Chapter Thirty Seven.The Coward’s Blow.Fully determined that there must be no scandal, Dick resolved to await his opportunity, and then confront his cousin, to demand of him that he should quickly vacate his position; and, to this end, he watched for a chance to meet him somewhere quite alone. But he very soon became aware of the fact that not only had Mark recognised, but avoided, him, till one day, when idling along about a couple of miles from the town, there was Mark ahead, going on in front, as if inviting him to follow, and leading him on right away.What Mark’s object was in following his devious course along the lanes more and more into the country Richard Frayne did not pause to consider; all he thought was that at last, after many efforts, he was going to run his cousin down, and bring him to bay right away from the possibility of interruption, and where, out in the open fields, they would, for the time being, occupy the position not of officer and private—with the tremendous barrier of rank between them, which was like some large breastwork protecting Mark from assault—but as man to man.And there, a few hundred yards in advance, Mark walked rapidly on, never once, as far as his cousin could see, looking back, though Richard felt sure that he was aware of being followed, and was awaiting his opportunity to get out of sight and then make for the town.Richard knew that by running he might now overtake the young officer, but he left this for a last resource, meaning to walk steadily on until he caught up to Mark or forced him to turn back and meet him face to face.The way grew more rural and secluded, and the chalk hills, with their sides broken up by frost and weathering, stood out white, and dotted with patches of heath and bracken. Here and there a dense copse could be seen, while in sheltered hollows—forming in the distance what looked like squares worked in tapestry patterns—was a huge fabric of green, looped and flowered, where the hops hung in luxuriant grape-like clusters.Every now and then Mark was lost to sight, as he plunged into some copse, following a devious footpath, but Richard caught sight of him again soon after. Then the quarry was missed once more, as he crossed one of the hop-gardens; yet, always the same, Richard dogged him with unerring patience for hours.“What does he mean?” thought Richard at last. “He can’t know I am following him. He is simply having a long walk to keep himself in training, and will soon turn back.”At last, about half an hour after passing a long village lying low down in a hollow among the hills, and where there was no sign of farmhouse or cottage anywhere in the broken, wooded landscape, Mark plunged into a great patch of coppice, which had been cut down for hop-poles a few years before, and had sprung up again, forming a dense wilderness of ash, hazel, and sweet chestnut, running right up a steep, bank-like hill, away below which, well sheltered from the north and westerly gales, lay another of the many hop-fields, heavy with its green and golden bines.Here all at once Richard found himself at fault, and he stood gazing onward, with a feeling of annoyance rapidly growing as the thought came insistent that, after all, he was to have his long, exciting walk for nothing.Only a few minutes before he had seen the erect figure pass in among the trees, and it must, he felt, be exactly where he stood; but there was no sight of it going onward, and, as far as he could make out, there was no lane near, unless one passed over by the red-brick building which topped an eminence to the right—a building with a couple of the great cowls of the hop-kilns rising from its roof.“He must have made for these,” thought Richard. And feeling pretty certain that if he took a short cut down through the hop-garden he would strike the track, and find his cousin coming up the lane deep down in the coppice, or passing onward on his return, he passed rapidly on. Down he went along the steep slope, threading the tall, thin growing-poles to right and left, till he came suddenly upon the edge of the hop-garden, with its little hills, each squared by its four poles, running in direct lines, and forming shady alleys, completely embowered in many places by the vines which festooned the poles and leaped over from side to side.Keeping to the edge of the garden for a few yards, and passing alley after alley, till he came upon the end of one which looked fairly open, and which ran in the direction of the oast-house on the hill, Richard was about to plunge down this, when, all at once, there was a sharp, thin sound, followed by the loud whirr of wings, as an early covey of strongly-pinioned partridges, alarmed by the crack, sprang up, and flew over the tops of the poles, completely hidden by the vines.Eager and excited now, Richard passed into the next alley and the next, gazing sharply down them for him who had struck that match to light a cigar.“At last!” he said to himself; for not a dozen yards down the next—a particularly dark, thickly-embowered lane of verdure—there stood Mark, with his back to him, holding a second match to his cigar, from which the grey smoke rose up, to disappear amid the vine-like leaves.Drawing a long breath, Richard walked down this alley. But Mark did not move, standing, coolly smoking there, till his cousin was within a couple of yards, when he started round as if surprised, and the two young men stood in the greenish twilight of that solitude, utterly hidden, while in all probability there was not a human being within a couple of miles.“Ah, my lad,” said Mark, quietly, “having a walk? Rather hot.”He turned as if to go, but was arrested by Richard’s imperious order—“Stop!”Mark turned round, frowning and scowling.“You don’t belong to my regiment, my lad, but you know that this is not the way to address an officer.”“That will do, Mark Frayne,” cried Richard, sternly. “It is time we understood one another.”“Mark Frayne!” cried the officer, angrily. Then, with a half-laugh, “Oh! I see—205th, from the Town Barracks. You have got hold of my name, my lad.”“Got hold of your name!” exclaimed Richard, angrily. “There, no more of that. I tell you I can bear this no longer. It is time we came to an understanding.”“My good fellow, have you been drinking?” said Mark, with a forced laugh; “or is it a touch of sunstroke? Here, you had better make for the nearest stream, have a good draught of water, and then get back to barracks.”“So that’s how Mr Mark Frayne would prescribe for sunstroke!” said Richard, sarcastically.“My good fellow, we are not in garrison now, and I like to be kind and friendly to men in the ranks; but there are bounds. Recollect that you are addressing your officer, and do not be insolent!”“Insolent?” cried Richard.“Yes, sir, insolent!” said Mark, speaking in a low voice. “You have got hold of my name; but I am Sir Mark Frayne.”“Mark Frayne,” cried Richard, fiercely, “and my cousin! Once more I tell you that this can go on no longer!”“Are you mad, fellow?” said Mark, speaking beneath his breath.“Almost, at being face to face with you alone after all I have suffered at your hands! There, set aside this miserable show of not knowing me! You recognised me that night of the ball. You knew me directly, though you tried hard to assume ignorance. Now, then, I don’t want to be hard upon you. I have held back from going to lawyers, for I have felt that it would be better if we settled the matter ourselves. Do you dare to tell me that you do not know me?”Mark gazed at him searchingly, and then his face seemed to light up.“Why, yes; of course, I know you now—the bandsman Smithson. Of course. You are the man who helped me out of the burning tent.”“Yes; I saved the life of one who had sent me into this miserable exile!”“Of course, I see now. You had a serious illness after, Smithson, and it affected your head. The doctor told me all about it.”“It was needless,” said Richard, gazing full in the eyes which were half-closed, and which kept on glancing from their corners up and down the long dim alley where they stood.“No; I am glad he told me, my lad. That explains a good deal. Now, take my advice, and get back to barracks. You were not fit to come so far.”This assumption of ignorance staggered Richard for the moment. Then, with his voice sounding very deep and stern—“Look here, Mark,” he said; “your poor father is dead, but I presume that my aunt is living, and for her sake I am unwilling to take steps that may give her pain. You proved yourself an unprincipled scoundrel over that bill transaction, and now, even as an officer, you cannot act like a gentleman.”Mark was very pale now as he stood facing his cousin; but he showed no sign of resentment, and Richard went on—“Your conduct towards Miss Deane has been that of a dishonourable blackguard; towards Mr Lacey, that of a sharper and a cheat. You see, I know; but I am willing to spare you, for your mother’s sake. You will at once communicate with your lawyers, and tell them your assumption of the property and title has been a mistake, and that you are willing to surrender all claims at once.”“Poor fellow!” said Mark, softly, as he stood with his hands in his jacket pockets and with a peculiar thin smile upon his tightened lips; “the result of the fever. What a fancy to get into his head!”“Do you mean to take that line?” said Richard. “Think better of it, and give it up. It will save you trouble, your mother pain, and I promise you that I will not be ungenerous toward you.”“How singular these crazes are!” said Mark, softly, as if speaking to himself.“Then you mean to fight me?” said Richard.