea! it must be.Yes, it’s all right; I left my traps here and went fifty yards further on up the slope, and there’s another cairn there—very lucky! I had a job to find my way back here in the mist, though. However, I’m on the right track now. Wonder what’s become of those Cambridge fellows. They’re sure not to be up to my tips, and most likely they’re wandering about lost. Poor duffers!7 o’clock.—Hope I’m right, but it’s getting more misty than ever, and I can hardly stand up in the wind. It’s an awful job, too, feeling one’s way along by these cairns; for you can’t see one from the other, and the chances are you may now and then lose sight of both, and then you’re lost. I’ve been lost several times, but luckily I’ve got into the track again. Fancy I must be getting on towards the top, for the rocks are getting bigger and tumbled about in all directions, and the guide-book says that’s what the top of Scafell Pike is like. Shan’t I be glad to get to the top! I’m frightfully cold and wet here, and there’s scarcely a hob left on my wretched boots. I wish I had that cobbler here!All about the view going up to the top of Scafell Pike on page 76 of the guide-book. Sounds rather like a joke when you can scarcely see your hand in front of you, to read that behind you stretches the beautiful vista of the Langdale Valley, with Wansfell in the distance, and an exquisite glimpse of the waters of Windermere sparkling in the sun; to your right Helvellyn towers amidst its lesser brethren, while to the left the gloomy dome of Coniston lends a serious grandeur to the scene. Sounds all very fine, but it’s a pity they don’t put in the view on a day like this as well.I quite miss the dashing of the wind against the cliffs. They’re far behind now, and the wind seems to dash against me instead. Whew! I’d better peg on, or the tea will be cold at Wastdale Head! No sign of the Cambridge fellows. Wonder where they are. Half wish I was with them—idiots as they are.8:30 o’clock.—Top at last! I’m black and blue all over, with tumbling among those brutal rocks. Don’t know however I got up, and now I’m up, don’t know how I shall get down. It’s just dark now, and I can scarcely see the paper I’m writing on. Jolly fix I’m in. Can’t positively see the big cairn, though I’m sitting on it, and haven’t a notion which way I came up to it, or which way I have to go down to Wastdale.I wish those Cambridge fellows would turn up. They weren’t bad fellows after all. In fact, I rather liked one of them. Don’t know what to do. By the way, may as well eat one of the biscuits I have in my knapsack. Think of sitting up here on the highest spot of England eating a biscuit, and not knowing how to get home! Enough to make any one feel down in the mouth. Wish I was down in the valley. All about the view from the top on page— Bah! that’s too much of a joke. Wish I could see anything! Only thing I can see is that I’m stuck here for the night, and shall probably be found frozen to death in the morning. What an ass I was to snub those jolly Cambridge fellows! Fancy how snug it would be to be sitting between them now. I suppose they’re down at the hotel having a good tea before a blazing fire. My word, it makes one blue to—11 o’clock.—Just had the presence of mind to wind up my watch. Had to sit on my hands a quarter of an hour before I could feel the key in my waistcoat pocket. Ugh! wish the wind would shut up. Never felt so up a tree all my life. Those Cambridge fellows will be curling up in bed now, I expect. Can’t write more.12 o’clock.—It suddenly occurred to me there was no absolute necessity, if I must stick up here all night, to stick at the tip-top. So I crawled down gingerly among the rocks on the side away from the wind and looked, or rather felt, for a sheltered place. Presently I slipped and toppled down between two great boulders and nearly killed myself. However, when I came to, it struck me I might as well stay here as anywhere else. It’s right out of the wind and pretty dry, as the mist doesn’t seem to be able to get down into it. Then the lucky idea occurred to me I had two candles in my knapsack and a box of matches, and I might as well light up. So I lit one of the candles, and I’ve been warming my fingers and toes at it for the last half-hour; also been reading the guide-book, and find that the Isle of Man is visible from this place. Jolly comforting to know it, when I can’t even see the tip of my own nose. Got sick of the guide-book after that, and thought it would warm me to say over my Greek irregular verbs. Been through them once, but not quite successful 4,000 feet above the level of the sea. They remind a fellow rather too much of home. Wonder what they’d think there if they saw me up here. Wish I saw them, and could get a blanket! I promised them to sleep between blankets every night. It’s awful not being able to keep one’s promise.The one thing that does comfort me is, I shan’t have to pay anything for attendance to-night. In fact, I never spent such a cheap night anywhere... Booh! had to stop just now and sit on my hands again. Find it warmer even than the candle. How I wish those two Cambridge fellows were here! We could be quite jolly in here, and play round games, and that sort of thing. I’ve been trying one or two songs to pass the time, but they didn’t come off. Made me homesick to sing, “Here in cool grot” and “Blow, gentle gales.” That reminds me, the wind’s dropped since I got in here. Sorry for it. It was some company to have it smashing all round one. Now it’s so quiet it makes a fellow quite creepy. They do talk of mountain-tops being haunted. I know Scafell Pike is, and I’m the haunter. Wonder if there’s any chance of anybody turning up? I’ve a good mind to go on to the cairn and howl and wave my candle about for a bit; it might fetch some one. The only thing is, it might frighten them away. I’ll try it, anyhow, and I hope whoever comes will have some grub in his pocket and a pair of gloves.1:30.—No go. Been howling like a hyena for half an hour till I’ve no voice left, and I’m all over spots of wax with the waving of my candle. Heard nothing but my own voice. Not an echo, or a dog barking, or anything. The mist lifted a bit, but I don’t suppose any one could see the candle down at Wastdale. Ugh! ugh! Perhaps there’ll be an article in a scientific paper about a curious phenomenon on the top of Scafell Pike. Wish I knew how to warm phenomenons! I’ve put on the spare shirt over my coat, and stuffed my feet into my knapsack, and wrapped last Friday’sDaily Newsround my body and legs. Oh–h–h! whydidI make a beast of myself to those two dear Cambridge fellows? Think of them now, with blankets tucked round their chins, and their noses in the pillow, snoring away; and their coats and bags lying idle about in the room. I do believe if I had their two suits on over my own I might keep warm. Hullo, what’s that!Never got such a fright. Thought it was thunder, or an earthquake, or the cairn coming down on the top of me, or something of that sort. Turned out to be theDaily Newscrackling under my clothes. Everything’s so quiet, it startles one to move a foot. I’ll give it up—I’ll—there goes my last candle!3:30.—Actually been asleep—at least, I don’t know what’s been going on the last two hours. ThatDaily Newswas rather a tip, after all. I might have been frozen to death without it. Hurrah for the Radicals! Rather crampy all the same about the joints, and must get up and shake myself, or I shall be no good for the rest of the day. Ugh! What a state my mother would be in if she heard that cough! I’m certain I hadn’t caught it before I went to sleep.Just been up to the top and had a look round. Mist is nearly all away, and there are some streaks in the sky that look like the beginning of morning. May hold out, after all. Never know what you can do till you try. I’ll just put on myDaily Newsagain and wait here another half-hour, and then try out again. Wish it was daylight. Mustn’t go to sleep again if I can help it, as I might catch cold.4:30.—Hurrah! Just seen the sun rise! No end of a fine show. Long bit of poetry about it in the guide-book, cribbed from Wordsworth or somebody. Can’t say the page, as I tore out the leaf last night to put inside my boot, to help to keep my toes warm. Never expected to see the sun rise from the highest spot in England. Awful good score for me, though—very few do it, I fancy. Think of those lazy Cambridge fellows curled up in bed and missing it all; just the way with these fellows, all show off.The sun’s warm already, and I’ve left off myDaily Newsand spare shirt, and I’m just going to take the paper out of my boots; that is, if I can ever get down to my toes—but I’m so jolly stiff.Never mind, I’ve done it, and—bother that cough, it’s made me break the point of my pencil.5 a.m.—Been sharpening the pencil with my teeth. Rather a poor breakfast; never mind, I shall have a rousing appetite when I get to the bottom. May tip that waiter possibly, if he brings the grub up sharp. Now I’m starting down. I shall go down to Dungeon Ghyl the way I came, I fancy. If I went down to Wastdale, I might meet those Cambridge fellows again, and I wouldn’t care for that. It would mortify them too much to know what they’ve missed. Ta! ta! Scafell Pike, old man, keep yourself warm. I’ll leave you myDaily News, in case you want it.8 a.m.—Been all this time getting half-way down. Can scarcely crawl. Going up hill’s nothing, but the bumping you get coming down, when you’re as stiff as a poker, and coughing like an old horse, is a caution. Had a good mind to ask a shepherd I met half an hour ago to give me a leg down, but didn’t like to; so I told him I’d just been to the top to see the sunrise, and it was a fine morning. All but added, “I suppose you haven’t got a crust of bread in your pocket?” but pulled up in time. Pity to spoil my appetite for breakfast at Dungeon Ghyl. Ugh! if I sit here I shall rust up, and not be able to move.Mustgo on.10 a.m.—Top of Rosset Ghyl. Not very swell time to get from the top of the Pike here in five hours. All a chance whether I get down at all, now—I’m about finished up. Wish those Cambridge fellows—Here the diary ends abruptly; but, in case our readers are curious to know the end of our hero’s adventure, they will be interested to learn that at the identical moment when the writer reached this point in his diary, the Cambridge fellowsdidturn up. They had, indeed, been out searching the hills from very early morning for the wanderer. As he did not arrive the night before at Wastdale, they had concluded he had given up the ascent, and returned to Dungeon Ghyl. But when early that morning a guide had come over from Dungeon Ghyl, and reported that the young gentleman had certainly not returned there, the two ’Varsity men became alarmed, and turned out to search. There was no sign of him on the Wastdale side of the mountain; and, getting more and more alarmed, they went on to the summit. There they discovered a crushed-upDaily Newsand two or three stained pages of a guide-book. Glad of any clue, they followed the track down towards Dungeon Ghyl, and at last came upon the poor fellow, fairly exhausted with hunger, fatigue, and rheumatism. They gave him what partially revived him, and then with the care and tenderness of two big brothers carried him down the steep side of Rosset Ghyl, and so on to the hotel. There they kept him under their special care, day and night, and never left him till he was well enough to return home to his anxious family.Since then Bartholomew Bumpus has made several ascents of Scafell Pike, but he has never again, I believe, stayed up there all night to see the sunrise. Nor has he, when he could possibly help it, gone up unaccompanied by at least one Cambridge fellow.
Off at last! Hard work to get off, though; as if a fellow of fifteen wasn’t old enough to take care of himself. Mother cut up as much as if I’d asked leave to go to my own funeral—said I was too young, and knew nothing of the world, and all that sort of thing. But I don’t see what knowing the world has to do with a week’s tramp in the Lakes; not much of the world there—anyhow, where I mean to go.
I’ve got it all up in the guide-book, and written out my programme, and given them my address for every day, and promised to keep a diary, and always sleep between blankets, for fear the sheets shouldn’t be aired—and what more can a fellow do?
Well, then mother said I must promise to keep in the valleys, and not attempt to climb any of the mountains. Oh, ah! lively work that would be. I might just as well stay at home and walk round Russell Square fifty times a day; and I said so, and repeated off from memory what the guide-book says about the way up Helvellyn. This last fetched them rather, and convinced them I wasn’t undertaking what I didn’t know all about. So at last father said, “Let the boy go, it may do him good and teach him self-reliance.”
“But what’ll be the good of that,” sobs mother, “if my Bartholomew falls over a precipice and never comes home?”
“Oh, I’ll promise not to fall over a precipice,” said I.
And at last it was settled, and here I am in the train, half-way to Windermere.
Just been looking through my knapsack. Frightful nuisance! Had it weighed at Euston, and it weighs 4 pounds 8 ounces. I wanted to keep it under 4 pounds! Must be the spare shirt the girls insisted on my bringing, as if I couldn’t wash the one I’ve got on in half a dozen waterfalls a day, and just run myself dry afterwards! Don’t see what I can throw out. Must take the guide-book, and boot-laces, and needle and worsted for my blisters, and a collar for Sunday, and a match-box, and this diary book and a night-shirt. Bother that extra eight ounces.
I’m certain it will drag me down. By the way there are the sandwiches and apples! Suppose I eat them now, that’ll make it all right. Good thought that. Here goes!
Getting near Windermere now—be there in an hour. May as well put on my knapsack, so as to be ready. By the way, I hope my money’s all right, and I hope father’s given me enough. He paid for my return ticket down here, and he’s given me 6 shillings a day for the rest of the time. Says he did the Lakes once on 5 shillings a day when he was a boy. Somehow don’t fancy there’ll be much change for me out of the 6 shillings, if the guide-book says right; but you won’t catch me spending more! Shan’t ride anywhere where I can walk, and don’t mean to tip any waiters all the time! Shall have to shut up now and look at the scenery at page 52 of the guide-book.
8 p.m., Ambleside.—The “Green Unicorn.” Here at last, very fagged. I mean to have a row with the shoemaker when I get home about the hobs on my boots. Two of them are clean out, and all the rest are beginning to get worn already. Anyhow, I sold the coach people by walking. They thought I was bound to drive, but I didn’t. Wouldn’t have minded it, though, once or twice between Windermere and here, for of course I’m not in training yet.
Hope this inn isn’t a dear one. It’s the smallest I could find in the place, and I don’t think they’re likely to charge for attendance; if they do, it’ll be a swindle, for I ordered eggs and bacon an hour ago, and they’ve not come yet. I wonder what they’ll charge for the eggs and bacon. Suppose there are two eggs, that’ll be 2 pence; and a slice of bacon, 2 pence; bread, 1 penny; tea, 1 penny; that’s 7 pence; oughtn’t to be more than 10 pence at the outside.
Ah, here it comes.
Good supper it was, too, and not much left at the end.
Mean to do Scafell to-morrow. Highest mountain in England, guide-book says. Two fellows in the inn are going, too; but I don’t intend to hang on to them, as they seem to think no end of themselves. They’re Cambridge fellows, and talk as if they could do anything. I’d like to take the shine out of them.