“My poor fellow, what nonsense you have got into your bewildered head! I had a cousin, Sir Richard Frayne, who once, in a mad fit, attacked me, and afterwards threw himself into a river, and was drowned.”“And was not drowned,” said Richard, quietly.“Yes, he was drowned. They found the body, and he was buried close to his estate, and in the church there is a handsome monument to his memory, saying kindly things that he did not deserve, for he committed suicide in remorse for having obtained money by false pretences.”“You are an unmitigated scoundrel, Mark!” saidRichard, with his brow now knit angrily. “Once more, will you accept my terms?”“He is dead and buried,” said Mark, with his eyes more than half-shut now; “and if Richard Frayne rose from the dead no one would believe his tale.”“Will you accept my terms, or must I denounce you as one who has proved treacherous to his friend, acted like a blackleg at cards, and who obtained a hundred pounds by forging his cousin’s name, and whose title and estate he now holds?”Mark stood there, white as a sheet, glaring at the speaker.“How will you stand then, Mark, with officers and men of honour. Take my offer before you fall.”“I tell you,” whispered Mark huskily, “that Richard Frayne is dead, and that you are an impostor.”“And I tell you that I will have no mercy now,” cried Richard, excitedly. “I tried to spare you, but this life is intolerable since you came here. Once more, will you accept my terms?”“Impostor!”“Then take your chance!”“Take yours!” cried Mark, in the same low whisper, as he snatched a revolver from his pocket and fired quickly at his cousin, who sprang back, dragged a hop-pole from the side of the alley, snapping it in two, and, wild with agony and excitement, made a rush at Mark, who met it by standing firm, now taking aim at his cousin’s head.But he did not fire; for all at once Richard’s knees gave way, the stout pole fell from his grasp, and, flinging up his hands, he swayed over backward with a crash, bearing down a portion of the hop-bine as he fell.Mark stood there with his arm still rigidly extended, but altering his position now. Then, taking a step or two forward, he bent over, gazing fixedly at his cousin’s distorted face, and taking aim once more as he stooped. He was about to draw the trigger, when the sharp barking of a dog arose from two or three hundred yards away.The barking ceased, and Mark hurriedly thrust the pistol back in his pocket, but a sudden thought struck him, and, quickly stooping down, he seized his cousin’s clenched right hand, dragged the fingers apart, and placed the weapon in his grasp; then laying the broken piece of hop-pole back, as if it had been broken in the fall, he rose and looked sharply up and down the alley, and stepped into the next, after peering through and looking up and down that.The next moment his white and alarmed face reappeared, avoiding the body lying prone, as his eyes peered here and there till they fell upon the freshly-lit cigar he had dropped from his lips; for a faint streak of smoke rose from where it lay, and betrayed its presence.Reaching forward, he caught it up, drew back and disappeared through the drooping hops, passing from one alley to another, till he elected to walk straight on to a coppice on the other side; here lighting his cigar afresh, he began to walk back toward Ratcham at a slow steady pace, and without meeting a soul; neither did he hear the barking of the dog again.
Fully determined that there must be no scandal, Dick resolved to await his opportunity, and then confront his cousin, to demand of him that he should quickly vacate his position; and, to this end, he watched for a chance to meet him somewhere quite alone. But he very soon became aware of the fact that not only had Mark recognised, but avoided, him, till one day, when idling along about a couple of miles from the town, there was Mark ahead, going on in front, as if inviting him to follow, and leading him on right away.
What Mark’s object was in following his devious course along the lanes more and more into the country Richard Frayne did not pause to consider; all he thought was that at last, after many efforts, he was going to run his cousin down, and bring him to bay right away from the possibility of interruption, and where, out in the open fields, they would, for the time being, occupy the position not of officer and private—with the tremendous barrier of rank between them, which was like some large breastwork protecting Mark from assault—but as man to man.
And there, a few hundred yards in advance, Mark walked rapidly on, never once, as far as his cousin could see, looking back, though Richard felt sure that he was aware of being followed, and was awaiting his opportunity to get out of sight and then make for the town.
Richard knew that by running he might now overtake the young officer, but he left this for a last resource, meaning to walk steadily on until he caught up to Mark or forced him to turn back and meet him face to face.
The way grew more rural and secluded, and the chalk hills, with their sides broken up by frost and weathering, stood out white, and dotted with patches of heath and bracken. Here and there a dense copse could be seen, while in sheltered hollows—forming in the distance what looked like squares worked in tapestry patterns—was a huge fabric of green, looped and flowered, where the hops hung in luxuriant grape-like clusters.
Every now and then Mark was lost to sight, as he plunged into some copse, following a devious footpath, but Richard caught sight of him again soon after. Then the quarry was missed once more, as he crossed one of the hop-gardens; yet, always the same, Richard dogged him with unerring patience for hours.
“What does he mean?” thought Richard at last. “He can’t know I am following him. He is simply having a long walk to keep himself in training, and will soon turn back.”
At last, about half an hour after passing a long village lying low down in a hollow among the hills, and where there was no sign of farmhouse or cottage anywhere in the broken, wooded landscape, Mark plunged into a great patch of coppice, which had been cut down for hop-poles a few years before, and had sprung up again, forming a dense wilderness of ash, hazel, and sweet chestnut, running right up a steep, bank-like hill, away below which, well sheltered from the north and westerly gales, lay another of the many hop-fields, heavy with its green and golden bines.
Here all at once Richard found himself at fault, and he stood gazing onward, with a feeling of annoyance rapidly growing as the thought came insistent that, after all, he was to have his long, exciting walk for nothing.
Only a few minutes before he had seen the erect figure pass in among the trees, and it must, he felt, be exactly where he stood; but there was no sight of it going onward, and, as far as he could make out, there was no lane near, unless one passed over by the red-brick building which topped an eminence to the right—a building with a couple of the great cowls of the hop-kilns rising from its roof.
“He must have made for these,” thought Richard. And feeling pretty certain that if he took a short cut down through the hop-garden he would strike the track, and find his cousin coming up the lane deep down in the coppice, or passing onward on his return, he passed rapidly on. Down he went along the steep slope, threading the tall, thin growing-poles to right and left, till he came suddenly upon the edge of the hop-garden, with its little hills, each squared by its four poles, running in direct lines, and forming shady alleys, completely embowered in many places by the vines which festooned the poles and leaped over from side to side.
Keeping to the edge of the garden for a few yards, and passing alley after alley, till he came upon the end of one which looked fairly open, and which ran in the direction of the oast-house on the hill, Richard was about to plunge down this, when, all at once, there was a sharp, thin sound, followed by the loud whirr of wings, as an early covey of strongly-pinioned partridges, alarmed by the crack, sprang up, and flew over the tops of the poles, completely hidden by the vines.
Eager and excited now, Richard passed into the next alley and the next, gazing sharply down them for him who had struck that match to light a cigar.
“At last!” he said to himself; for not a dozen yards down the next—a particularly dark, thickly-embowered lane of verdure—there stood Mark, with his back to him, holding a second match to his cigar, from which the grey smoke rose up, to disappear amid the vine-like leaves.
Drawing a long breath, Richard walked down this alley. But Mark did not move, standing, coolly smoking there, till his cousin was within a couple of yards, when he started round as if surprised, and the two young men stood in the greenish twilight of that solitude, utterly hidden, while in all probability there was not a human being within a couple of miles.
“Ah, my lad,” said Mark, quietly, “having a walk? Rather hot.”
He turned as if to go, but was arrested by Richard’s imperious order—
“Stop!”
Mark turned round, frowning and scowling.
“You don’t belong to my regiment, my lad, but you know that this is not the way to address an officer.”
“That will do, Mark Frayne,” cried Richard, sternly. “It is time we understood one another.”
“Mark Frayne!” cried the officer, angrily. Then, with a half-laugh, “Oh! I see—205th, from the Town Barracks. You have got hold of my name, my lad.”
“Got hold of your name!” exclaimed Richard, angrily. “There, no more of that. I tell you I can bear this no longer. It is time we came to an understanding.”