Tuesday, 8 a.m.—Just fancy, the swindlers here charged me 2 shillings for that tea, 2 shillings 6 pence for my bed, and 1 shilling for attendance—5 shillings 6 pence! I call it robbery, and told them so, and said they needn’t suppose they could takemein. They said it was the usual charge, and they didn’t make any difference for small boys, as they found they ate quite as much as grown-up people. The two Cambridge fellows seemed to find something to laugh at in this, and one of them said I didn’t mind being taken in, but I didn’t like being taken in and done for. I suppose he thought this was a joke. Some idiots can grin at anything.
I told the hotel people I should certainly not pay for attendance, as I didn’t consider I had had any. The waiter said very well, my boots would do as well, and they would keep them till I settled the bill, and they had no time to stand fooling about with a whipper-snapper. Of course I had to shell out, as my boots were worth more than the whole bill—although my bootmaker has taken me in pretty well over the hobnails. I told them I should take good care to tell every one what sort of people they were, and I wouldn’t have any breakfast there to pay them out.
Fancy this made them look rather blue, but the lesson will be good for them. Catch me getting done like that again! I’m going to start now, 8 a.m., as I want to get ahead of the Cambridge idiots. Page 54 of the guide-book has all about the scenery at Ambleside.
12 o’clock, Dungeon Ghyl.—Stopping here for lunch. Awful grind up the valley in the sun with an empty stomach. Going in for a 9 pence lunch here. The fellow says the weather is going to break this afternoon, and I’d better mind what I’m up to, going up Scafell Pike. He wants me to take a guide, that’s his little dodge. As if I couldn’t take care of myself! I’ve got it all up in the guide-book, and guess I could find the top blindfold. I’ll laugh if I get up before the Cambridge fellows. They’ll probably funk it, though, or miss the way, and have to get me to give them a leg up. It’ll be a good lesson for them.
Don’t think much of the inn here, so I’m glad I shan’t be putting up here for the night. The waiter looks as if he expects to be tipped for everything. He seemed regularly cut up when I told him I was going on to Wastdale Head from the top, and shouldn’t be staying here. Of course he tried to get me to come back, and said I could never get over to Wastdale this night. All stuff, I know, for it’s no distance on the map. “Oh,” he said, “don’t you believe in the maps; they’re no guide. Take my advice, and don’t try to go to Wastdale, my boy.” I was a good mind to be down on him for being so familiar, but what was the use? As if he knew better than the guide-books! Ah! here comes my lunch.
4 p.m., top of Rosset Ghyl.—Had to pay 1 shilling for that 9 pence lunch after all, as they charged 3 pence for attendance in the bill. Didn’t care to have a row, as the Cambridge fellows turned up just that minute. Beastly the way they always grin when they see me. As if they couldn’t grin at one another. I cleared out as soon as they came, and started up here.
There was a mile or so of pretty level path to the bottom of this ravine, and then it was a tremendous climb up to the top. You have to scramble nearly straight up among the rocks on each side of the waterfall, and if one of my hobnails went off, I’m certain half a dozen did. I’ll tell my father not to pay that cobbler at all. I can’t make out how the sheep manage to go up and down this place as they do. I know I’m glad I’m not coming back this way. I thought I was over once or twice as it was, owing to those wretched boots.
The Cambridge duffers caught me about half-way up, trying to look as if they weren’t fagged. I knew better—never saw fellows so blown. They appeared to be greatly amused because I happened to slip backwards down a grass slope just as they passed, as if there was anything funny in that. One of them called out, “It’s the other way up, youngster,” and the other said, “We’ll tell them you’re on the way at the top.” I was a good mind to shut them up, but I got some earth in my mouth at the moment, and as they didn’t wait, it wasn’t any use going after them. However, I expect I shall find them regularly done up when I get a little higher, and then perhaps they’ll be sorry they cheeked me. All about the view from Rosset Ghyl in page 72 of the guide-book. Awful sell; it’s coming on to rain, and quite misty, too. I’d better go on, or I shan’t get the view from the top.
6 o’clock.—Don’t exactly know where I am. Regular Scotch mist come down over the hills, and I can’t see twenty yards. Only sitting down now because I’m not quite sure whether I’m right or wrong. Been looking it up in the guide-book, but there’s not much to guide you there when you can’t see your way. The only thing is, it says there are little cairns marking the way up to the top, every fifty yards or so. It would be rather a tip to find one of them.
The wind is making a noise, exactly like the sea, against the side of the mountain. I saw the side a little while ago, like a great black cliff, but it’s too misty to see it now. Hope it’ll clear up soon, or I may be late getting down to Wastdale. By the way, I wonder if they call this heap of stones I’m sitting on one of the cairns? Good idea! it must be.
Yes, it’s all right; I left my traps here and went fifty yards further on up the slope, and there’s another cairn there—very lucky! I had a job to find my way back here in the mist, though. However, I’m on the right track now. Wonder what’s become of those Cambridge fellows. They’re sure not to be up to my tips, and most likely they’re wandering about lost. Poor duffers!
7 o’clock.—Hope I’m right, but it’s getting more misty than ever, and I can hardly stand up in the wind. It’s an awful job, too, feeling one’s way along by these cairns; for you can’t see one from the other, and the chances are you may now and then lose sight of both, and then you’re lost. I’ve been lost several times, but luckily I’ve got into the track again. Fancy I must be getting on towards the top, for the rocks are getting bigger and tumbled about in all directions, and the guide-book says that’s what the top of Scafell Pike is like. Shan’t I be glad to get to the top! I’m frightfully cold and wet here, and there’s scarcely a hob left on my wretched boots. I wish I had that cobbler here!
All about the view going up to the top of Scafell Pike on page 76 of the guide-book. Sounds rather like a joke when you can scarcely see your hand in front of you, to read that behind you stretches the beautiful vista of the Langdale Valley, with Wansfell in the distance, and an exquisite glimpse of the waters of Windermere sparkling in the sun; to your right Helvellyn towers amidst its lesser brethren, while to the left the gloomy dome of Coniston lends a serious grandeur to the scene. Sounds all very fine, but it’s a pity they don’t put in the view on a day like this as well.
I quite miss the dashing of the wind against the cliffs. They’re far behind now, and the wind seems to dash against me instead. Whew! I’d better peg on, or the tea will be cold at Wastdale Head! No sign of the Cambridge fellows. Wonder where they are. Half wish I was with them—idiots as they are.
8:30 o’clock.—Top at last! I’m black and blue all over, with tumbling among those brutal rocks. Don’t know however I got up, and now I’m up, don’t know how I shall get down. It’s just dark now, and I can scarcely see the paper I’m writing on. Jolly fix I’m in. Can’t positively see the big cairn, though I’m sitting on it, and haven’t a notion which way I came up to it, or which way I have to go down to Wastdale.
I wish those Cambridge fellows would turn up. They weren’t bad fellows after all. In fact, I rather liked one of them. Don’t know what to do. By the way, may as well eat one of the biscuits I have in my knapsack. Think of sitting up here on the highest spot of England eating a biscuit, and not knowing how to get home! Enough to make any one feel down in the mouth. Wish I was down in the valley. All about the view from the top on page— Bah! that’s too much of a joke. Wish I could see anything! Only thing I can see is that I’m stuck here for the night, and shall probably be found frozen to death in the morning. What an ass I was to snub those jolly Cambridge fellows! Fancy how snug it would be to be sitting between them now. I suppose they’re down at the hotel having a good tea before a blazing fire. My word, it makes one blue to—
11 o’clock.—Just had the presence of mind to wind up my watch. Had to sit on my hands a quarter of an hour before I could feel the key in my waistcoat pocket. Ugh! wish the wind would shut up. Never felt so up a tree all my life. Those Cambridge fellows will be curling up in bed now, I expect. Can’t write more.
12 o’clock.—It suddenly occurred to me there was no absolute necessity, if I must stick up here all night, to stick at the tip-top. So I crawled down gingerly among the rocks on the side away from the wind and looked, or rather felt, for a sheltered place. Presently I slipped and toppled down between two great boulders and nearly killed myself. However, when I came to, it struck me I might as well stay here as anywhere else. It’s right out of the wind and pretty dry, as the mist doesn’t seem to be able to get down into it. Then the lucky idea occurred to me I had two candles in my knapsack and a box of matches, and I might as well light up. So I lit one of the candles, and I’ve been warming my fingers and toes at it for the last half-hour; also been reading the guide-book, and find that the Isle of Man is visible from this place. Jolly comforting to know it, when I can’t even see the tip of my own nose. Got sick of the guide-book after that, and thought it would warm me to say over my Greek irregular verbs. Been through them once, but not quite successful 4,000 feet above the level of the sea. They remind a fellow rather too much of home. Wonder what they’d think there if they saw me up here. Wish I saw them, and could get a blanket! I promised them to sleep between blankets every night. It’s awful not being able to keep one’s promise.
The one thing that does comfort me is, I shan’t have to pay anything for attendance to-night. In fact, I never spent such a cheap night anywhere... Booh! had to stop just now and sit on my hands again. Find it warmer even than the candle. How I wish those two Cambridge fellows were here! We could be quite jolly in here, and play round games, and that sort of thing. I’ve been trying one or two songs to pass the time, but they didn’t come off. Made me homesick to sing, “Here in cool grot” and “Blow, gentle gales.” That reminds me, the wind’s dropped since I got in here. Sorry for it. It was some company to have it smashing all round one. Now it’s so quiet it makes a fellow quite creepy. They do talk of mountain-tops being haunted. I know Scafell Pike is, and I’m the haunter. Wonder if there’s any chance of anybody turning up? I’ve a good mind to go on to the cairn and howl and wave my candle about for a bit; it might fetch some one. The only thing is, it might frighten them away. I’ll try it, anyhow, and I hope whoever comes will have some grub in his pocket and a pair of gloves.
1:30.—No go. Been howling like a hyena for half an hour till I’ve no voice left, and I’m all over spots of wax with the waving of my candle. Heard nothing but my own voice. Not an echo, or a dog barking, or anything. The mist lifted a bit, but I don’t suppose any one could see the candle down at Wastdale. Ugh! ugh! Perhaps there’ll be an article in a scientific paper about a curious phenomenon on the top of Scafell Pike. Wish I knew how to warm phenomenons! I’ve put on the spare shirt over my coat, and stuffed my feet into my knapsack, and wrapped last Friday’sDaily Newsround my body and legs. Oh–h–h! whydidI make a beast of myself to those two dear Cambridge fellows? Think of them now, with blankets tucked round their chins, and their noses in the pillow, snoring away; and their coats and bags lying idle about in the room. I do believe if I had their two suits on over my own I might keep warm. Hullo, what’s that!
Never got such a fright. Thought it was thunder, or an earthquake, or the cairn coming down on the top of me, or something of that sort. Turned out to be theDaily Newscrackling under my clothes. Everything’s so quiet, it startles one to move a foot. I’ll give it up—I’ll—there goes my last candle!
3:30.—Actually been asleep—at least, I don’t know what’s been going on the last two hours. ThatDaily Newswas rather a tip, after all. I might have been frozen to death without it. Hurrah for the Radicals! Rather crampy all the same about the joints, and must get up and shake myself, or I shall be no good for the rest of the day. Ugh! What a state my mother would be in if she heard that cough! I’m certain I hadn’t caught it before I went to sleep.
Just been up to the top and had a look round. Mist is nearly all away, and there are some streaks in the sky that look like the beginning of morning. May hold out, after all. Never know what you can do till you try. I’ll just put on myDaily Newsagain and wait here another half-hour, and then try out again. Wish it was daylight. Mustn’t go to sleep again if I can help it, as I might catch cold.
4:30.—Hurrah! Just seen the sun rise! No end of a fine show. Long bit of poetry about it in the guide-book, cribbed from Wordsworth or somebody. Can’t say the page, as I tore out the leaf last night to put inside my boot, to help to keep my toes warm. Never expected to see the sun rise from the highest spot in England. Awful good score for me, though—very few do it, I fancy. Think of those lazy Cambridge fellows curled up in bed and missing it all; just the way with these fellows, all show off.
The sun’s warm already, and I’ve left off myDaily Newsand spare shirt, and I’m just going to take the paper out of my boots; that is, if I can ever get down to my toes—but I’m so jolly stiff.
Never mind, I’ve done it, and—bother that cough, it’s made me break the point of my pencil.
5 a.m.—Been sharpening the pencil with my teeth. Rather a poor breakfast; never mind, I shall have a rousing appetite when I get to the bottom. May tip that waiter possibly, if he brings the grub up sharp. Now I’m starting down. I shall go down to Dungeon Ghyl the way I came, I fancy. If I went down to Wastdale, I might meet those Cambridge fellows again, and I wouldn’t care for that. It would mortify them too much to know what they’ve missed. Ta! ta! Scafell Pike, old man, keep yourself warm. I’ll leave you myDaily News, in case you want it.
8 a.m.—Been all this time getting half-way down. Can scarcely crawl. Going up hill’s nothing, but the bumping you get coming down, when you’re as stiff as a poker, and coughing like an old horse, is a caution. Had a good mind to ask a shepherd I met half an hour ago to give me a leg down, but didn’t like to; so I told him I’d just been to the top to see the sunrise, and it was a fine morning. All but added, “I suppose you haven’t got a crust of bread in your pocket?” but pulled up in time. Pity to spoil my appetite for breakfast at Dungeon Ghyl. Ugh! if I sit here I shall rust up, and not be able to move.Mustgo on.