“My good fellow, have you been drinking?” said Mark, with a forced laugh; “or is it a touch of sunstroke? Here, you had better make for the nearest stream, have a good draught of water, and then get back to barracks.”
“So that’s how Mr Mark Frayne would prescribe for sunstroke!” said Richard, sarcastically.
“My good fellow, we are not in garrison now, and I like to be kind and friendly to men in the ranks; but there are bounds. Recollect that you are addressing your officer, and do not be insolent!”
“Insolent?” cried Richard.
“Yes, sir, insolent!” said Mark, speaking in a low voice. “You have got hold of my name; but I am Sir Mark Frayne.”
“Mark Frayne,” cried Richard, fiercely, “and my cousin! Once more I tell you that this can go on no longer!”
“Are you mad, fellow?” said Mark, speaking beneath his breath.
“Almost, at being face to face with you alone after all I have suffered at your hands! There, set aside this miserable show of not knowing me! You recognised me that night of the ball. You knew me directly, though you tried hard to assume ignorance. Now, then, I don’t want to be hard upon you. I have held back from going to lawyers, for I have felt that it would be better if we settled the matter ourselves. Do you dare to tell me that you do not know me?”
Mark gazed at him searchingly, and then his face seemed to light up.
“Why, yes; of course, I know you now—the bandsman Smithson. Of course. You are the man who helped me out of the burning tent.”
“Yes; I saved the life of one who had sent me into this miserable exile!”
“Of course, I see now. You had a serious illness after, Smithson, and it affected your head. The doctor told me all about it.”
“It was needless,” said Richard, gazing full in the eyes which were half-closed, and which kept on glancing from their corners up and down the long dim alley where they stood.
“No; I am glad he told me, my lad. That explains a good deal. Now, take my advice, and get back to barracks. You were not fit to come so far.”
This assumption of ignorance staggered Richard for the moment. Then, with his voice sounding very deep and stern—
“Look here, Mark,” he said; “your poor father is dead, but I presume that my aunt is living, and for her sake I am unwilling to take steps that may give her pain. You proved yourself an unprincipled scoundrel over that bill transaction, and now, even as an officer, you cannot act like a gentleman.”
Mark was very pale now as he stood facing his cousin; but he showed no sign of resentment, and Richard went on—
“Your conduct towards Miss Deane has been that of a dishonourable blackguard; towards Mr Lacey, that of a sharper and a cheat. You see, I know; but I am willing to spare you, for your mother’s sake. You will at once communicate with your lawyers, and tell them your assumption of the property and title has been a mistake, and that you are willing to surrender all claims at once.”
“Poor fellow!” said Mark, softly, as he stood with his hands in his jacket pockets and with a peculiar thin smile upon his tightened lips; “the result of the fever. What a fancy to get into his head!”
“Do you mean to take that line?” said Richard. “Think better of it, and give it up. It will save you trouble, your mother pain, and I promise you that I will not be ungenerous toward you.”
“How singular these crazes are!” said Mark, softly, as if speaking to himself.
“Then you mean to fight me?” said Richard.
“My poor fellow, what nonsense you have got into your bewildered head! I had a cousin, Sir Richard Frayne, who once, in a mad fit, attacked me, and afterwards threw himself into a river, and was drowned.”
“And was not drowned,” said Richard, quietly.
“Yes, he was drowned. They found the body, and he was buried close to his estate, and in the church there is a handsome monument to his memory, saying kindly things that he did not deserve, for he committed suicide in remorse for having obtained money by false pretences.”
“You are an unmitigated scoundrel, Mark!” saidRichard, with his brow now knit angrily. “Once more, will you accept my terms?”
“He is dead and buried,” said Mark, with his eyes more than half-shut now; “and if Richard Frayne rose from the dead no one would believe his tale.”
“Will you accept my terms, or must I denounce you as one who has proved treacherous to his friend, acted like a blackleg at cards, and who obtained a hundred pounds by forging his cousin’s name, and whose title and estate he now holds?”
Mark stood there, white as a sheet, glaring at the speaker.
“How will you stand then, Mark, with officers and men of honour. Take my offer before you fall.”
“I tell you,” whispered Mark huskily, “that Richard Frayne is dead, and that you are an impostor.”
“And I tell you that I will have no mercy now,” cried Richard, excitedly. “I tried to spare you, but this life is intolerable since you came here. Once more, will you accept my terms?”
“Impostor!”
“Then take your chance!”
“Take yours!” cried Mark, in the same low whisper, as he snatched a revolver from his pocket and fired quickly at his cousin, who sprang back, dragged a hop-pole from the side of the alley, snapping it in two, and, wild with agony and excitement, made a rush at Mark, who met it by standing firm, now taking aim at his cousin’s head.
But he did not fire; for all at once Richard’s knees gave way, the stout pole fell from his grasp, and, flinging up his hands, he swayed over backward with a crash, bearing down a portion of the hop-bine as he fell.
Mark stood there with his arm still rigidly extended, but altering his position now. Then, taking a step or two forward, he bent over, gazing fixedly at his cousin’s distorted face, and taking aim once more as he stooped. He was about to draw the trigger, when the sharp barking of a dog arose from two or three hundred yards away.
The barking ceased, and Mark hurriedly thrust the pistol back in his pocket, but a sudden thought struck him, and, quickly stooping down, he seized his cousin’s clenched right hand, dragged the fingers apart, and placed the weapon in his grasp; then laying the broken piece of hop-pole back, as if it had been broken in the fall, he rose and looked sharply up and down the alley, and stepped into the next, after peering through and looking up and down that.
The next moment his white and alarmed face reappeared, avoiding the body lying prone, as his eyes peered here and there till they fell upon the freshly-lit cigar he had dropped from his lips; for a faint streak of smoke rose from where it lay, and betrayed its presence.
Reaching forward, he caught it up, drew back and disappeared through the drooping hops, passing from one alley to another, till he elected to walk straight on to a coppice on the other side; here lighting his cigar afresh, he began to walk back toward Ratcham at a slow steady pace, and without meeting a soul; neither did he hear the barking of the dog again.