10 a.m.—Top of Rosset Ghyl. Not very swell time to get from the top of the Pike here in five hours. All a chance whether I get down at all, now—I’m about finished up. Wish those Cambridge fellows—
Here the diary ends abruptly; but, in case our readers are curious to know the end of our hero’s adventure, they will be interested to learn that at the identical moment when the writer reached this point in his diary, the Cambridge fellowsdidturn up. They had, indeed, been out searching the hills from very early morning for the wanderer. As he did not arrive the night before at Wastdale, they had concluded he had given up the ascent, and returned to Dungeon Ghyl. But when early that morning a guide had come over from Dungeon Ghyl, and reported that the young gentleman had certainly not returned there, the two ’Varsity men became alarmed, and turned out to search. There was no sign of him on the Wastdale side of the mountain; and, getting more and more alarmed, they went on to the summit. There they discovered a crushed-upDaily Newsand two or three stained pages of a guide-book. Glad of any clue, they followed the track down towards Dungeon Ghyl, and at last came upon the poor fellow, fairly exhausted with hunger, fatigue, and rheumatism. They gave him what partially revived him, and then with the care and tenderness of two big brothers carried him down the steep side of Rosset Ghyl, and so on to the hotel. There they kept him under their special care, day and night, and never left him till he was well enough to return home to his anxious family.
Since then Bartholomew Bumpus has made several ascents of Scafell Pike, but he has never again, I believe, stayed up there all night to see the sunrise. Nor has he, when he could possibly help it, gone up unaccompanied by at least one Cambridge fellow.
Chapter Thirty Three.Very much abroad.Being the impressions of foreign travel, communicated chiefly to a particular friend by Thomas Hooker, minor, of Rugby, during the course of a Continental tour in France and Switzerland in the company of his brother, James Hooker, major, also of Rugby.London,July31.Dear Gus,—Here’s a spree! The pater’s got an idea into his head that young fellows ought to see something of foreign parts, and store their minds with the beauties of Nature in her grandest—I forget what—anyhow, we backed him up; and Jim and I are to start abroad on our own hooks on Friday. How’s that for luck? The pater has settled what hotels we go to in Paris and Switzerland, and he’s sketched out a route for us every day we’re away. The grind is, he’s awfully particular we should write home every day and keep accounts. Jim will have to do that, and I’ll keep you up. It really is a very good thing for fellows to travel and expand their minds, you know. We’re starting from Holborn Viaduct at 9:30 on Friday. I’ll write and let you know my impressions, as the pater calls it; and you might let your young sister see them too, if you like.Yours truly, T. Hooker.Paris,August3.Dear Gus,—We had an awful squeak for the train at Holborn, owing to Jim’s hatbox falling off the cab and his insisting on going back to pick it up. It seems to me rather humbug taking chimneys at all, but he says that’s all I know of foreign travel; so I caved in and brought mine too.Another thing that nearly lost the train was a row about the luggage. The fellows wanted to do me out of two bob because they said my portmanteau was four pounds overweight! There was nearly a shindy, I can tell you, only Jim said we’d better walk into the chap on our way back. Anyhow, I wasn’t going to be done, so I unlocked my portmanteau and took out my spare jacket and a pair of bags, and carried them over my arm, and that made the weight all right. The fellows tried to grin, of course, but I fancy they were rather blue about it.Our tickets cost 45 shillings 6 pence each, not counting grub on the way, which about finished up a £5 note for the two of us.Jim and I had a stunning time in the train. There was only one other old chap in the carriage. When the fellow came for the tickets outside Dover, Jim happened to be up on the luggage rack, and the fellow would never have spotted him if the rack hadn’t given way. Then he got crusty, and we all but got left behind by the steamer.Beastly tubs those steamers are! I wonder why they don’t make some that go steady. And they ought to make the seats facing the side of the vessel, and not with your back to it. You miss such a lot of the view. I sat with my face to the side of the vessel most of the way. I don’t exactly know what became of Jim. He said afterwards he’d been astern watching the English coast disappear. I suppose that accounted for his looking so jolly blue. We weren’t sorry to clear out of that boat, I can tell you.Jim was first up the gangway, and I was third, owing to dropping my spare bags half-way up and having to pick them up. There was an awfully civil French fellow at the top of the gangway, who touched his hat to me. I couldn’t make out what he said, but I fancied he must be asking for a tip, so I gave him a copper. That seemed to make him awfully wild, and he wanted to know my name. I had to tell him, and he wrote it down; but as he didn’t get my address, I hope there won’t be a fuss about it. I didn’t see any harm in tipping him, but I suppose it’s against French law, and I don’t mean to do it any more.There was an awfully rum lot of chaps in our carriage between Calais and Paris. You’d have thought they had never seen a pair of bags before in their life; for they stared at mine all the way from Calais to Amiens, where we got out for refreshment. I thought it best to take my bags with me to the buffet, as they might have humbugged about with them if I’d left them in the carriage.They ought to make English compulsory in French schools. The duffers in the buffet didn’t even know what a dough-nut was! Not even when Jim looked it up in the dixy and asked fornoix à pâté. The idiot asked us if we meant “rosbif,” or “biftik,” or “palal”—that’s all the English they seemed to know, and think English fellows feed off nothing else. However, we did get some grub, and paid for it too. When we got back to the carriage I took the precaution of sticking my bags on the rack above Jim’s head; so all the fellows stared at him the rest of the way, and I got a stunning sleep.We had an awful doing, as Bunker would call it—by the way, did he pull off his tennis match against Turner on breaking-up day?—when we got to Paris. The row at Holborn was a fool to it. Just fancy, they made Jim and me open both our portmanteaux and hat-boxes before they would let us leave the station! I can tell you, old man, I’m scarcely cool yet after that disturbance, and if it hadn’t been for Jim I guess they’d have found out how a “Rug” can kick out! Jim says it’s the regular thing, and they collar all the cigars they can find. All I can say is, it’s robbery and cool cheek, and I wish you or some of the fellows would write to theTimesor theBoy’s Own Paperand get it stopped. We had to turn every blessed thing out on the counter, and pack up again afterwards. It’s a marvel to me how the mater stowed all the things away. I couldn’t get half of them back, and had to shove the rest into my rug and tie it up at the corners like a washerwoman’s bundle. Jim’s too easy-going by half. I’m certain, if he’d backed me up, we could have hacked over the lot of them; and I shouldn’t have lost that spare pair of bags, which I forgot all about in the shindy. I hope there’ll be a war with France soon. We were jolly fagged when we got to the inn, I can tell you. The old woman had got the pater’s letter, so she expected us. She’s rather an ass, and must have been getting up her English for our benefit, for she’s called us “nice young Englese gentilman” about a hundred times already.I don’t think Jim’s got over the blues he had watching the English coast yesterday. He’s asleep still, so I’m writing this while I’m waiting for him to come to breakfast. I shall not wait much longer, I can tell you. Ta-ta! Remember me to any of the old crowd you see; also to your young sister.Yours truly, Thomas Hooker.P.S.—By the way, see what your French dixy says for doughnut, and let me know by return. We’re going on to Switzerland in a day or two.Paris,August6.Dear Gus,—The dictionary word of yours won’t wash here. We’ve tried it all round Paris, and you might as well talk Greek to them. I don’t believe there’s any word in the language for dough-nut. Jim’s not bad at French, either. We should be regularly floored if it wasn’t for him. And I expect they guess by his accent he comes from Rugby, for fellows all touch their hats to him.You know the pater gave us a list of places to go and see in Paris—the Louvre and the Luxembourg, and all that. Well, he never stuck down where they were, and we’ve had to worry it out for ourselves. Jim stopped a fellow this morning and asked him, “Où est la chemin pour Luxembourg?” The fellow took off his hat and was awfully civil, and said, “Par ici, messieurs,” and took us a walk of about three miles, and landed us at a railway station. He thought we wanted to go to Luxembourg in Germany, or wherever it is—fare about three cool sovs. The fellow hung about us most of the rest of the day, expecting a tip. Likely idea that, after the game he’d had with us! We couldn’t shake him off till we bolted into one of the swimming baths on the river. That smoked him out. Most of these chaps draw the line at a tub. Would you believe it? at our inn, they never seem to have heard of soap in their lives, and we got quite tired of saying “savon” before we found some in a shop. Jim thinks they use it all up for soup. What we get at the inn tastes like it.Jim is rather a cute beggar. We went to a café yesterday to get some grub, and he wanted a glass of milk. We had both clean forgotten the French for milk, and we’d left the dixy at the inn. We tried to make the fellow understand, but he was an ass. We pointed to a picture of a cow hanging on the wall and smacked our lips; and he grinned and rubbed his hands, and said, “Ah, oui. Rosbif! jolly rosbif!” Did you ever hear of such a born idiot? At last Jim had an idea and said, “Apportez-nous du café-au-lait sans le café.” That fetched it. The fellow twigged at once. Not bad of Jim, was it?Jolly slow place Paris. The swimming baths are the only place worth going to. Jim went in off the eight-foot springboard. You should have seen the natives sit up at the neat dive he made.I hope the pater’s not going to ask too much about the Louvre, because we scamped it. The fact is, there was a little unpleasantness with one of the fellows, owing to Jim’s cane happening to scratch one of the pictures by a chap named Rubens. It was quite an accident, as we were only trying to spike a wasp on the frame, and Jim missed his shot. The fellow there made a mule of himself, and lost his temper. So we didn’t see the fun of staying, and cut.Montreux, Lake of Geneva,August10.Couldn’t finish this before we left Paris. We meant to start for here on Friday, but settled to come on on Thursday night after all. You needn’t go telling them at home, but between you and me it was a bit of a bolt.The fact was, we went to a church called Nôtre Dame in the morning—not nearly such a snug place as Rugby Chapel, and they charge a penny apiece for the chairs. So we cut the inside and thought we’d go up to the top. It wasn’t a bad lark, and you get a stunning view. The swimming baths looked about the size of a sheet of school paper. There was a door open into the belfry, and as nobody was about, we never thought it would be any harm to have a ring up. We couldn’t get the big bell to go, but most of the others did, and it was enough to deafen you.I suppose they must have heard the row below, for when we looked down we saw a regular crowd of fellows in the square underneath looking up our way. After that we thought we might as well shut up, and were just going to cut down, when a fellow belonging to the place, who had been somewhere on the top, came rushing round the parapet, flourishing a stick and yelling like a trooper in awfully bad French. We had a good start of him, especially as we shut the door at the top of the stairs behind us. Besides he was fat; so we easily pulled it off.There was an old woman at the bottom who kept the ticket place. She twiggeditwas a bolt, and tried to stop us; but she couldn’tgetout of her box. So we strolled out easily and cabbed it back to the inn. It was an awful game to see the crowd still staring up at the tower as we drove off. The fat fellow got down just as we were turning the corner. I don’t think he guessed we were cabbing it. Anyhow, we didn’t see any one chasing the cab. Jim said we were rather well out of it; and we settled we might as well drive on to the swimming baths and stay there for an hour or so till things had quieted down, and then go on to Switzerland by the evening train, especially, Jim said, as the pater might not like to get his name mixed up in a French row.Beastly uncomfortable carriages on the Swiss railway from Paris. There was the same humbug about the luggage at a little station in the middle of the night, but we were too fagged to cut up rough. We were jolly glad to get here at last, I can tell you.I must shut up now, as I’ve got to write to pater. It’s a regular go. We forgot he’d be sending the money to Paris, and now we’ve only got about half-a-sov. between us! Remember me to your young sister.Yours truly, T. Hooker.Montreux,August10.Dear Father,—We didn’t see the Luxembourg, as a fellow directed us to the wrong place. We had several bathes in the Seine. Jim got on very well with his French, and I think we are both improved. We should be glad of some more money, as we are nearly out. I bought a present for you in Paris, which I think you will like when you see it. If you could send the money here by return it would do. I suppose what you sent to Paris missed us, as we came here a day sooner than we expected.We went up Nôtre Dame the last day we were in Paris. There is a fine view from the top. It is surprising how few of the French you meet in the swimming baths. We had the place to ourselves one day. It’s eight feet at the deep end. Jim and I both think foreign travel is good for a fellow, and we shall hope to have a reply to this by return.Your loving son, Tom.Montreux,August11.Dear Gus,—We’re regularly stuck up, as the money hasn’t come yet. I hope it will come soon, or the old girl at the inn here will think we’re cadgers. We had a stunning row on the lake yesterday; the boats are only a bob an hour, so we thought we might go in for it. We raced a steamer for about half a mile, and weren’t done then, only Jim’s oar came off the pin (they haven’t such things as row-locks here), and that upset us.Of course it didn’t matter, as we could swim; but the fellows in the steamer kicked up an awful shine about it, and came and hauled us up, boat and all. It was rather awkward, as we had nothing to tip them with. We got out at a dismal sort of place called Chillon. We told the captain if he was ever in London the pater would be glad to see him.We had a grind getting back here with the boat, as it came on dark and misty, and we couldn’t see where Montreux had got to. Jim got rather chawed up too by the cold, so I sculled. The wind was against us, and it was rather a hard pull, especially when you couldn’t see the land at all. I managed to keep pretty warm with rowing, but old Jim’s teeth chattered like a steam-engine. It came on a regular squall, and I didn’t see the fun of sculling after about a couple of hours. So Jim and I huddled up to keep warm, and let her drift. We were jolly glad to see a light after a bit, and yelled to let them know where we were. They didn’t hear, though, so we just stuck on and chanced it. The old tub drifted ashore all right, side on, though she upset just as we got to land. It was lucky the water was shallow, as we were too cold to swim. As it was, old Jim nearly came to grief. It was no end of a job hauling in the boat. She was rather knocked about. We had drifted back to Chillon, exactly where we started from.The keeper of the castle put us up for the night and was no end of a brick. There was rather a row with the boat fellow when we got back to Montreux. He got crusty about the boat being damaged, and wanted about two sovs! As it happened, we hadn’t got anything, as we gave the fellow at the castle five francs, and that cleared us out. We told the boat fellow to call at the inn to-morrow, and I hope to goodness the money will have turned up, as it’s a bit awkward. Jim has a cold.Yours truly T. Hooker.Please remember me to your young sister.Montreux,August13.Dear