Chapter Thirty Eight.Something in the Hops.The hops that year had been looking magnificent, and some of the growers were chuckling as they thought of the number of hundredweight that would go to the acre, while others took a prejudiced view of the case from a dread of the plentifulness of the crop bringing them down to a state of cheapness that would, when the cost of growing, picking, kilning, and packing had been deducted, leave nothing to pay the rent.Then a change had come—a rapid change. There had been a fortnight’s dry weather, and, as if by magic, the beautiful growths began to look foul, black, and yellow.It was very simple—a few tiny flies came and laid eggs: the eggs hatched into little insects, and before many hours had elapsed these little insects, without waiting to become flies, had children, and these had children, and these had children as hard as ever they could, while the mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers kept on increasing until the vine-leaves became covered. These grew into hundreds, hundreds into thousands and tens and hundreds of thousands, then millions, and then into hundreds and thousands of millions, and then on and on till billions and trillions, and all the other brain-devouring lions covered the hop-grower’s crops, threatening destruction to his hopes.Then out came the engine to attack the plague.It was an old parish fire-engine that used to live beneath the bells in the square tower of a church not many miles away. It had once been red; and upon rare occasions, when a cottage or wheat-rick caught or was set on fire and a glow gave warning, there would be a great deal of shouting, the clerk’s house was raced to for the keys, and then the old engine was dragged out by its cross-handle, and a cheering crowd would trundle it for miles to the scene of the fire, which was generally expiring by the time it was reached. If the fire was not out, boys and men dragged down the coils of hose and the suction-pipe, which was run into a pond. Buckets were dipped, and water was poured down the cylinders to moisten the suckers, and ran through, because the leathers were all dried-up. Then the handles were seized and worked up and down, making a good deal of noise, but no water began to squirt, which did not matter (for the hose was all cracked, and would not have conveyed it); and at last everything was packed up again, and, the fire being out for want of more food, the engine was dragged back to its dwelling-place in the belfry, to go on growing older and more mildewy and useless.It took a great many years to teach people that, but for the show of the thing, a great deal more good would have resulted if everybody had carried a tin mug of water and thrown it upon the fire. Still, they did learn this truth at last, and the result was that one day the old fire-engine was sold by auction in the marketplace of the nearest town and bought for a trifle by one of the hop-growers.From that day the engine began to lead a new life, for it was cleaned up, newly leathered and suckered, and kept in a barn, from which it was dragged year after year to put out a plague as bad as fire.Upon the morning in question there was a little procession from the oast-houses down to the gardens in the hollow, where, in a sheltered bower, a fire was lit under a huge copper, which had led the way; a great water-tub brought fluid from the muddy pond, and a kind of hot soup was made, bucketfuls of which were mixed with tubs of water; the suction-pipe of the engine was inserted in these, the hose and branch attached, and the slaughter of the insects began down between the rows of hop-poles, where the blackened, blight-covered hops clustered, twined, and hung.Fizz-fuzz,spitter-sputter! Away flew the medicated water in a poisonous spray, and row after row of the blighted hops was relieved of the insect enemies, while the farmer’s men kept the fire going, the water boiling, and the poison brewing to save the crop.There was just enough room for the little engine to be dragged down between the hills—as they term them—of the hops without much crushing; but the labourers took good care to empty it first, and even then the wheels made deep ruts in the well-dug soil. After some hours’ work the men had drawn it well into the middle of the garden; and while two pumped and another directed a fine spray under the leaves and among the tendrils, others plodded steadily along from the copper and tubs, each bearing a couple of buckets, and carefully picking a fresh way from time to time so as to avoid the shower of fine rain dripping from the verdant arches overhead.“Hope nobody won’t taste none o’ this stuff in his yale, Joey,” said one of the bucket-bearers, as he tossed the medicated water into the big tub from which the suction-pipe of the engine drew its supply, and as he spoke he widened the perennial grin which dwelt upon his puckered face.“Do un good,” growled Joey, who was directing the spray from the branch so as to spread it over as many leaves as possible. “Make un teetotal, Smiler.”“Ha, ha!” chuckled the man with the buckets; “deal o’ teetotal about you, Joey. Make yale taste, though, won’t it?”“Na-a-a-ay! Rain’ll wash it all off in no time, Smiler. There, fetch some more.”“All very fine, Joey; but its wa-arm down here. Wind don’t come.”“Well, who wants wind to knock the poles down?—best lewed garden, this, on the fa-arm. Fatch some more!”Smiler, as he was called, went off with his empty buckets, trudged back to the copper and water-barrel, justifying his name at every step; for he smiled at the clods of earth, the weeds which had sprung up, at the poles, and then at the horse in the shafts of the water-barrel cart, before refilling his buckets and starting back down a fresh row of hops, between which the sun came glinting and sending shafts of silver arrows to the rich soil, out of which peeped wool clippings, shoddy, greasy rags, and other indescribable rubbish used by the farmer to fertilise his field.When abreast of the engine, hidden from him by three or four rows of poles, Smiler set down his pails with a clank, smiled round him, and wiped his wet brow with one bare arm, then the other side in the same way, the operation being so satisfactory that he continued it all over his face. Then, smiling more than ever, he stooped, picked up his buckets, went on a few yards to where there was an opening into the next row, turned himself edgewise, and passed through with his buckets swung round, and was about to pass through into another green arcade, but stopped, smiling still, and put down his load once more with a louder rattle of the handles, whileclank clankwent the engine andwhish whishandsputterthe cloud of spray among the leaves.“Now then, Smiler, come on!” shouted one of the men with the engine, still hidden, but close at hand.“Hi! Joey,” shouted Smiler.“What’s the matter?—found a hop-dog?”“Nay! Here’s a tipsy swaddy lying dead asleep; shall I gi’e him a bucket o’ hop-wash?”“Gahn! Bring that stuff.”“But I tell ye he’s tipsy, boy. Come, all on yer, and see!”The clanking of the engine stopped at once, for it was very hot there, and the diversion was acceptable; so, leaving the fine rain dripping from the hop-bine, three men came, dragging their legs after them, threading their way through the poles till they all stood together, wiping their streaming faces with their bare arms, and gazing down at the recumbent figure, at which the bucket-bearer smiled, the others following his example, and ending in a hearty chuckle, in which Smiler joined.“Shall I gi’e him a bucket, Joey?” he said again.“Nay,” said the man addressed. “Nobody never give you a bucket, Smiler, when you lay down in a ditch.”The others laughed, and Smiler winced a little.“Make him wet outside as well as in!”“Yah! We don’t want to spoil his red coat,” said Joey; “he’s got it pratty will syled without. Why, he must ha’ been here all night! Here, soger, wake up!”There was no movement.“D’yer hear? Right about face! ’Tention!”“Well, he must have had a good wet! How did un come here?”“I d’know,” said one of the men. “Take two shillin’ worth o’ yale to make a man like that.”“Ay,” said Smiler. “Know how they do it?”“Saves up,” said Joey.“Yah! They don’t get no money to save. I’ll tell ’ee. My cousin, Billy Weekes, ’listed—you all knew Billy?”“Ay!” chorussed the others, as they stood gazing down at the scarlet-coated figure lying with its face hidden by a drooping tangle of hops caused by the breaking of a pole.“Billy tode me,” continued Smiler, “as, when one on ’em gets leave, he goes round among his mates, and they all gi’es him a penny or twopence apiece—hundred on ’em, p’r’aps—and that sets him up!”“Ay?” said Joey. “And when their turn comes he gi’es them all a penny?”“Yes; that’s it—all round. So they chaps as goos out allus has some’at to spend.”“And a very good way, too,” said Joey, chuckling. “Well, I could drink a quaart now, and I’ve got a penny; s’pose you three chaps all gi’es me one apiece, for my throat’s as dry as a lime-basket.”The men looked at one another and chuckled.“Hadn’t us better wake un up?” said Smiler, at last.“Ay, ’fore he gets a drenching with the hop-wash,” said Joey. “Here! hi! soger! Why, he’s got a bottle in his fist here still. It’s—”The man, who had bent down low and drawn aside the verdant veil of hop-bine, started back in alarm; for, as the sunshine was let in, a couple of large vipers, which had been nestling close up to the figure, raised their heads and began to crawl away.“Look at the nedders!” cried Smiler. “Aren’t stung him, have they?”“Nay,” cried Joey, hanging back, “that arn’t all. ’Tarn’t a bottle he’s got; it’s a pistol!”Two of the men turned as if to run away, but at that moment another bucket-bearer came up, and there was a shout from up by the fire to know why the spraying had stopped.“Hi!—all on yer! Coome here!” yelled Smiler.“What’s he been shootin’?” cried one of the men who had turned to go.“Hissen,” growled Joey, with a horrified look. “He’s a dead un, lads, and been here for days.”Mastering the feeling of shrinking which had come over him, Joey went down upon one knee, amidst the awful silence which prevailed, and stretched forth a hand to draw the figure out into a patch of sunlight, but a shout in chorus from his companions made him snatch back his hand with a violent start.“Yah!—don’t touch him,” they all cried.“Why?—poor lad,” protested Joey. “We can’t leave him here!”“Mustn’t touch ’im till there’s been a inkwess,” said Smiler, excitedly.“I don’t keer for no inkwesses,” grumbled Joey; “I shall want to come here directly to wash my hops.”“What’s the matter?” cried the first of several men who came down the narrow alley. “Ingin busted?”“Nay; look ye here,” cried Smiler, excitedly, and there was a low, suppressed exclamation from the group that crowded up.“Better get a gate and carry him out,” said one.“Couldn’t get a gate down here,” said another.“And yer mustn’t touch ’im till there’s been a inkwess,” cried Smiler.“Is he dead?” said one of the new-comers.“Ay,” said one of the first four. “We sin the nedders come away from him. Stinged to death.”“Nay, he’s not bitten,” cried Joey. “Here’s his little pistol. Why, he’s one o’ they chaps as blows brass things in the band.”As he spoke, the man took the rusty pistol from the tight fingers which clutched it, and then uttered a cry.“What’s the matter?”“His hand arn’t cold,” cried Joey, and, quickly turning the figure right over into the sunshine, he gazed down excitedly, and pointed at a great red stain on the breast and side of the scarlet tunic, hidden until then, and dry now and dark.“But he’s quite dead, arn’t he?” said Smiler.“Nay, he’s not dead. You can feel his heart beat right up into his throat. Come and take hold of his legs, two on you, and Smiler and me ’ll carry this end.”“Where to?” asked one of the men, who seized a leg.“Tak’ un up to the oast-house. Here! one o’ you go and fatch a policemun and ’nother on you goo right on and tell doctor what we found. How soon can you get there?”“’N ’our, cross the fields.”“Cut, then. He’ll gi’e you a ride back in his chay.”The two men started, and, the figure being raised, it was carefully borne along the dark green alley out into the open sunshine, and then along to the shelter of a huge espalier, kept there to shelter the hop-garden from the western gales.Not a word was spoken, the men keeping still and walking as if awestricken along by the great green bank, startling the velvet-coated blackbirds, which flew out on either side and skimmed along near the great flowery ditch, and passed over the top a hundred yards ahead.Twice over a cotton-tailed rabbit darted out of the hops and plunged into the ditch, to reach its burrow in the sandy bank, while on and on the men tramped with their burden, whose bright scarlet coat, laced with gold, stood out vividly against the green of the hops on one side and that of the tall hedge on the other.“Nay, he’s only quite a boy,” said Smiler, who, as soon as his remonstrance had been conscientiously disregarded, lent himself to the task with far more energy than he had directed toward carrying the pails.“Say, one of you,” cried Joey, “go and lay that old bed out in the oast—one I had last year for kiln-watching.”“What that there in the hop-pocket?”“That’s it, lad;” and another man ran forward up the hillside.A few minutes later the burden was borne in through the wide entrance of the building to where the man who preceded them had dragged out the rough mattress used by the watcher through the night of the clear coal fires. And here in the cool shade the burden was gently laid; and the men stood round in silence, looking at the pale face before them and then at each other as if asking what to do next.“He’s gone!” whispered Smiler, whose grotesque face gave him the aspect of enjoying it all as some horrible jest.For they had hardly decently composed the stiffened figure upon its soft elastic couch before it uttered a low, deep groan.“Nay,” said Joey, in a whisper, “he’s with us yet, lads; men don’t die when you can see that.”A shudder ran through the group as they leaned forward to gaze at that to which the man pointed, and there plainly to be seen in the great windowless place by the light which came in through the broad, high doorway, they gazed at a slowly-increasing stain which came out upon the scarlet tunic hard by the blackened dried-up patch there at the side.For the movement had started the wound bleeding afresh, and a bit of experience when a fellow-labourer had his arm crushed in a threshing-machine years before had taught the speaker that where bleeding continues there must be life still left in the sufferer’s veins.
The hops that year had been looking magnificent, and some of the growers were chuckling as they thought of the number of hundredweight that would go to the acre, while others took a prejudiced view of the case from a dread of the plentifulness of the crop bringing them down to a state of cheapness that would, when the cost of growing, picking, kilning, and packing had been deducted, leave nothing to pay the rent.
Then a change had come—a rapid change. There had been a fortnight’s dry weather, and, as if by magic, the beautiful growths began to look foul, black, and yellow.
It was very simple—a few tiny flies came and laid eggs: the eggs hatched into little insects, and before many hours had elapsed these little insects, without waiting to become flies, had children, and these had children, and these had children as hard as ever they could, while the mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers kept on increasing until the vine-leaves became covered. These grew into hundreds, hundreds into thousands and tens and hundreds of thousands, then millions, and then into hundreds and thousands of millions, and then on and on till billions and trillions, and all the other brain-devouring lions covered the hop-grower’s crops, threatening destruction to his hopes.
Then out came the engine to attack the plague.
It was an old parish fire-engine that used to live beneath the bells in the square tower of a church not many miles away. It had once been red; and upon rare occasions, when a cottage or wheat-rick caught or was set on fire and a glow gave warning, there would be a great deal of shouting, the clerk’s house was raced to for the keys, and then the old engine was dragged out by its cross-handle, and a cheering crowd would trundle it for miles to the scene of the fire, which was generally expiring by the time it was reached. If the fire was not out, boys and men dragged down the coils of hose and the suction-pipe, which was run into a pond. Buckets were dipped, and water was poured down the cylinders to moisten the suckers, and ran through, because the leathers were all dried-up. Then the handles were seized and worked up and down, making a good deal of noise, but no water began to squirt, which did not matter (for the hose was all cracked, and would not have conveyed it); and at last everything was packed up again, and, the fire being out for want of more food, the engine was dragged back to its dwelling-place in the belfry, to go on growing older and more mildewy and useless.
It took a great many years to teach people that, but for the show of the thing, a great deal more good would have resulted if everybody had carried a tin mug of water and thrown it upon the fire. Still, they did learn this truth at last, and the result was that one day the old fire-engine was sold by auction in the marketplace of the nearest town and bought for a trifle by one of the hop-growers.
From that day the engine began to lead a new life, for it was cleaned up, newly leathered and suckered, and kept in a barn, from which it was dragged year after year to put out a plague as bad as fire.
Upon the morning in question there was a little procession from the oast-houses down to the gardens in the hollow, where, in a sheltered bower, a fire was lit under a huge copper, which had led the way; a great water-tub brought fluid from the muddy pond, and a kind of hot soup was made, bucketfuls of which were mixed with tubs of water; the suction-pipe of the engine was inserted in these, the hose and branch attached, and the slaughter of the insects began down between the rows of hop-poles, where the blackened, blight-covered hops clustered, twined, and hung.
Fizz-fuzz,spitter-sputter! Away flew the medicated water in a poisonous spray, and row after row of the blighted hops was relieved of the insect enemies, while the farmer’s men kept the fire going, the water boiling, and the poison brewing to save the crop.
There was just enough room for the little engine to be dragged down between the hills—as they term them—of the hops without much crushing; but the labourers took good care to empty it first, and even then the wheels made deep ruts in the well-dug soil. After some hours’ work the men had drawn it well into the middle of the garden; and while two pumped and another directed a fine spray under the leaves and among the tendrils, others plodded steadily along from the copper and tubs, each bearing a couple of buckets, and carefully picking a fresh way from time to time so as to avoid the shower of fine rain dripping from the verdant arches overhead.
“Hope nobody won’t taste none o’ this stuff in his yale, Joey,” said one of the bucket-bearers, as he tossed the medicated water into the big tub from which the suction-pipe of the engine drew its supply, and as he spoke he widened the perennial grin which dwelt upon his puckered face.
“Do un good,” growled Joey, who was directing the spray from the branch so as to spread it over as many leaves as possible. “Make un teetotal, Smiler.”
“Ha, ha!” chuckled the man with the buckets; “deal o’ teetotal about you, Joey. Make yale taste, though, won’t it?”
“Na-a-a-ay! Rain’ll wash it all off in no time, Smiler. There, fetch some more.”
“All very fine, Joey; but its wa-arm down here. Wind don’t come.”
“Well, who wants wind to knock the poles down?—best lewed garden, this, on the fa-arm. Fatch some more!”
Smiler, as he was called, went off with his empty buckets, trudged back to the copper and water-barrel, justifying his name at every step; for he smiled at the clods of earth, the weeds which had sprung up, at the poles, and then at the horse in the shafts of the water-barrel cart, before refilling his buckets and starting back down a fresh row of hops, between which the sun came glinting and sending shafts of silver arrows to the rich soil, out of which peeped wool clippings, shoddy, greasy rags, and other indescribable rubbish used by the farmer to fertilise his field.
When abreast of the engine, hidden from him by three or four rows of poles, Smiler set down his pails with a clank, smiled round him, and wiped his wet brow with one bare arm, then the other side in the same way, the operation being so satisfactory that he continued it all over his face. Then, smiling more than ever, he stooped, picked up his buckets, went on a few yards to where there was an opening into the next row, turned himself edgewise, and passed through with his buckets swung round, and was about to pass through into another green arcade, but stopped, smiling still, and put down his load once more with a louder rattle of the handles, whileclank clankwent the engine andwhish whishandsputterthe cloud of spray among the leaves.