Father,—Thanks awfully for the money; it was jolly to get it, and mother’s letter. It is very hilly about here. Jim’s cold is getting better. Would you mind telegraphing to us who is the winner of the Australian cricket match to-morrow, and how many Grace scored? In haste, Your loving son, Tom.Riffel Hotel,August18.Dear Gus,—We’re awfully high up here—awful rum little inn it is. It was chock full, and Jim and I have to sleep under the table. There are about a dozen other fellows who have to camp out too, so it’s a rare spree.We’re going to have a shot at the Matterhorn to-morrow if it’s fine. It looks easy enough, and Jim and I were making out the path with a telescope this afternoon. It’s rather a crow to do the Matterhorn. Some muffs take guides up, but they cost four or five pounds, so we’re going without.That boat fellow at Montreux got to be a regular nuisance. In fact, that’s why we came on here a day earlier. He came up twice a day to the inn, and we couldn’t shake him off. We gave him a sov., which was twice what he had a right to. He swore he’d have two pounds or bring up a policeman with him next time. So we thought the best way was to clear out by the early train next morning, and I guess he was jolly blue when he found us gone. I send with this a faint sketch of some of the natives! What do you say to their rig?It was a pretty good grind up to Zermatt, and we walked it up the valley. There wasn’t much to see on the way, and it’s a frightfully stony road. There were some fellows playing lawn-tennis at the hotel at Zermatt. One of them wasn’t half bad. His serves twisted to the leg and were awfully hard to get up. Jim and I wouldn’t have minded a game, only the fellows seemed to think no one wanted to play but themselves. We may get a game to-morrow on our way to the Matterhorn. It was a tremendous fag getting up here from Zermatt. I don’t know why fellows all come on, as there’s no tennis court or anything up here.There’s an ice-field up here called a glacier, but it’s an awful fraud if you want skating—rough as one of Bullford’s fields at Rugby. A fellow told me it bears all the year round, but it’s got a lot of holes, so we don’t think we’ll try it. I expect we shall be home next week, as the pater thinks we’ve run through our money rather too fast. Remember me to your people and your young sister.Yours truly, T. Hooker.Zermatt,August20.Dear Gus,—We didn’t do the Matterhorn after all, as Jim screwed his foot. He’s awfully unlucky, and if it hadn’t been for the accident we might have got to the top; and of course it stops tennis too. We did get one game before we started up. Jim gave me fifteen in two games each set. I pulled off the first, but he whacked me the other two. It’s a beastly rough court, though, and the mountain was awfully in the light.We hadn’t much difficulty finding the way to the Matterhorn, as there was a sign-post at the end of the village. We thought we might as well take the easy side, as the front of the hill is pretty stiff. Of course we had to take a good long round, which was a nuisance, as we meant to be back fortable d’hôteat seven. When we got properly on to the side we put it on, but it was a good long grind, I can tell you. We weren’t sorry to get up to a snow slope and cool ourselves.They ought to sweep a path across the snow, or fellows are very likely to lose their way. We lost ours, but we had a good lark on the snow snowballing. It got deep in one part, so we had to clamber up the rocks at the side to get to the top of the slope. It’s rather deceptive, distance, on the snow, for it took us an hour to do what seemed only a few yards. We got on to a flat bit after awhile, and had another turn on the snow.It was rather a game rolling things down the slope. They went at an awful pace. The nuisance is the snow has a way of slipping from under you, and that’s how Jim and I came to grief. We were sitting on the edge of the slope watching a boulder slide, when we began to slide ourselves. We hadn’t our spikes on, or we might have pulled up. As it was, we got up no end of a speed down that slope. It was no joke. I yelled to Jim to lie flat, and not sit up, or he might pitch on his head. I don’t remember how we got on after that; I must have bumped my head, for when I pulled myself together I found I was sitting in the middle of a grass field with a jolly headache, and pretty well black and blue.I was able to get up though, and looked about for old Jim. I can tell you it was no joke. I couldn’t see him anywhere, and thought he must have been buried in the snow. I can tell you, old man, it was rough on me for a quarter of an hour or so. But I found him at last, about a quarter of a mile down the field. He rolled, he said; he couldn’t get up, as his foot was screwed. So it was a pretty go, as I couldn’t carry him. If I hadn’t been quite so knocked about I might have tried; but Jim’s a good nine stone, so I might have dropped him. Luckily, some fellows came—they’d come to look for us, in fact, as we’d told the waiter we were going up the Matterhorn, and might not be back in time for dinner; and when we didn’t turn up, they guessed, I suppose, we might have come to grief. It was a good job they came, as Jim’s foot was rather bad. All the hotel turned out to see us get back. I had to be carried too, the last bit of the way, as I got fagged. It’s a sell we couldn’t get to the top, as it’s rather a crow to do the Matterhorn.Jim’s foot is better to-day, but he’ll have to shut off tennis the rest of this season. I wish mother was here. She could look after Jim better than I can. In fact, the doctor here, rather a jolly fellow, says she and the pater had better come at once. I got him to write to the pater himself, as I was afraid it might make them think something was wrong if I did.Please to remember me to your young sister.T. Hooker.Zermatt,August22.Dear Gus,—There’s a telegram from the pater to say they’ll be here to-morrow night. I’m rather glad, as Jim is feverish. The pater will have a good deal of tipping to do, as everybody here’s no end civil. Can’t write more, as I’m fagged. Remember me to your young sister.T.H.P.S.—I fancy we shall spend next summer in England—Jim and I. We don’t either of us think much of Switzerland.
Being the impressions of foreign travel, communicated chiefly to a particular friend by Thomas Hooker, minor, of Rugby, during the course of a Continental tour in France and Switzerland in the company of his brother, James Hooker, major, also of Rugby.
London,July31.
Dear Gus,—Here’s a spree! The pater’s got an idea into his head that young fellows ought to see something of foreign parts, and store their minds with the beauties of Nature in her grandest—I forget what—anyhow, we backed him up; and Jim and I are to start abroad on our own hooks on Friday. How’s that for luck? The pater has settled what hotels we go to in Paris and Switzerland, and he’s sketched out a route for us every day we’re away. The grind is, he’s awfully particular we should write home every day and keep accounts. Jim will have to do that, and I’ll keep you up. It really is a very good thing for fellows to travel and expand their minds, you know. We’re starting from Holborn Viaduct at 9:30 on Friday. I’ll write and let you know my impressions, as the pater calls it; and you might let your young sister see them too, if you like.
Yours truly, T. Hooker.
Paris,August3.
Dear Gus,—We had an awful squeak for the train at Holborn, owing to Jim’s hatbox falling off the cab and his insisting on going back to pick it up. It seems to me rather humbug taking chimneys at all, but he says that’s all I know of foreign travel; so I caved in and brought mine too.
Another thing that nearly lost the train was a row about the luggage. The fellows wanted to do me out of two bob because they said my portmanteau was four pounds overweight! There was nearly a shindy, I can tell you, only Jim said we’d better walk into the chap on our way back. Anyhow, I wasn’t going to be done, so I unlocked my portmanteau and took out my spare jacket and a pair of bags, and carried them over my arm, and that made the weight all right. The fellows tried to grin, of course, but I fancy they were rather blue about it.
Our tickets cost 45 shillings 6 pence each, not counting grub on the way, which about finished up a £5 note for the two of us.
Jim and I had a stunning time in the train. There was only one other old chap in the carriage. When the fellow came for the tickets outside Dover, Jim happened to be up on the luggage rack, and the fellow would never have spotted him if the rack hadn’t given way. Then he got crusty, and we all but got left behind by the steamer.
Beastly tubs those steamers are! I wonder why they don’t make some that go steady. And they ought to make the seats facing the side of the vessel, and not with your back to it. You miss such a lot of the view. I sat with my face to the side of the vessel most of the way. I don’t exactly know what became of Jim. He said afterwards he’d been astern watching the English coast disappear. I suppose that accounted for his looking so jolly blue. We weren’t sorry to clear out of that boat, I can tell you.
Jim was first up the gangway, and I was third, owing to dropping my spare bags half-way up and having to pick them up. There was an awfully civil French fellow at the top of the gangway, who touched his hat to me. I couldn’t make out what he said, but I fancied he must be asking for a tip, so I gave him a copper. That seemed to make him awfully wild, and he wanted to know my name. I had to tell him, and he wrote it down; but as he didn’t get my address, I hope there won’t be a fuss about it. I didn’t see any harm in tipping him, but I suppose it’s against French law, and I don’t mean to do it any more.
There was an awfully rum lot of chaps in our carriage between Calais and Paris. You’d have thought they had never seen a pair of bags before in their life; for they stared at mine all the way from Calais to Amiens, where we got out for refreshment. I thought it best to take my bags with me to the buffet, as they might have humbugged about with them if I’d left them in the carriage.
They ought to make English compulsory in French schools. The duffers in the buffet didn’t even know what a dough-nut was! Not even when Jim looked it up in the dixy and asked fornoix à pâté. The idiot asked us if we meant “rosbif,” or “biftik,” or “palal”—that’s all the English they seemed to know, and think English fellows feed off nothing else. However, we did get some grub, and paid for it too. When we got back to the carriage I took the precaution of sticking my bags on the rack above Jim’s head; so all the fellows stared at him the rest of the way, and I got a stunning sleep.
We had an awful doing, as Bunker would call it—by the way, did he pull off his tennis match against Turner on breaking-up day?—when we got to Paris. The row at Holborn was a fool to it. Just fancy, they made Jim and me open both our portmanteaux and hat-boxes before they would let us leave the station! I can tell you, old man, I’m scarcely cool yet after that disturbance, and if it hadn’t been for Jim I guess they’d have found out how a “Rug” can kick out! Jim says it’s the regular thing, and they collar all the cigars they can find. All I can say is, it’s robbery and cool cheek, and I wish you or some of the fellows would write to theTimesor theBoy’s Own Paperand get it stopped. We had to turn every blessed thing out on the counter, and pack up again afterwards. It’s a marvel to me how the mater stowed all the things away. I couldn’t get half of them back, and had to shove the rest into my rug and tie it up at the corners like a washerwoman’s bundle. Jim’s too easy-going by half. I’m certain, if he’d backed me up, we could have hacked over the lot of them; and I shouldn’t have lost that spare pair of bags, which I forgot all about in the shindy. I hope there’ll be a war with France soon. We were jolly fagged when we got to the inn, I can tell you. The old woman had got the pater’s letter, so she expected us. She’s rather an ass, and must have been getting up her English for our benefit, for she’s called us “nice young Englese gentilman” about a hundred times already.
I don’t think Jim’s got over the blues he had watching the English coast yesterday. He’s asleep still, so I’m writing this while I’m waiting for him to come to breakfast. I shall not wait much longer, I can tell you. Ta-ta! Remember me to any of the old crowd you see; also to your young sister.
Yours truly, Thomas Hooker.
P.S.—By the way, see what your French dixy says for doughnut, and let me know by return. We’re going on to Switzerland in a day or two.
Paris,August6.
Dear Gus,—The dictionary word of yours won’t wash here. We’ve tried it all round Paris, and you might as well talk Greek to them. I don’t believe there’s any word in the language for dough-nut. Jim’s not bad at French, either. We should be regularly floored if it wasn’t for him. And I expect they guess by his accent he comes from Rugby, for fellows all touch their hats to him.
You know the pater gave us a list of places to go and see in Paris—the Louvre and the Luxembourg, and all that. Well, he never stuck down where they were, and we’ve had to worry it out for ourselves. Jim stopped a fellow this morning and asked him, “Où est la chemin pour Luxembourg?” The fellow took off his hat and was awfully civil, and said, “Par ici, messieurs,” and took us a walk of about three miles, and landed us at a railway station. He thought we wanted to go to Luxembourg in Germany, or wherever it is—fare about three cool sovs. The fellow hung about us most of the rest of the day, expecting a tip. Likely idea that, after the game he’d had with us! We couldn’t shake him off till we bolted into one of the swimming baths on the river. That smoked him out. Most of these chaps draw the line at a tub. Would you believe it? at our inn, they never seem to have heard of soap in their lives, and we got quite tired of saying “savon” before we found some in a shop. Jim thinks they use it all up for soup. What we get at the inn tastes like it.
Jim is rather a cute beggar. We went to a café yesterday to get some grub, and he wanted a glass of milk. We had both clean forgotten the French for milk, and we’d left the dixy at the inn. We tried to make the fellow understand, but he was an ass. We pointed to a picture of a cow hanging on the wall and smacked our lips; and he grinned and rubbed his hands, and said, “Ah, oui. Rosbif! jolly rosbif!” Did you ever hear of such a born idiot? At last Jim had an idea and said, “Apportez-nous du café-au-lait sans le café.” That fetched it. The fellow twigged at once. Not bad of Jim, was it?
Jolly slow place Paris. The swimming baths are the only place worth going to. Jim went in off the eight-foot springboard. You should have seen the natives sit up at the neat dive he made.
I hope the pater’s not going to ask too much about the Louvre, because we scamped it. The fact is, there was a little unpleasantness with one of the fellows, owing to Jim’s cane happening to scratch one of the pictures by a chap named Rubens. It was quite an accident, as we were only trying to spike a wasp on the frame, and Jim missed his shot. The fellow there made a mule of himself, and lost his temper. So we didn’t see the fun of staying, and cut.
Montreux, Lake of Geneva,August10.
Couldn’t finish this before we left Paris. We meant to start for here on Friday, but settled to come on on Thursday night after all. You needn’t go telling them at home, but between you and me it was a bit of a bolt.
The fact was, we went to a church called Nôtre Dame in the morning—not nearly such a snug place as Rugby Chapel, and they charge a penny apiece for the chairs. So we cut the inside and thought we’d go up to the top. It wasn’t a bad lark, and you get a stunning view. The swimming baths looked about the size of a sheet of school paper. There was a door open into the belfry, and as nobody was about, we never thought it would be any harm to have a ring up. We couldn’t get the big bell to go, but most of the others did, and it was enough to deafen you.
I suppose they must have heard the row below, for when we looked down we saw a regular crowd of fellows in the square underneath looking up our way. After that we thought we might as well shut up, and were just going to cut down, when a fellow belonging to the place, who had been somewhere on the top, came rushing round the parapet, flourishing a stick and yelling like a trooper in awfully bad French. We had a good start of him, especially as we shut the door at the top of the stairs behind us. Besides he was fat; so we easily pulled it off.