“Now then, Smiler, come on!” shouted one of the men with the engine, still hidden, but close at hand.
“Hi! Joey,” shouted Smiler.
“What’s the matter?—found a hop-dog?”
“Nay! Here’s a tipsy swaddy lying dead asleep; shall I gi’e him a bucket o’ hop-wash?”
“Gahn! Bring that stuff.”
“But I tell ye he’s tipsy, boy. Come, all on yer, and see!”
The clanking of the engine stopped at once, for it was very hot there, and the diversion was acceptable; so, leaving the fine rain dripping from the hop-bine, three men came, dragging their legs after them, threading their way through the poles till they all stood together, wiping their streaming faces with their bare arms, and gazing down at the recumbent figure, at which the bucket-bearer smiled, the others following his example, and ending in a hearty chuckle, in which Smiler joined.
“Shall I gi’e him a bucket, Joey?” he said again.
“Nay,” said the man addressed. “Nobody never give you a bucket, Smiler, when you lay down in a ditch.”
The others laughed, and Smiler winced a little.
“Make him wet outside as well as in!”
“Yah! We don’t want to spoil his red coat,” said Joey; “he’s got it pratty will syled without. Why, he must ha’ been here all night! Here, soger, wake up!”
There was no movement.
“D’yer hear? Right about face! ’Tention!”
“Well, he must have had a good wet! How did un come here?”
“I d’know,” said one of the men. “Take two shillin’ worth o’ yale to make a man like that.”
“Ay,” said Smiler. “Know how they do it?”
“Saves up,” said Joey.
“Yah! They don’t get no money to save. I’ll tell ’ee. My cousin, Billy Weekes, ’listed—you all knew Billy?”
“Ay!” chorussed the others, as they stood gazing down at the scarlet-coated figure lying with its face hidden by a drooping tangle of hops caused by the breaking of a pole.
“Billy tode me,” continued Smiler, “as, when one on ’em gets leave, he goes round among his mates, and they all gi’es him a penny or twopence apiece—hundred on ’em, p’r’aps—and that sets him up!”
“Ay?” said Joey. “And when their turn comes he gi’es them all a penny?”
“Yes; that’s it—all round. So they chaps as goos out allus has some’at to spend.”
“And a very good way, too,” said Joey, chuckling. “Well, I could drink a quaart now, and I’ve got a penny; s’pose you three chaps all gi’es me one apiece, for my throat’s as dry as a lime-basket.”
The men looked at one another and chuckled.
“Hadn’t us better wake un up?” said Smiler, at last.
“Ay, ’fore he gets a drenching with the hop-wash,” said Joey. “Here! hi! soger! Why, he’s got a bottle in his fist here still. It’s—”
The man, who had bent down low and drawn aside the verdant veil of hop-bine, started back in alarm; for, as the sunshine was let in, a couple of large vipers, which had been nestling close up to the figure, raised their heads and began to crawl away.
“Look at the nedders!” cried Smiler. “Aren’t stung him, have they?”
“Nay,” cried Joey, hanging back, “that arn’t all. ’Tarn’t a bottle he’s got; it’s a pistol!”
Two of the men turned as if to run away, but at that moment another bucket-bearer came up, and there was a shout from up by the fire to know why the spraying had stopped.
“Hi!—all on yer! Coome here!” yelled Smiler.
“What’s he been shootin’?” cried one of the men who had turned to go.
“Hissen,” growled Joey, with a horrified look. “He’s a dead un, lads, and been here for days.”
Mastering the feeling of shrinking which had come over him, Joey went down upon one knee, amidst the awful silence which prevailed, and stretched forth a hand to draw the figure out into a patch of sunlight, but a shout in chorus from his companions made him snatch back his hand with a violent start.
“Yah!—don’t touch him,” they all cried.
“Why?—poor lad,” protested Joey. “We can’t leave him here!”
“Mustn’t touch ’im till there’s been a inkwess,” said Smiler, excitedly.
“I don’t keer for no inkwesses,” grumbled Joey; “I shall want to come here directly to wash my hops.”
“What’s the matter?” cried the first of several men who came down the narrow alley. “Ingin busted?”
“Nay; look ye here,” cried Smiler, excitedly, and there was a low, suppressed exclamation from the group that crowded up.
“Better get a gate and carry him out,” said one.
“Couldn’t get a gate down here,” said another.
“And yer mustn’t touch ’im till there’s been a inkwess,” cried Smiler.
“Is he dead?” said one of the new-comers.
“Ay,” said one of the first four. “We sin the nedders come away from him. Stinged to death.”
“Nay, he’s not bitten,” cried Joey. “Here’s his little pistol. Why, he’s one o’ they chaps as blows brass things in the band.”
As he spoke, the man took the rusty pistol from the tight fingers which clutched it, and then uttered a cry.
“What’s the matter?”
“His hand arn’t cold,” cried Joey, and, quickly turning the figure right over into the sunshine, he gazed down excitedly, and pointed at a great red stain on the breast and side of the scarlet tunic, hidden until then, and dry now and dark.
“But he’s quite dead, arn’t he?” said Smiler.
“Nay, he’s not dead. You can feel his heart beat right up into his throat. Come and take hold of his legs, two on you, and Smiler and me ’ll carry this end.”
“Where to?” asked one of the men, who seized a leg.
“Tak’ un up to the oast-house. Here! one o’ you go and fatch a policemun and ’nother on you goo right on and tell doctor what we found. How soon can you get there?”
“’N ’our, cross the fields.”
“Cut, then. He’ll gi’e you a ride back in his chay.”
The two men started, and, the figure being raised, it was carefully borne along the dark green alley out into the open sunshine, and then along to the shelter of a huge espalier, kept there to shelter the hop-garden from the western gales.
Not a word was spoken, the men keeping still and walking as if awestricken along by the great green bank, startling the velvet-coated blackbirds, which flew out on either side and skimmed along near the great flowery ditch, and passed over the top a hundred yards ahead.
Twice over a cotton-tailed rabbit darted out of the hops and plunged into the ditch, to reach its burrow in the sandy bank, while on and on the men tramped with their burden, whose bright scarlet coat, laced with gold, stood out vividly against the green of the hops on one side and that of the tall hedge on the other.
“Nay, he’s only quite a boy,” said Smiler, who, as soon as his remonstrance had been conscientiously disregarded, lent himself to the task with far more energy than he had directed toward carrying the pails.
“Say, one of you,” cried Joey, “go and lay that old bed out in the oast—one I had last year for kiln-watching.”
“What that there in the hop-pocket?”
“That’s it, lad;” and another man ran forward up the hillside.
A few minutes later the burden was borne in through the wide entrance of the building to where the man who preceded them had dragged out the rough mattress used by the watcher through the night of the clear coal fires. And here in the cool shade the burden was gently laid; and the men stood round in silence, looking at the pale face before them and then at each other as if asking what to do next.
“He’s gone!” whispered Smiler, whose grotesque face gave him the aspect of enjoying it all as some horrible jest.
For they had hardly decently composed the stiffened figure upon its soft elastic couch before it uttered a low, deep groan.
“Nay,” said Joey, in a whisper, “he’s with us yet, lads; men don’t die when you can see that.”
A shudder ran through the group as they leaned forward to gaze at that to which the man pointed, and there plainly to be seen in the great windowless place by the light which came in through the broad, high doorway, they gazed at a slowly-increasing stain which came out upon the scarlet tunic hard by the blackened dried-up patch there at the side.
For the movement had started the wound bleeding afresh, and a bit of experience when a fellow-labourer had his arm crushed in a threshing-machine years before had taught the speaker that where bleeding continues there must be life still left in the sufferer’s veins.