There was an old woman at the bottom who kept the ticket place. She twiggeditwas a bolt, and tried to stop us; but she couldn’tgetout of her box. So we strolled out easily and cabbed it back to the inn. It was an awful game to see the crowd still staring up at the tower as we drove off. The fat fellow got down just as we were turning the corner. I don’t think he guessed we were cabbing it. Anyhow, we didn’t see any one chasing the cab. Jim said we were rather well out of it; and we settled we might as well drive on to the swimming baths and stay there for an hour or so till things had quieted down, and then go on to Switzerland by the evening train, especially, Jim said, as the pater might not like to get his name mixed up in a French row.
Beastly uncomfortable carriages on the Swiss railway from Paris. There was the same humbug about the luggage at a little station in the middle of the night, but we were too fagged to cut up rough. We were jolly glad to get here at last, I can tell you.
I must shut up now, as I’ve got to write to pater. It’s a regular go. We forgot he’d be sending the money to Paris, and now we’ve only got about half-a-sov. between us! Remember me to your young sister.
Yours truly, T. Hooker.
Montreux,August10.
Dear Father,—We didn’t see the Luxembourg, as a fellow directed us to the wrong place. We had several bathes in the Seine. Jim got on very well with his French, and I think we are both improved. We should be glad of some more money, as we are nearly out. I bought a present for you in Paris, which I think you will like when you see it. If you could send the money here by return it would do. I suppose what you sent to Paris missed us, as we came here a day sooner than we expected.
We went up Nôtre Dame the last day we were in Paris. There is a fine view from the top. It is surprising how few of the French you meet in the swimming baths. We had the place to ourselves one day. It’s eight feet at the deep end. Jim and I both think foreign travel is good for a fellow, and we shall hope to have a reply to this by return.
Your loving son, Tom.
Montreux,August11.
Dear Gus,—We’re regularly stuck up, as the money hasn’t come yet. I hope it will come soon, or the old girl at the inn here will think we’re cadgers. We had a stunning row on the lake yesterday; the boats are only a bob an hour, so we thought we might go in for it. We raced a steamer for about half a mile, and weren’t done then, only Jim’s oar came off the pin (they haven’t such things as row-locks here), and that upset us.
Of course it didn’t matter, as we could swim; but the fellows in the steamer kicked up an awful shine about it, and came and hauled us up, boat and all. It was rather awkward, as we had nothing to tip them with. We got out at a dismal sort of place called Chillon. We told the captain if he was ever in London the pater would be glad to see him.
We had a grind getting back here with the boat, as it came on dark and misty, and we couldn’t see where Montreux had got to. Jim got rather chawed up too by the cold, so I sculled. The wind was against us, and it was rather a hard pull, especially when you couldn’t see the land at all. I managed to keep pretty warm with rowing, but old Jim’s teeth chattered like a steam-engine. It came on a regular squall, and I didn’t see the fun of sculling after about a couple of hours. So Jim and I huddled up to keep warm, and let her drift. We were jolly glad to see a light after a bit, and yelled to let them know where we were. They didn’t hear, though, so we just stuck on and chanced it. The old tub drifted ashore all right, side on, though she upset just as we got to land. It was lucky the water was shallow, as we were too cold to swim. As it was, old Jim nearly came to grief. It was no end of a job hauling in the boat. She was rather knocked about. We had drifted back to Chillon, exactly where we started from.
The keeper of the castle put us up for the night and was no end of a brick. There was rather a row with the boat fellow when we got back to Montreux. He got crusty about the boat being damaged, and wanted about two sovs! As it happened, we hadn’t got anything, as we gave the fellow at the castle five francs, and that cleared us out. We told the boat fellow to call at the inn to-morrow, and I hope to goodness the money will have turned up, as it’s a bit awkward. Jim has a cold.
Yours truly T. Hooker.
Please remember me to your young sister.
Montreux,August13.
Dear Father,—Thanks awfully for the money; it was jolly to get it, and mother’s letter. It is very hilly about here. Jim’s cold is getting better. Would you mind telegraphing to us who is the winner of the Australian cricket match to-morrow, and how many Grace scored? In haste, Your loving son, Tom.
Riffel Hotel,August18.
Dear Gus,—We’re awfully high up here—awful rum little inn it is. It was chock full, and Jim and I have to sleep under the table. There are about a dozen other fellows who have to camp out too, so it’s a rare spree.
We’re going to have a shot at the Matterhorn to-morrow if it’s fine. It looks easy enough, and Jim and I were making out the path with a telescope this afternoon. It’s rather a crow to do the Matterhorn. Some muffs take guides up, but they cost four or five pounds, so we’re going without.
That boat fellow at Montreux got to be a regular nuisance. In fact, that’s why we came on here a day earlier. He came up twice a day to the inn, and we couldn’t shake him off. We gave him a sov., which was twice what he had a right to. He swore he’d have two pounds or bring up a policeman with him next time. So we thought the best way was to clear out by the early train next morning, and I guess he was jolly blue when he found us gone. I send with this a faint sketch of some of the natives! What do you say to their rig?
It was a pretty good grind up to Zermatt, and we walked it up the valley. There wasn’t much to see on the way, and it’s a frightfully stony road. There were some fellows playing lawn-tennis at the hotel at Zermatt. One of them wasn’t half bad. His serves twisted to the leg and were awfully hard to get up. Jim and I wouldn’t have minded a game, only the fellows seemed to think no one wanted to play but themselves. We may get a game to-morrow on our way to the Matterhorn. It was a tremendous fag getting up here from Zermatt. I don’t know why fellows all come on, as there’s no tennis court or anything up here.
There’s an ice-field up here called a glacier, but it’s an awful fraud if you want skating—rough as one of Bullford’s fields at Rugby. A fellow told me it bears all the year round, but it’s got a lot of holes, so we don’t think we’ll try it. I expect we shall be home next week, as the pater thinks we’ve run through our money rather too fast. Remember me to your people and your young sister.
Yours truly, T. Hooker.
Zermatt,August20.
Dear Gus,—We didn’t do the Matterhorn after all, as Jim screwed his foot. He’s awfully unlucky, and if it hadn’t been for the accident we might have got to the top; and of course it stops tennis too. We did get one game before we started up. Jim gave me fifteen in two games each set. I pulled off the first, but he whacked me the other two. It’s a beastly rough court, though, and the mountain was awfully in the light.
We hadn’t much difficulty finding the way to the Matterhorn, as there was a sign-post at the end of the village. We thought we might as well take the easy side, as the front of the hill is pretty stiff. Of course we had to take a good long round, which was a nuisance, as we meant to be back fortable d’hôteat seven. When we got properly on to the side we put it on, but it was a good long grind, I can tell you. We weren’t sorry to get up to a snow slope and cool ourselves.
They ought to sweep a path across the snow, or fellows are very likely to lose their way. We lost ours, but we had a good lark on the snow snowballing. It got deep in one part, so we had to clamber up the rocks at the side to get to the top of the slope. It’s rather deceptive, distance, on the snow, for it took us an hour to do what seemed only a few yards. We got on to a flat bit after awhile, and had another turn on the snow.
It was rather a game rolling things down the slope. They went at an awful pace. The nuisance is the snow has a way of slipping from under you, and that’s how Jim and I came to grief. We were sitting on the edge of the slope watching a boulder slide, when we began to slide ourselves. We hadn’t our spikes on, or we might have pulled up. As it was, we got up no end of a speed down that slope. It was no joke. I yelled to Jim to lie flat, and not sit up, or he might pitch on his head. I don’t remember how we got on after that; I must have bumped my head, for when I pulled myself together I found I was sitting in the middle of a grass field with a jolly headache, and pretty well black and blue.
I was able to get up though, and looked about for old Jim. I can tell you it was no joke. I couldn’t see him anywhere, and thought he must have been buried in the snow. I can tell you, old man, it was rough on me for a quarter of an hour or so. But I found him at last, about a quarter of a mile down the field. He rolled, he said; he couldn’t get up, as his foot was screwed. So it was a pretty go, as I couldn’t carry him. If I hadn’t been quite so knocked about I might have tried; but Jim’s a good nine stone, so I might have dropped him. Luckily, some fellows came—they’d come to look for us, in fact, as we’d told the waiter we were going up the Matterhorn, and might not be back in time for dinner; and when we didn’t turn up, they guessed, I suppose, we might have come to grief. It was a good job they came, as Jim’s foot was rather bad. All the hotel turned out to see us get back. I had to be carried too, the last bit of the way, as I got fagged. It’s a sell we couldn’t get to the top, as it’s rather a crow to do the Matterhorn.
Jim’s foot is better to-day, but he’ll have to shut off tennis the rest of this season. I wish mother was here. She could look after Jim better than I can. In fact, the doctor here, rather a jolly fellow, says she and the pater had better come at once. I got him to write to the pater himself, as I was afraid it might make them think something was wrong if I did.
Please to remember me to your young sister.
T. Hooker.
Zermatt,August22.
Dear Gus,—There’s a telegram from the pater to say they’ll be here to-morrow night. I’m rather glad, as Jim is feverish. The pater will have a good deal of tipping to do, as everybody here’s no end civil. Can’t write more, as I’m fagged. Remember me to your young sister.
T.H.
P.S.—I fancy we shall spend next summer in England—Jim and I. We don’t either of us think much of Switzerland.
Chapter Thirty Four.Bilk’s Fortune—A Ghost Story.Chapter I. Superstition.We had a fellow at Holmhurst School who rejoiced in the name of Alexander Magnus Bilk. But, as sometimes happens, our Alexander the Great did not in all respects resemble the hero to whom he was indebted for his name. Alexander the Great, so the school-books say, was small in stature and mighty in mind. Bilk was small in mind and lanky in stature. They called him “Lamp-post” as a pet name, and as regarded his height, his girth, and the lightness of his head, the term conveyed a very fair idea of our hero’s chief characteristics. In short, Bilk had very few brains, and such as he had he occupied by no means to the best advantage. He read trashy novels, and believed every word of them, and, like poor Don Quixote of old, he let any one who liked make a fool of him, if he only took the trouble to get at his weak side.I need hardly say the fellows at Holmhurst were not long in discovering that weak side and getting plenty of fun out of Alexander Magnus. He could be gammoned to almost any extent, so much so that after a term or two his persecutors had run through all the tricks they knew, and the unhappy youth was let alone for sheer want of an idea.But one winter, when things seemed at their worst, and it really appeared likely that Bilk would have to be given up as a bad job, his tormentors suddenly conceived an idea, and proceeded to put it into practice in the manner I am about to relate in this most veracious history.The neighbourhood of Holmhurst had for some weeks past been honoured by the presence of a gang of gipsies, who during the period of their sojourn had rendered themselves conspicuous by their diligence in their triple business of chair-mending, fowl-house robbing, and fortune-telling. In the last of these three departments they perhaps succeeded best in winning the confidence of their temporary neighbours, and the private séances they held with housemaids, tradesmen’s boys, and schoolgirls had been particularly gratifying both as to attendance and pecuniary result.It had at length been deemed to be for the general welfare that these interesting itinerants should seek a change of air in “fresh fields and pastures new,” and the police had accordingly hinted as much to the authorities of the camp, and given them two hours to pack up.More than ever convinced that gratitude is hopeless to seek in human nature, the gipsies had shaken the dust of Holmhurst from the soles of their not very tidy feet, and had moved off, no one knew whither.These proceedings had, among other persons, interested Alexander Magnus Bilk not a little, and no one mourned the rapid departure of the gipsies more than he. For Bilk had for some days past secretly hugged the idea of presenting himself to the oracle of these wise ones and having his fortune told. He had in fact gone so far as to make a secret observation of their quarters one afternoon, and had resolved to devote the next half-holiday to the particular pursuit of knowledge they offered, when, lo! cruel fate snatched the cup from his lips and swept the promised fruit from his reach. In other words, the gipsies had gone, and, like his great namesake, Alexander, Magnus mourned.Among those who noticed his dejection and guessed the cause of it were two of his particular persecutors. Morgan and Dell had for some months been suffering affliction for lack of any notion how to get a rise out of their victim. But they now suddenly cheered up, as they felt the force of a mighty idea moving them once more to action.“Old chap,” said Morgan, “I’ve got it at last!”“What have you got?” asked “the old chap”; “your back tooth, or measles, or what?”“I’ve got a dodge for scoring off the Lamp-post.”“Have you, though? You are a clever chap, I say! What is it?”What it was, Morgan disclosed in such a very low whisper to his ally that the reader will have to guess. Suffice it to say, the two dear lads put their heads together for some time, and were extremely busy in the privacy of their own study all that evening.Bilk, little dreaming of the compassion and interest he was evoking in the hearts of his schoolfellows, retired early to his sorrowful couch, and mourned his departed gipsies till slumber gently stepped in and soothed his troubled mind. But returning day laid bare the old wound, and Alexander girded himself listlessly to the duties of the hour, with a heart far away.He was wandering across the playground after dinner, disinclined alike for work and play, when Dell accosted him. Bilk might have known Dell by this time, but his memory was short and his mind preoccupied, and he smelt no rat, as the Irish would say, in his companion’s salutation.“Hullo! where are you off to, Lamp-post? How jolly blue you look!”“I’m only taking a walk.”“Well, you don’t seem to be enjoying it, by the looks of you. I’ve just been taking a trot over the common.”“I suppose the gipsies have all gone?” inquired Bilk, as unconcernedly as he could.“Yes, I suppose so,” answered Dell, offhand. “Anyhow, they’ve cleared off the common.”“But I was told,” said Bilk rather nervously, “they’d gone quite away.”“Not all of them, anyhow,” said Dell. “But of course they can’t now show up the way they used to.”“Where are they, then?” asked Magnus, with a new hope breaking in upon him.“How can I tell? All I know is there are some hanging about still, and I shouldn’t wonder if they weren’t far from here.”“Really, I say! I wonder where?”