Chapter Thirty Nine.A good Genius.They were a very ignorant rustic lot these poor farm labourers, but they knew that certain things were now necessary, and Joey, taking the lead as they waited for the help of the surgeon, gave the orders, which were executed at once.One man seized a clean bucket, and trotted off down the hill to where in the bottom there was a dark dipping place in the lonely narrow stream, and while he was fetching the clear cold water the leader carefully unfastened the tunic.“Sharpest knife, one o’ you,” said Joey, and after a little comparison of blades, most of which were ground more or less on their owner’s clumsy boots, he selected one, and carefully slit open the shirt and, cutting away enough to form a pad, he pressed it down upon the wound and checked the bleeding.“Ought to be tied up,” he muttered; “but ’tain’t like a cut finger: you can’t turn him about. We’ll wait till doctor comes.”“Won’t yer wash it?” said Smiler, with a grin.“Nay, doctor ’ll do that if it’s right; we’ll try and give him a drink when the water comes, and bathe his face. What did he go and do that for?”“Think he did?” said Smiler.“Why, o’ course,” said another. “Hadn’t he got the pistol lying in his fist?”“Ay,” said Joey. “I s’pose some on ’em ain’t very comf’able with them drill-sergeants—shoots theirselves in barracks sometimes. Yer see, when a man ’lists, he can’t pitch it up again and say ‘I’ve had enough of this.’”“No, they’re ’bliged to stick to it,” said Smiler, “’less someun buys ’em out. I dunno, though, but what I’d ha’ liked to be a sojer; it’s better than spendin’ all yer life in a hop-garden, spuddin’ and poling and hoeing.”“You!” said Joey, “you a sojer, Smiler?”“Well, why not? Course, I know my back’s a bit twisted, but it would ha’ been right enough if I’d been drilled.”“They’d ha’ had to drill something else beside your legs and wings, Smiler,” said Joey, giving his companions a queer look.“Eh? What?”“That mug o’ your’n, else you’d ha’ been in the Black Hole half your time for laughin’ at your officers.”“Yah! Just as if I can help bein’ a good-tempered lookin’ chap. Dessay as I should make as good a sojer as most on ’em as you see over yonder at those towns. Better be allus on the smile than lookin’ savage at everyone.”“Ay, to be sure, Smiler. Wonder, though, what did make this poor chap do it? He’s a young un, too, for a sojer. I say, any on you hear his pistol go off last night?”No one answered; but the man who held the revolver began to examine it.“Here, just you mind what you’re about with that thing,” said Smiler. “I’ve heard as they’ll go off six times o’ running. Say, would it hurt un, if I lit my pipe?”“Nay,” said Joey, “and I’d thank one o’ you kindly if he’d take mine out o’ my pocket and fill and light it for me. Can’t be very long now before doctor comes, and I must hold him here downright to stop the bleeding. Ah! I can feel his heart beating just gentle like.”“You can?”“Ay; and it’s a wonder, too. Poor lad! he’s been bleeding like a pig.”The lighting of pipes was preceded by the careful putting away of the pistol, and just as the men were all puffing contentedly away, Smiler said—“Master won’t find they ten acres of hops washed if he comes ’ome to-night.”“No,” said Joey; “but you can’t wash hops when you’re finding sojers nearly dead in the alleys.—An’ here’s the water. Ain’t hurried yerself much, lad.”“Who’s to run up hill with a pail o’ water?” grumbled the man as Smiler began bathing the edge of the wound, after pouring a little water between the lips, but apparently without any effect.Then the smoking went on in silence for a while, till Smiler asked whether the heart was still beating.“Ay, I keep feeling it,” said Joe. “S’pose one o’ you goes up in one o’ the cowls and looks out: you’ll see if the pleeceman’s coming. I’m getting a bit tired o’ holding my hand to his heart.”“Let me do it now,” said Smiler.“Nay, I begun it, and I’m going on till the pleeceman comes.”One of the men had climbed up the steps at once, and they heard his heavy feet as he crossed the great loft where the hops were pressed heavily into the pockets. Five minutes after he was down again to announce that the constable was on his way, and a few minutes after the one man stationed at the tiny hamlet a short distance away came in, red-faced and eager, for, saving over a little egg-stealing and mild poaching, it was rare for his services to be called for.Hence he bustled in, looking very important, and drew out a note-book and pencil, examined the sufferer, asked a few questions, made a show of putting down the answers, with a sad hieroglyphical result, and then turned to Joey.“Now, then,” he said, “I’ll take charge of him; and one of you must go for the doctor.”“Doctor!” cried Joe indignantly. “Why, we sent for him goin’ on for hour ago.”“Ho! well: stand aside!”“What for?”“Don’t you stand arguin’, or you may get yourself into trouble,” said the constable importantly. “Stand aside!”“Shan’t!”“What!” cried the constable, gripping the labourer by the arm.“Can’t you see what I’m doing? Want the poor young chap to bleed to death?”“How was I to know?” cried the constable. “Why didn’t you say you were doing it? Why don’t you tie him up?”“’Cause I wasn’t born a doctor,” grumbled Joey. “Hops is my line—I can tie them up. Thought you pleecemen did that sort of thing.”The constable coughed.“How long will the doctor be?” he said.“All depen’s whether he’s at home or not. P’raps he’s gone on a twenty mile round.”“Then we’d better get a door and carry him somewhere,” suggested the policeman.“Nay, it’s in and out bad enough moving him at all, Joey,” cried Smiler. “I won’t help move him, for it’ll finish him off if we do.”The constable frowned, hesitated, and finally said:“Well, as you have sent for the doctor, we’ll wait.”And they waited for quite two hours before the man who had been again and again sent up to play Sister Anne in the great cowl came down at last to say that he had seen the doctor’s chaise coming along the lane, and five minutes after a keen-looking youngish man entered the great barn-like place, examined his patient at once, asking questions the while, and then with clever hands put a stop to further bleeding, bandaged the wound, and contrived that a little water should trickle between the sufferer’s lips.“Now then,” said the doctor, “the poor fellow ought to be taken over to Ratcham to the military hospital; but you had better get a door, and we’ll lay him on that and you will carry him to the Seven Steers. It isn’t above a mile, is it?”“Mile an harf, sir,” said Joe.“Well, he must be carried there. To-morrow the people at Ratcham will send an ambulance to fetch him. Now, then, a light door.”“Don’t see as we can get a door off without tools, sir,” said Smiler. “What d’yer say to a huddle?”“The very thing. We can lift this mattress right on to it, and it will be lighter and easier to carry.”The light hurdle was soon brought, and the rough bed lifted carefully on. Volunteers were plentiful enough, and one of the men was sent on in advance to the little roadside inn, to give warning of the approach of the wounded man, while the four bearers—possibly from the load being what it was—stepped out in regular slow military fashion, and went on along the dusty lane.“Will he die, sir?” whispered Joey, as they reached the road.The doctor shook his head.But fate had destined that the patient should find a different resting-place that night, for before half a mile had been traversed the sound of wheels was heard behind, and the doctor called to the party to step on one side of the lane and to let the waggonette which approached pass by.This necessitated a halt, which was taken advantage of for a change to be made in the bearers; and, while this was going on, the waggonette was stopped, and the younger of two ladies within the vehicle addressed the doctor.“What is the matter?” she asked. “An accident?”“Rather worse than an accident, I’m afraid,” said the doctor, raising his hat in a combination of respect and admiration for the speaker. “A young soldier has been found injured by a bullet.”“And you are taking him to Ratcham?”“No; to the neighbouring public-house. But, may I ask, are you going into Ratcham?”“Yes, yes,” said the lady excitedly, as she rose, held on by the rail of the driver’s seat, and peered over the heads of the bearers, adding wildly—“Oh, aunt, aunt! it must be poor Smithson they have found.”“Anna, my dear, what are you going to do?” cried the elder lady from behind her veil.“Nothing—I—oh, aunt, I—”The words were faltered out, but the girl’s movements were quick and decisive as she unfastened the door at the back of the waggonette and sprang down, the labouring men drawing right and left as she turned to the side of the hurdle.