“I’d as good as bet you’d come across one or two of them after dark in Deadman’s Lane, or up at the cross roads, any evening for a week yet. They don’t clear out as fast as fellows think. But I must be off now, as I’ve a lot of work to do. Ta, ta!”Alexander stood where the other left him, in deep meditation. Those few casual observations of his schoolfellow had kindled anew the fire that burned within him. Little could Dell guess how interesting his news was! After dark! The afternoon was getting on already. The school clock had struck half-past four nearly a quarter of an hour ago, and by five it would be quite dark. Tea was at a quarter-past five, and for half an hour after tea boys could do as they liked. Yes, it would be foolish to throw away such a chance. At any rate, he would take the air after tea in Deadman’s Lane, and if there he should meet—oh! how he wondered what his fortune would be! Tea was a feverish meal for Bilk that evening. He spoke to no one, and ate very little; and as the hand of the clock worked round to a quarter to six he began to feel distinctly that a crisis in his life was approaching. He was glad neither Dell nor Morgan, whose studies probably kept them in their study, were at tea. They were such fellows for worrying him, and just now he wanted to be in peace.The meal was over at last, and the boys rushed off to enjoy their short liberty before the hour of preparation. Bilk, who had taken the precaution to put both a sixpence and a cricket-cap in his pocket, silently and unobserved slid out into the deserted playground, and in another minute stood beyond the precincts of Holmhurst.Deadman’s Lane was scarcely three minutes distant, and thither, with nervous steps, he wended his way, fumbling the sixpence in his pocket, and straining his eyes in the darkness for any sign of the gipsies. Alas! it seemed to be a vain quest. The lane was deserted, and the cross roads he knew were too far distant to get there and back in half an hour. He was just thinking of giving it up and turning back, when a sound behind one of the hedges close to him startled him and sent his heart to his mouth. He stood still to listen, and heard a gruff voice say—or rather intone—the following mysterious couplet:Ramsdam pammydiddle larrybonnywigtailWigtaillarrybonny keimo.This could be no other than an incantation, and Bilk stood rooted to the spot, unable to advance or retreat. He heard a rustling in the hedge, and the incantation suddenly ceased. Then a figure like that of an old man bent with age and clad in a ragged coat which nearly touched the ground advanced slowly, saying in croaking accent as he did so—“Ah, young gentleman, we’ve waited for ye. We couldn’t go till we’d seen ye; for we’ve something to tell ye. Come quietly this way, and say not a word, or the spell’s broken—come, young gentleman; come, young gentleman;” and the old man went on crooning the words to himself as he led the way with tottering steps round the hedge, and discovered a sort of tent in which sat, with her face half shrouded in a shawl, an old woman who wagged her head incessantly and chattered to herself in a language of her own. She took no notice of Bilk as he drew near tremblingly, and it was not until the old man had nudged her vehemently, and both had indulged in a long fit of coughing, that she at last growled, without even lifting her head—“I see nothing unless for silver.”It said a great deal for Bilk’s quickness of apprehension that he at once guessed this vague observation to refer to the sixpence he had not yet offered. He drew it out and handed it to the old woman, and was about to offer an apology at the same time, when the man put his hand to his mouth and snarled—“Not a word.”The old woman took the coin in her trembling hand, and bent her head over it in silence. Bilk began to get uneasy. The time was passing, and he would have to start back in a very few moments. Could it be possible these gipsies, now they had his sixpence, were going to refuse to tell him the fortune for which he had longed and risked so much?No! After a long pause the old woman lifted up her hand and said something in gibberish to her partner. It was a long time coming, for they both coughed and groaned violently during the recital. At length, however, the old man turned to Bilk and said gruffly—“Kneel.”The boy obeyed, and the old man proceeded.“She says a great danger threatens you this night. If you escape it, you will live to be a baronet or member of parliament, and perhaps you will marry a duke’s daughter; but she can’t be certain of that. If you don’t escape it, you will be in a lunatic asylum next week, and never come out. Not a word,” added he, as Bilk once more showed signs of breaking silence. “Wait till she speaks again.”Another long pause, and then another long recital in gibberish by the old woman, broken by the same coughing and groaning as before. Then the man said—“Stand up, and hold your hands above your head.”Bilk obeyed.“You want to know how to escape the peril?” said the man.Bilk, with his hands still up, nodded.“To-night at nine o’clock you will hear a bell.”Again Bilk nodded. Fancy the gipsies knowing that!“You will go up to a small room with a chair and a bed in it, and undress.”A pause, and another nod from the astonished Bilk.“You will put on a long white robe coming down to your ankles. At half-past nine the place will be dark—as black as pitch.”Bilk shuddered a little at the prospect.“Then will be the time to escape your peril, or else to fall a victim. To escape it you must go quietly down the stairs and out of the house. The being who rules your life will be away for this one evening, and you will escape through his room by the window, which is close to the ground.”Bilk started once more.Heknew the doctor was to be out that evening, but what short of supernatural vision could tell the gipsies of it?“You must escape in the long white robe, and run past here on to the cross roads. No one will see you. At the cross roads there is a post with four arms. You must climb it and sit on the arm pointing this way until the clock strikes twelve. The peril will then be past, and your fortune will be made. Not a word. Go, and beware, Alexander Magnus Bilk!”The legs of the scared Alexander could scarcely uphold him as he obeyed this last order, and sped trembling towards the school. The gipsies sat motionless as his footsteps echoed down the lane and died slowly away into silence.Then they rose to go also; but as they did so other footsteps suddenly sounded, approaching them. With an alacrity astonishing in persons of their advanced age they darted back to their place of retreat; but too late. The footsteps came on quickly, and followed them to their very hiding-place, and next moment the light of two bullseyes turned full upon them, and the aged couple were in the hands of the police.Chapter Two. Science.De Prudhom did not often allow himself the luxury of an evening out during term time. But on this particular evening he was pledged to fulfil a long-standing engagement with an old crony and fellow-bachelor, residing about two miles from the school. By some mysterious means the worthy dominie’s intentions had oozed out, and Bilk was by no means the only boy who had heard of it. Mice seem to find out by instinct when the cat is away, and fix their own diversions accordingly.I merely mention this to explain that as far as Alexander Magnus was concerned no night could have been more favourable for carrying out the intricate series of instructions laid down by the gipsy for the making of his fortune. With this reflection he consoled himself somewhat as he ran back to the school.The doctor had already started for his evening’s dissipation, if dining with Professor Hammerhead could be thus described. This eccentric old gentleman combined in one the avocations of a bachelor, a man of science, and a justice of the peace. He rarely took his walks abroad, preferring the solitude of his library, and the occasional company of some old comrade with whom to talk over old times, and unburden his mind of the scientific problems which encumbered it. On the present occasion he had lit upon a congenial spirit in worthy Dr Prudhom, and the two spent a very snug evening together over the dessert, raking up memories of the good old days when they lived on the same staircase at Brasenose; and plunging deep into abstruse questions of natural and physical science which even the sherry could not prevent from being dry.The professor’s present craze was what is commonly termed ethnology. Anything connected with the history and vicissitudes of the primitive races of mankind excited his enthusiasm, and he was never tired of inquiring into the languages, the manners, the customs, the dress, the ceremonies, and the movements generally of various branches of the human family, of whom the most obscure were sure to be in his eyes the most interesting.It was only natural, therefore, that when Dr Prudhom made some casual reference to the recent incursion of gipsies, his host should seize the occasion to expatiate on the history of that extraordinary race; tracing them from the Egyptians downwards, and waxing eloquent on their tribal instincts, which no civilisation or even persecution could eradicate or domesticate.“Fact is,” said he, with a chuckle, “they had me to thank that they were allowed here so long. Police came to me end of first week and said they were a nuisance. I told the police when I wanted their opinion I’d ask it. End of second week police came again and said all the farmyards round had been robbed. I said I must inquire into it. He! he! All the time I was making glorious observations, my boy; a note-book full, I declare. End of third week inspector of police came and said he should have to apply at head-quarters for instructions if I wouldn’t give them. Not a place was secure as long as the vagabonds stayed. Had to cave in then, and issue a warrant or so and get rid of them. Sorry for it. Much to learn ye: about them, and the few specimens brought before me weren’t good ones. Young gipsies, you know, Prudhom, aren’t up to the mark. You only get the true aboriginal ring about the old people. Yes, I’m afraid they’re breaking up, you know. Sorry for it.”Dr Prudhom concurred, and mentioned as a somewhat significant fact that very few old gipsies had accompanied the late visitation, which consisted almost altogether of the young and possibly degenerate members of the tribe.The discussion had reached this stage, and the professor was about to adduce evidence from history of a similar period of depression in the race, when there came a ring at the front bell, followed by a shuffling of feet in the hall, which was presently explained by the appearance of the servant, who announced that there were two constables below who wished to see his worship.Now his worship was anything but pleased to be interrupted in the midst of his interesting discussion by a matter of such secondary importance as an interview with the police.“Can’t see them now,” said he to the servant; “tell them to call in the morning.” The servant retired.“Strange thing,” observed the justice of the peace; “you can shut up your school at five o’clock every night, and every cheesemonger and tinker in the place can do the same; but we’ve got no time we can call our own. Pull your chair up to the fire, old fellow. Let’s see, what were we saying?” The servant appeared again at this point, and said—“Please, sir, they’ve got a couple of the gipsies, and want—”“Eh, what!” exclaimed the professor, jumping up. “Why didn’t you say so before? Gipsies! Why, Prudhom, my boy, could anything be more opportune? Show them into the library, and set a chair for the doctor. Do you hear? How fortunate this is! Now while I’m examining them, watch closely, and see if you do not observe the peculiar curve of the nostril I was speaking to you about as characterising the septentrional species of the tribe. Come away, doctor!”And off trotted the man of science to his library, closely followed by the scarcely less eager dominie.At the far end of the dimly-lighted room stood the constables, on either side of an aged couple of vagabonds. The old man was arrayed in a long coat which nearly reached the ground, leaving only a glimpse of a stained and weather-beaten pair of pantaloons and striped parti-coloured stockings beneath. The old woman wore a shawl, gipsy fashion, over her head, and reaching to her feet, which were shod in unusually large and heavy hob-nailed boots. The faces and hands of both were black with dirt, and bronzed with heat, and as they stood there trembling in the grasp of the law, with chattering teeth and tottering knees, they looked a veritable picture of outcast humanity.“Prudhom, my boy,” whispered the magistrate to his guest, with a most unjudicial nudge, to emphasise his remarks, “they’re old ones. Was ever such luck! Knowing ones, too, I guess: they’ll try to trick us with their gammon, you see. He! he! Now, constable, what have you got here?”For the first time the elderly couple lifted their heads and looked towards the Bench. As they did so they uttered an incoherent ejaculation, and attempted to spring forward. But the active and intelligent servants of the law checked them by a vigorous grip of their arms, and crying “Silence!” in their most majestic and menacing tones, reduced them at last to order.“See that?” whispered the professor to the doctor; “most characteristic. Simulation is of the very essence of their race. Oh, this is beautiful! Did you catch what they said just then? It was an expression in the Maeso-Shemitic dialect, still to be found in the south of Spain and on the old Moorish coast of Africa. I know it well. Well, constable?”“If you please, your honour, I was passing near the school about half-past five this afternoon along with my brother officer when I observe the defendants crawling along beside the wall. I keeps my eye on them, and observe them going in the direction of Deadman’s Lane. I follows unobserved, and observes them crawl behind a hedge. I waits to observe what follows, and presently I observe a young gentleman walking down the lane. As I expects, the male defendant comes out and offers to tell him his fortune, and I observes the young gentleman give the parties money. I waits till he leaves, and then with my brother officer we arrest the parties. That’s all, your worship. Stand still, you wagabone you; do you hear?”This last observation was addressed, not to his worship, but to the female prisoner, who once more made an effort to step forward and speak. The grip of the constable kept her where she was, but, heedless of this threatening gesture, she cried out, in a shrill, trembling voice—“Please, sir—please, doctor, we’re two of your boys.”The doctor, who had been intently looking out for the curved nostril alluded to by his host, started as if he had been shot.“Eh, what?” he gasped; “what was that I heard?”“Why,” said the professor, in ecstasy, “it’s just as I told you. Dissimulation is second nature to the tribe. No he is too big for them. The old lady says she and the other rogue are your children. Doctor, there’s a notion for you!—an old bachelor like you, too! He! he!”“We are indeed!” cried the old man, echoing the shrill tones of his helpmeet. “I’m Morgan, Dr Prudhom, and he’s Dell. Indeed, we’re speaking the truth. We only did it—”“There, you see,” once more observed the delighted professor; “it’s the very thing I knew would happen. They know you are a schoolmaster, and they want you to believe— Oh, this is really most interesting.”The doctor seemed to find it interesting. He changed colour several times, and looked hard at the two reprobates before him. But their weather-and-dust-beaten countenances conveyed no information to his mind. Their voices certainly did startle him with something like a familiar sound; but might not this be part of the deep dissimulation dwelt upon with so much emphasis by his learned friend?“I wouldn’t have missed this for twenty pounds,” said the magistrate, beaming on his guest; “my theories are confirmed to the letter.”“We only did it for a lark, sir, and we’re awfully sorry,” cried the old man. “We really are, aren’t we, Dell?”“Yes, sir,” cried the old lady; “please let us off this time.”“Upon my word,” said the doctor, getting up and advancing towards the prisoners. “I don’t know—”“Don’t be a fool, Prudhom; I know them of old. Sit down, man. Constable, I shall commit the prisoners. Where are my papers?”“Oh, doctor, please save us!” cried the old lady again. “We are speaking the truth. Let us wash our faces and take off our cloaks, and you’ll see we are. Oh, we’ll never do it again!”And before the doctor could reply, or the scandalised constables could prevent it, the two gipsies cast off their outer garments, and presented themselves to the bewildered spectators in the mud-stained jerseys and knickerbockers of the Holmhurst football club! I draw a veil over the explanations, the lectures, and the appeals which followed, as also I forbear to dwell upon the consternation of the man of science, and the cruel disorganisation of all his cherished theories. It is only fair to say that the professor bore no malice, when once he discovered how the matter stood, and used his magisterial influence with the doctor to procure at any rate a mitigated punishment for the culprits.The delinquents were ordered off to the lavatory, and left there with a can of hot water and a cube of soap, to remove the wrinkles and sunburn from their crestfallen countenances. Which done, they humbly presented themselves in the library, where the doctor, looking very stern, stood already accoutred for the journey home. The leave-taking between the two old gentlemen was subdued and solemn, and then in grim silence Dr Prudhom stalked forth into the night, followed at a respectful distance by his trembling disciples.Till that moment the thought of Bilk had never once crossed the minds of the agitated amateur gipsies, but it flashed across them now as the doctor strode straight for the cross roads. What if the miserable Alexander Magnus should have swallowed the absurd bait laid for him, and be in the act of making his fortune on the very spot they were to pass!They held a hurried consultation in whisper on this terrible possibility. “We shall be expelled if it comes out!” groaned Dell. “Yes; we may as well tell him at once,” said Morgan. “He may not be there, you know; perhaps we’d better wait and see, in case.”So they went on in the doctor’s wake, nearer and nearer to the fatal cross roads at every step.Suddenly, as they came within a hundred yards of the signpost, the doctor stood still and uttered an exclamation, the meaning of which they were able to guess only too readily. Straining their eyes in the direction indicated, they could discern a white shadowy form hovering in the road before them. “What’s that?” exclaimed the doctor in a whisper. Dell was conscious of a secret nudge as Morgan gasped—“Oh, it looks like a ghost! Oh, doctor!” and the two boys clung wildly to the doctor’s arm, trembling and gasping with well-feigned terror.Dr Prudhom trembled too, but his agitation was unfeigned. The three stood still breathless, and watched the dim figure as it hovered across their path, and then vanished into the darkness.“What can it be?” said the doctor, bracing himself up with an effort, and preparing to walk on.“Oh, please, sir,” cried the boys, “don’t go on! do let us turn back! Oh dear! oh dear!”“Foolish boys!” said the doctor; “haven’t you sense enough to know that no such thing as—ah! there it is again!”Yes, there it was again. A faint beam of the moon broke through the clouds, and lit up the white figure once more where it stood close to the sign-post. And as they watched it seemed to grow, rising higher and higher till its head nearly touched the cross-bars. Then suddenly, and with a groan, it seemed to drop into the earth, and all was darkness once more. The boys clung one on each side to the doctor, who trembled hardly less than themselves. No one dared move, or speak, or utter a sound.Again the moon sent forth a beam, as the figure once more appeared and slowly rose higher and higher. For a moment it seemed as if it would soar into the air, but again with a dull crash it descended and vanished.“Boys,” said the doctor hoarsely, “I confess I—I am puzzled!”“I—I wonder,” said Dell, “if I ever dare go and see what it is. I say, M–m–organ, would you g–g–go with me—for the d–d–doctor’s sake?”“Oh, Dell! I’m afraid. But—yes, I’ll try.”“Brave boys!” said the doctor, never taking his eyes off the spot where the ghost last vanished.The two boys stole forward on tiptoe, holding one another’s arms; then suddenly they broke into a rush straight for the sign-post.There was a loud shriek as the white figure rose up to meet them.“Bilk, you idiot, cut back for your life! here’s the doctor! We were only having a lark with you. Do cut your sticks, and slip in quietly, and it’ll be all right. Look alive, or we’re all three done for!”The ill-starred Bilk needed no further invitation. He started to run as fast as his long legs would carry him, his night-gown flapping in the evening breeze, and his two persecutors following him with cries of “Booh!”“Scat!”“Shoo!” and other formulae for exorcising evil spirits.After a hundred yards or so the two heroes gave up the chase, and returned to the slowly-reviving doctor.“Come along, sir,” said Dell; “there’s nothing there; it vanished as soon as we got to it. Let us be quick, sir, in case it comes back.”The remainder of the walk home that evening, I need hardly observe, was brisk; but it was not so brisk as the same journey accomplished by Alexander Magnus Bilk, who had reached the school a full quarter of an hour before his pursuers, and was safe between his blankets by the time that they peeped into his room on their way to bed, and whispered consolingly, “It’s all up with the duke’s daughter now, old man!”The doctor may have had some dim suspicion of the real state of affairs; but if so, he gave no sign, and the boys, happy in their escape from what might have proved a grave matter, were content to forego all further practical jokes of the kind for the rest of the session.
We had a fellow at Holmhurst School who rejoiced in the name of Alexander Magnus Bilk. But, as sometimes happens, our Alexander the Great did not in all respects resemble the hero to whom he was indebted for his name. Alexander the Great, so the school-books say, was small in stature and mighty in mind. Bilk was small in mind and lanky in stature. They called him “Lamp-post” as a pet name, and as regarded his height, his girth, and the lightness of his head, the term conveyed a very fair idea of our hero’s chief characteristics. In short, Bilk had very few brains, and such as he had he occupied by no means to the best advantage. He read trashy novels, and believed every word of them, and, like poor Don Quixote of old, he let any one who liked make a fool of him, if he only took the trouble to get at his weak side.
I need hardly say the fellows at Holmhurst were not long in discovering that weak side and getting plenty of fun out of Alexander Magnus. He could be gammoned to almost any extent, so much so that after a term or two his persecutors had run through all the tricks they knew, and the unhappy youth was let alone for sheer want of an idea.
But one winter, when things seemed at their worst, and it really appeared likely that Bilk would have to be given up as a bad job, his tormentors suddenly conceived an idea, and proceeded to put it into practice in the manner I am about to relate in this most veracious history.
The neighbourhood of Holmhurst had for some weeks past been honoured by the presence of a gang of gipsies, who during the period of their sojourn had rendered themselves conspicuous by their diligence in their triple business of chair-mending, fowl-house robbing, and fortune-telling. In the last of these three departments they perhaps succeeded best in winning the confidence of their temporary neighbours, and the private séances they held with housemaids, tradesmen’s boys, and schoolgirls had been particularly gratifying both as to attendance and pecuniary result.
It had at length been deemed to be for the general welfare that these interesting itinerants should seek a change of air in “fresh fields and pastures new,” and the police had accordingly hinted as much to the authorities of the camp, and given them two hours to pack up.
More than ever convinced that gratitude is hopeless to seek in human nature, the gipsies had shaken the dust of Holmhurst from the soles of their not very tidy feet, and had moved off, no one knew whither.
These proceedings had, among other persons, interested Alexander Magnus Bilk not a little, and no one mourned the rapid departure of the gipsies more than he. For Bilk had for some days past secretly hugged the idea of presenting himself to the oracle of these wise ones and having his fortune told. He had in fact gone so far as to make a secret observation of their quarters one afternoon, and had resolved to devote the next half-holiday to the particular pursuit of knowledge they offered, when, lo! cruel fate snatched the cup from his lips and swept the promised fruit from his reach. In other words, the gipsies had gone, and, like his great namesake, Alexander, Magnus mourned.
Among those who noticed his dejection and guessed the cause of it were two of his particular persecutors. Morgan and Dell had for some months been suffering affliction for lack of any notion how to get a rise out of their victim. But they now suddenly cheered up, as they felt the force of a mighty idea moving them once more to action.
“Old chap,” said Morgan, “I’ve got it at last!”
“What have you got?” asked “the old chap”; “your back tooth, or measles, or what?”
“I’ve got a dodge for scoring off the Lamp-post.”
“Have you, though? You are a clever chap, I say! What is it?”
What it was, Morgan disclosed in such a very low whisper to his ally that the reader will have to guess. Suffice it to say, the two dear lads put their heads together for some time, and were extremely busy in the privacy of their own study all that evening.
Bilk, little dreaming of the compassion and interest he was evoking in the hearts of his schoolfellows, retired early to his sorrowful couch, and mourned his departed gipsies till slumber gently stepped in and soothed his troubled mind. But returning day laid bare the old wound, and Alexander girded himself listlessly to the duties of the hour, with a heart far away.
He was wandering across the playground after dinner, disinclined alike for work and play, when Dell accosted him. Bilk might have known Dell by this time, but his memory was short and his mind preoccupied, and he smelt no rat, as the Irish would say, in his companion’s salutation.
“Hullo! where are you off to, Lamp-post? How jolly blue you look!”
“I’m only taking a walk.”
“Well, you don’t seem to be enjoying it, by the looks of you. I’ve just been taking a trot over the common.”
“I suppose the gipsies have all gone?” inquired Bilk, as unconcernedly as he could.
“Yes, I suppose so,” answered Dell, offhand. “Anyhow, they’ve cleared off the common.”
“But I was told,” said Bilk rather nervously, “they’d gone quite away.”
“Not all of them, anyhow,” said Dell. “But of course they can’t now show up the way they used to.”
“Where are they, then?” asked Magnus, with a new hope breaking in upon him.
“How can I tell? All I know is there are some hanging about still, and I shouldn’t wonder if they weren’t far from here.”
“Really, I say! I wonder where?”
“I’d as good as bet you’d come across one or two of them after dark in Deadman’s Lane, or up at the cross roads, any evening for a week yet. They don’t clear out as fast as fellows think. But I must be off now, as I’ve a lot of work to do. Ta, ta!”
Alexander stood where the other left him, in deep meditation. Those few casual observations of his schoolfellow had kindled anew the fire that burned within him. Little could Dell guess how interesting his news was! After dark! The afternoon was getting on already. The school clock had struck half-past four nearly a quarter of an hour ago, and by five it would be quite dark. Tea was at a quarter-past five, and for half an hour after tea boys could do as they liked. Yes, it would be foolish to throw away such a chance. At any rate, he would take the air after tea in Deadman’s Lane, and if there he should meet—oh! how he wondered what his fortune would be! Tea was a feverish meal for Bilk that evening. He spoke to no one, and ate very little; and as the hand of the clock worked round to a quarter to six he began to feel distinctly that a crisis in his life was approaching. He was glad neither Dell nor Morgan, whose studies probably kept them in their study, were at tea. They were such fellows for worrying him, and just now he wanted to be in peace.
The meal was over at last, and the boys rushed off to enjoy their short liberty before the hour of preparation. Bilk, who had taken the precaution to put both a sixpence and a cricket-cap in his pocket, silently and unobserved slid out into the deserted playground, and in another minute stood beyond the precincts of Holmhurst.
Deadman’s Lane was scarcely three minutes distant, and thither, with nervous steps, he wended his way, fumbling the sixpence in his pocket, and straining his eyes in the darkness for any sign of the gipsies. Alas! it seemed to be a vain quest. The lane was deserted, and the cross roads he knew were too far distant to get there and back in half an hour. He was just thinking of giving it up and turning back, when a sound behind one of the hedges close to him startled him and sent his heart to his mouth. He stood still to listen, and heard a gruff voice say—or rather intone—the following mysterious couplet:
Ramsdam pammydiddle larrybonnywigtailWigtaillarrybonny keimo.
Ramsdam pammydiddle larrybonnywigtailWigtaillarrybonny keimo.
This could be no other than an incantation, and Bilk stood rooted to the spot, unable to advance or retreat. He heard a rustling in the hedge, and the incantation suddenly ceased. Then a figure like that of an old man bent with age and clad in a ragged coat which nearly touched the ground advanced slowly, saying in croaking accent as he did so—
“Ah, young gentleman, we’ve waited for ye. We couldn’t go till we’d seen ye; for we’ve something to tell ye. Come quietly this way, and say not a word, or the spell’s broken—come, young gentleman; come, young gentleman;” and the old man went on crooning the words to himself as he led the way with tottering steps round the hedge, and discovered a sort of tent in which sat, with her face half shrouded in a shawl, an old woman who wagged her head incessantly and chattered to herself in a language of her own. She took no notice of Bilk as he drew near tremblingly, and it was not until the old man had nudged her vehemently, and both had indulged in a long fit of coughing, that she at last growled, without even lifting her head—
“I see nothing unless for silver.”
It said a great deal for Bilk’s quickness of apprehension that he at once guessed this vague observation to refer to the sixpence he had not yet offered. He drew it out and handed it to the old woman, and was about to offer an apology at the same time, when the man put his hand to his mouth and snarled—
“Not a word.”
The old woman took the coin in her trembling hand, and bent her head over it in silence. Bilk began to get uneasy. The time was passing, and he would have to start back in a very few moments. Could it be possible these gipsies, now they had his sixpence, were going to refuse to tell him the fortune for which he had longed and risked so much?
No! After a long pause the old woman lifted up her hand and said something in gibberish to her partner. It was a long time coming, for they both coughed and groaned violently during the recital. At length, however, the old man turned to Bilk and said gruffly—
“Kneel.”
The boy obeyed, and the old man proceeded.
“She says a great danger threatens you this night. If you escape it, you will live to be a baronet or member of parliament, and perhaps you will marry a duke’s daughter; but she can’t be certain of that. If you don’t escape it, you will be in a lunatic asylum next week, and never come out. Not a word,” added he, as Bilk once more showed signs of breaking silence. “Wait till she speaks again.”
Another long pause, and then another long recital in gibberish by the old woman, broken by the same coughing and groaning as before. Then the man said—
“Stand up, and hold your hands above your head.”
Bilk obeyed.
“You want to know how to escape the peril?” said the man.
Bilk, with his hands still up, nodded.
“To-night at nine o’clock you will hear a bell.”
Again Bilk nodded. Fancy the gipsies knowing that!
“You will go up to a small room with a chair and a bed in it, and undress.”
A pause, and another nod from the astonished Bilk.
“You will put on a long white robe coming down to your ankles. At half-past nine the place will be dark—as black as pitch.”
Bilk shuddered a little at the prospect.
“Then will be the time to escape your peril, or else to fall a victim. To escape it you must go quietly down the stairs and out of the house. The being who rules your life will be away for this one evening, and you will escape through his room by the window, which is close to the ground.”
Bilk started once more.Heknew the doctor was to be out that evening, but what short of supernatural vision could tell the gipsies of it?
“You must escape in the long white robe, and run past here on to the cross roads. No one will see you. At the cross roads there is a post with four arms. You must climb it and sit on the arm pointing this way until the clock strikes twelve. The peril will then be past, and your fortune will be made. Not a word. Go, and beware, Alexander Magnus Bilk!”
The legs of the scared Alexander could scarcely uphold him as he obeyed this last order, and sped trembling towards the school. The gipsies sat motionless as his footsteps echoed down the lane and died slowly away into silence.
Then they rose to go also; but as they did so other footsteps suddenly sounded, approaching them. With an alacrity astonishing in persons of their advanced age they darted back to their place of retreat; but too late. The footsteps came on quickly, and followed them to their very hiding-place, and next moment the light of two bullseyes turned full upon them, and the aged couple were in the hands of the police.
De Prudhom did not often allow himself the luxury of an evening out during term time. But on this particular evening he was pledged to fulfil a long-standing engagement with an old crony and fellow-bachelor, residing about two miles from the school. By some mysterious means the worthy dominie’s intentions had oozed out, and Bilk was by no means the only boy who had heard of it. Mice seem to find out by instinct when the cat is away, and fix their own diversions accordingly.
I merely mention this to explain that as far as Alexander Magnus was concerned no night could have been more favourable for carrying out the intricate series of instructions laid down by the gipsy for the making of his fortune. With this reflection he consoled himself somewhat as he ran back to the school.
The doctor had already started for his evening’s dissipation, if dining with Professor Hammerhead could be thus described. This eccentric old gentleman combined in one the avocations of a bachelor, a man of science, and a justice of the peace. He rarely took his walks abroad, preferring the solitude of his library, and the occasional company of some old comrade with whom to talk over old times, and unburden his mind of the scientific problems which encumbered it. On the present occasion he had lit upon a congenial spirit in worthy Dr Prudhom, and the two spent a very snug evening together over the dessert, raking up memories of the good old days when they lived on the same staircase at Brasenose; and plunging deep into abstruse questions of natural and physical science which even the sherry could not prevent from being dry.
The professor’s present craze was what is commonly termed ethnology. Anything connected with the history and vicissitudes of the primitive races of mankind excited his enthusiasm, and he was never tired of inquiring into the languages, the manners, the customs, the dress, the ceremonies, and the movements generally of various branches of the human family, of whom the most obscure were sure to be in his eyes the most interesting.
It was only natural, therefore, that when Dr Prudhom made some casual reference to the recent incursion of gipsies, his host should seize the occasion to expatiate on the history of that extraordinary race; tracing them from the Egyptians downwards, and waxing eloquent on their tribal instincts, which no civilisation or even persecution could eradicate or domesticate.
“Fact is,” said he, with a chuckle, “they had me to thank that they were allowed here so long. Police came to me end of first week and said they were a nuisance. I told the police when I wanted their opinion I’d ask it. End of second week police came again and said all the farmyards round had been robbed. I said I must inquire into it. He! he! All the time I was making glorious observations, my boy; a note-book full, I declare. End of third week inspector of police came and said he should have to apply at head-quarters for instructions if I wouldn’t give them. Not a place was secure as long as the vagabonds stayed. Had to cave in then, and issue a warrant or so and get rid of them. Sorry for it. Much to learn ye: about them, and the few specimens brought before me weren’t good ones. Young gipsies, you know, Prudhom, aren’t up to the mark. You only get the true aboriginal ring about the old people. Yes, I’m afraid they’re breaking up, you know. Sorry for it.”
Dr Prudhom concurred, and mentioned as a somewhat significant fact that very few old gipsies had accompanied the late visitation, which consisted almost altogether of the young and possibly degenerate members of the tribe.
The discussion had reached this stage, and the professor was about to adduce evidence from history of a similar period of depression in the race, when there came a ring at the front bell, followed by a shuffling of feet in the hall, which was presently explained by the appearance of the servant, who announced that there were two constables below who wished to see his worship.
Now his worship was anything but pleased to be interrupted in the midst of his interesting discussion by a matter of such secondary importance as an interview with the police.
“Can’t see them now,” said he to the servant; “tell them to call in the morning.” The servant retired.
“Strange thing,” observed the justice of the peace; “you can shut up your school at five o’clock every night, and every cheesemonger and tinker in the place can do the same; but we’ve got no time we can call our own. Pull your chair up to the fire, old fellow. Let’s see, what were we saying?” The servant appeared again at this point, and said—“Please, sir, they’ve got a couple of the gipsies, and want—”
“Eh, what!” exclaimed the professor, jumping up. “Why didn’t you say so before? Gipsies! Why, Prudhom, my boy, could anything be more opportune? Show them into the library, and set a chair for the doctor. Do you hear? How fortunate this is! Now while I’m examining them, watch closely, and see if you do not observe the peculiar curve of the nostril I was speaking to you about as characterising the septentrional species of the tribe. Come away, doctor!”
And off trotted the man of science to his library, closely followed by the scarcely less eager dominie.
At the far end of the dimly-lighted room stood the constables, on either side of an aged couple of vagabonds. The old man was arrayed in a long coat which nearly reached the ground, leaving only a glimpse of a stained and weather-beaten pair of pantaloons and striped parti-coloured stockings beneath. The old woman wore a shawl, gipsy fashion, over her head, and reaching to her feet, which were shod in unusually large and heavy hob-nailed boots. The faces and hands of both were black with dirt, and bronzed with heat, and as they stood there trembling in the grasp of the law, with chattering teeth and tottering knees, they looked a veritable picture of outcast humanity.
“Prudhom, my boy,” whispered the magistrate to his guest, with a most unjudicial nudge, to emphasise his remarks, “they’re old ones. Was ever such luck! Knowing ones, too, I guess: they’ll try to trick us with their gammon, you see. He! he! Now, constable, what have you got here?”
For the first time the elderly couple lifted their heads and looked towards the Bench. As they did so they uttered an incoherent ejaculation, and attempted to spring forward. But the active and intelligent servants of the law checked them by a vigorous grip of their arms, and crying “Silence!” in their most majestic and menacing tones, reduced them at last to order.
“See that?” whispered the professor to the doctor; “most characteristic. Simulation is of the very essence of their race. Oh, this is beautiful! Did you catch what they said just then? It was an expression in the Maeso-Shemitic dialect, still to be found in the south of Spain and on the old Moorish coast of Africa. I know it well. Well, constable?”
“If you please, your honour, I was passing near the school about half-past five this afternoon along with my brother officer when I observe the defendants crawling along beside the wall. I keeps my eye on them, and observe them going in the direction of Deadman’s Lane. I follows unobserved, and observes them crawl behind a hedge. I waits to observe what follows, and presently I observe a young gentleman walking down the lane. As I expects, the male defendant comes out and offers to tell him his fortune, and I observes the young gentleman give the parties money. I waits till he leaves, and then with my brother officer we arrest the parties. That’s all, your worship. Stand still, you wagabone you; do you hear?”
This last observation was addressed, not to his worship, but to the female prisoner, who once more made an effort to step forward and speak. The grip of the constable kept her where she was, but, heedless of this threatening gesture, she cried out, in a shrill, trembling voice—
“Please, sir—please, doctor, we’re two of your boys.”
The doctor, who had been intently looking out for the curved nostril alluded to by his host, started as if he had been shot.
“Eh, what?” he gasped; “what was that I heard?”
“Why,” said the professor, in ecstasy, “it’s just as I told you. Dissimulation is second nature to the tribe. No he is too big for them. The old lady says she and the other rogue are your children. Doctor, there’s a notion for you!—an old bachelor like you, too! He! he!”
“We are indeed!” cried the old man, echoing the shrill tones of his helpmeet. “I’m Morgan, Dr Prudhom, and he’s Dell. Indeed, we’re speaking the truth. We only did it—”
“There, you see,” once more observed the delighted professor; “it’s the very thing I knew would happen. They know you are a schoolmaster, and they want you to believe— Oh, this is really most interesting.”
The doctor seemed to find it interesting. He changed colour several times, and looked hard at the two reprobates before him. But their weather-and-dust-beaten countenances conveyed no information to his mind. Their voices certainly did startle him with something like a familiar sound; but might not this be part of the deep dissimulation dwelt upon with so much emphasis by his learned friend?
“I wouldn’t have missed this for twenty pounds,” said the magistrate, beaming on his guest; “my theories are confirmed to the letter.”
“We only did it for a lark, sir, and we’re awfully sorry,” cried the old man. “We really are, aren’t we, Dell?”
“Yes, sir,” cried the old lady; “please let us off this time.”
“Upon my word,” said the doctor, getting up and advancing towards the prisoners. “I don’t know—”
“Don’t be a fool, Prudhom; I know them of old. Sit down, man. Constable, I shall commit the prisoners. Where are my papers?”
“Oh, doctor, please save us!” cried the old lady again. “We are speaking the truth. Let us wash our faces and take off our cloaks, and you’ll see we are. Oh, we’ll never do it again!”
And before the doctor could reply, or the scandalised constables could prevent it, the two gipsies cast off their outer garments, and presented themselves to the bewildered spectators in the mud-stained jerseys and knickerbockers of the Holmhurst football club! I draw a veil over the explanations, the lectures, and the appeals which followed, as also I forbear to dwell upon the consternation of the man of science, and the cruel disorganisation of all his cherished theories. It is only fair to say that the professor bore no malice, when once he discovered how the matter stood, and used his magisterial influence with the doctor to procure at any rate a mitigated punishment for the culprits.
The delinquents were ordered off to the lavatory, and left there with a can of hot water and a cube of soap, to remove the wrinkles and sunburn from their crestfallen countenances. Which done, they humbly presented themselves in the library, where the doctor, looking very stern, stood already accoutred for the journey home. The leave-taking between the two old gentlemen was subdued and solemn, and then in grim silence Dr Prudhom stalked forth into the night, followed at a respectful distance by his trembling disciples.
Till that moment the thought of Bilk had never once crossed the minds of the agitated amateur gipsies, but it flashed across them now as the doctor strode straight for the cross roads. What if the miserable Alexander Magnus should have swallowed the absurd bait laid for him, and be in the act of making his fortune on the very spot they were to pass!
They held a hurried consultation in whisper on this terrible possibility. “We shall be expelled if it comes out!” groaned Dell. “Yes; we may as well tell him at once,” said Morgan. “He may not be there, you know; perhaps we’d better wait and see, in case.”
So they went on in the doctor’s wake, nearer and nearer to the fatal cross roads at every step.
Suddenly, as they came within a hundred yards of the signpost, the doctor stood still and uttered an exclamation, the meaning of which they were able to guess only too readily. Straining their eyes in the direction indicated, they could discern a white shadowy form hovering in the road before them. “What’s that?” exclaimed the doctor in a whisper. Dell was conscious of a secret nudge as Morgan gasped—“Oh, it looks like a ghost! Oh, doctor!” and the two boys clung wildly to the doctor’s arm, trembling and gasping with well-feigned terror.
Dr Prudhom trembled too, but his agitation was unfeigned. The three stood still breathless, and watched the dim figure as it hovered across their path, and then vanished into the darkness.
“What can it be?” said the doctor, bracing himself up with an effort, and preparing to walk on.
“Oh, please, sir,” cried the boys, “don’t go on! do let us turn back! Oh dear! oh dear!”
“Foolish boys!” said the doctor; “haven’t you sense enough to know that no such thing as—ah! there it is again!”
Yes, there it was again. A faint beam of the moon broke through the clouds, and lit up the white figure once more where it stood close to the sign-post. And as they watched it seemed to grow, rising higher and higher till its head nearly touched the cross-bars. Then suddenly, and with a groan, it seemed to drop into the earth, and all was darkness once more. The boys clung one on each side to the doctor, who trembled hardly less than themselves. No one dared move, or speak, or utter a sound.
Again the moon sent forth a beam, as the figure once more appeared and slowly rose higher and higher. For a moment it seemed as if it would soar into the air, but again with a dull crash it descended and vanished.
“Boys,” said the doctor hoarsely, “I confess I—I am puzzled!”
“I—I wonder,” said Dell, “if I ever dare go and see what it is. I say, M–m–organ, would you g–g–go with me—for the d–d–doctor’s sake?”
“Oh, Dell! I’m afraid. But—yes, I’ll try.”
“Brave boys!” said the doctor, never taking his eyes off the spot where the ghost last vanished.
The two boys stole forward on tiptoe, holding one another’s arms; then suddenly they broke into a rush straight for the sign-post.
There was a loud shriek as the white figure rose up to meet them.
“Bilk, you idiot, cut back for your life! here’s the doctor! We were only having a lark with you. Do cut your sticks, and slip in quietly, and it’ll be all right. Look alive, or we’re all three done for!”
The ill-starred Bilk needed no further invitation. He started to run as fast as his long legs would carry him, his night-gown flapping in the evening breeze, and his two persecutors following him with cries of “Booh!”
“Scat!”
“Shoo!” and other formulae for exorcising evil spirits.
After a hundred yards or so the two heroes gave up the chase, and returned to the slowly-reviving doctor.
“Come along, sir,” said Dell; “there’s nothing there; it vanished as soon as we got to it. Let us be quick, sir, in case it comes back.”
The remainder of the walk home that evening, I need hardly observe, was brisk; but it was not so brisk as the same journey accomplished by Alexander Magnus Bilk, who had reached the school a full quarter of an hour before his pursuers, and was safe between his blankets by the time that they peeped into his room on their way to bed, and whispered consolingly, “It’s all up with the duke’s daughter now, old man!”
The doctor may have had some dim suspicion of the real state of affairs; but if so, he gave no sign, and the boys, happy in their escape from what might have proved a grave matter, were content to forego all further practical jokes of the kind for the rest of the session.