“It is—it is!” she cried, as she bent over the pallid face and laid her hand upon Dick’s forehead.“You know him, then?” said the doctor eagerly, for his patient began to be of much greater importance in his eyes.“Oh, yes—a little. Yes—very well,” cried Miss Deane, contradicting herself.“Anna, my dear, pray come here!”“Yes, aunt, directly.—But, tell me quickly, is he very much hurt?”“Very gravely, as far as I can tell after so slight an examination.”“He will not die?” she cried, with the tears streaming down her cheeks.“I hope not. I will do my best to save him.”“Yes, yes; of course. But we must not waste time. Sir, he once saved my life. Oh, pray, pray make haste!”“Yes. Forward, my lads!”“But where are you taking him?”“To the nearest inn.”“Oh, no—no—no!” she cried. “He ought to be taken to where he will be properly attended.”“Yes; but it is impossible for the men to carry him all the way to Ratcham. If you would drive on and give notice at the barracks, they would send their ambulance and take him at once to the hospital.”“The hospital?” said the girl piteously.“What a fool I am!” thought the young doctor, whose sympathies were aroused by this great display of interest; “I am throwing away an interesting patient.”“Anna, my dear, this is very dreadful!” cried Miss Deane, senior. “Let us drive on at once!”“Yes, aunt dear—no, aunt dear! I know!” she cried excitedly. “The men could lay that wooden thing upon the seats of the carriage, and he could be driven gently right into the town.”“Anna!”“Hush, aunt, pray!” cried the girl decisively. “Do you not see it is a case of life and death? Now, doctor, move him at once! Aunt, come down out of the carriage!”Miss Deane, senior, uttered an indignant sob, and descended into the dusty road. Then she not only made a virtue of necessity, but felt her own sympathies aroused.“I wish I were a soldier and had shot myself,” thought the doctor, as he directed the men, and had the hurdle carefully lifted into the waggonette, where, with a little management, it rode securely enough, while the girl watched every step of the proceedings, with her fingers twitching as if she longed to help.“But you?” said the doctor now.“Oh, never mind us; we can walk,” said Miss Deane; and her aunt suppressed a groan.“But it is a long distance,” said the doctor.“Don’t talk of us when that poor lad may be dying,” she cried. “You must ride with him and watch him.”“Yes, and send my chaise back,” said the doctor eagerly. “Or—one moment; this would be better, if you would not mind riding on the box.”“Oh, pray, pray think of him!”“I am thinking of him—and of you,” said the doctor firmly. “We will not waste time. Let me help you up, and then I can drive this lady in my chaise and keep close by and have an eye to my patient as we go.”Anna Deane needed no assistance. She sprang up beside the driver, while her aunt was helped into the chaise. Then a thought struck her, and, taking out her purse, she emptied it into her hand, and beckoned to Joey, who came up, followed by Smiler, whose face had never looked so pleasantly full of admiration before.“Will you pay all the men? Share it, please,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you so very much for what you’ve all done!”The party of labourers followed till they had passed the little roadside inn, where they stopped and stood watching till chaise and waggonette had passed a corner of the road.Then Joey turned to his companions, and opened his hand to count over the coins.“There’s four-and-twenty, Smiler,” he said.“And there’s eight on us,” said Smiler.“And eight into twenty-four goes three times,” said the man who left school last, amidst a murmur of satisfaction.“Eight shillin’s apiece,” said Smiler.“Get along with you,” cried Joey. “Three shillin’s apiece. Hands out, boys.”Seven hard palms were extended to him instantly, the coins counted into them, and Joey looked round.“Before we can get to work again, boys, it’ll be nigh time to leave off.”“Ay,” was chorussed.“There’s a drop of yale nigh at hand, we’re all dry and we’ve yearned it, so I says let’s have one drink and then talk about it as we goes back.”“And so says all you,” cried Smiler.But they did not in words, only in acts; so that the aphides left on the hops enjoyed a few more leaves of life.
They were a very ignorant rustic lot these poor farm labourers, but they knew that certain things were now necessary, and Joey, taking the lead as they waited for the help of the surgeon, gave the orders, which were executed at once.
One man seized a clean bucket, and trotted off down the hill to where in the bottom there was a dark dipping place in the lonely narrow stream, and while he was fetching the clear cold water the leader carefully unfastened the tunic.
“Sharpest knife, one o’ you,” said Joey, and after a little comparison of blades, most of which were ground more or less on their owner’s clumsy boots, he selected one, and carefully slit open the shirt and, cutting away enough to form a pad, he pressed it down upon the wound and checked the bleeding.
“Ought to be tied up,” he muttered; “but ’tain’t like a cut finger: you can’t turn him about. We’ll wait till doctor comes.”
“Won’t yer wash it?” said Smiler, with a grin.
“Nay, doctor ’ll do that if it’s right; we’ll try and give him a drink when the water comes, and bathe his face. What did he go and do that for?”
“Think he did?” said Smiler.
“Why, o’ course,” said another. “Hadn’t he got the pistol lying in his fist?”
“Ay,” said Joey. “I s’pose some on ’em ain’t very comf’able with them drill-sergeants—shoots theirselves in barracks sometimes. Yer see, when a man ’lists, he can’t pitch it up again and say ‘I’ve had enough of this.’”
“No, they’re ’bliged to stick to it,” said Smiler, “’less someun buys ’em out. I dunno, though, but what I’d ha’ liked to be a sojer; it’s better than spendin’ all yer life in a hop-garden, spuddin’ and poling and hoeing.”
“You!” said Joey, “you a sojer, Smiler?”
“Well, why not? Course, I know my back’s a bit twisted, but it would ha’ been right enough if I’d been drilled.”
“They’d ha’ had to drill something else beside your legs and wings, Smiler,” said Joey, giving his companions a queer look.
“Eh? What?”
“That mug o’ your’n, else you’d ha’ been in the Black Hole half your time for laughin’ at your officers.”
“Yah! Just as if I can help bein’ a good-tempered lookin’ chap. Dessay as I should make as good a sojer as most on ’em as you see over yonder at those towns. Better be allus on the smile than lookin’ savage at everyone.”
“Ay, to be sure, Smiler. Wonder, though, what did make this poor chap do it? He’s a young un, too, for a sojer. I say, any on you hear his pistol go off last night?”
No one answered; but the man who held the revolver began to examine it.
“Here, just you mind what you’re about with that thing,” said Smiler. “I’ve heard as they’ll go off six times o’ running. Say, would it hurt un, if I lit my pipe?”
“Nay,” said Joey, “and I’d thank one o’ you kindly if he’d take mine out o’ my pocket and fill and light it for me. Can’t be very long now before doctor comes, and I must hold him here downright to stop the bleeding. Ah! I can feel his heart beating just gentle like.”
“You can?”
“Ay; and it’s a wonder, too. Poor lad! he’s been bleeding like a pig.”
The lighting of pipes was preceded by the careful putting away of the pistol, and just as the men were all puffing contentedly away, Smiler said—
“Master won’t find they ten acres of hops washed if he comes ’ome to-night.”
“No,” said Joey; “but you can’t wash hops when you’re finding sojers nearly dead in the alleys.—An’ here’s the water. Ain’t hurried yerself much, lad.”
“Who’s to run up hill with a pail o’ water?” grumbled the man as Smiler began bathing the edge of the wound, after pouring a little water between the lips, but apparently without any effect.
Then the smoking went on in silence for a while, till Smiler asked whether the heart was still beating.
“Ay, I keep feeling it,” said Joe. “S’pose one o’ you goes up in one o’ the cowls and looks out: you’ll see if the pleeceman’s coming. I’m getting a bit tired o’ holding my hand to his heart.”
“Let me do it now,” said Smiler.
“Nay, I begun it, and I’m going on till the pleeceman comes.”
One of the men had climbed up the steps at once, and they heard his heavy feet as he crossed the great loft where the hops were pressed heavily into the pockets. Five minutes after he was down again to announce that the constable was on his way, and a few minutes after the one man stationed at the tiny hamlet a short distance away came in, red-faced and eager, for, saving over a little egg-stealing and mild poaching, it was rare for his services to be called for.
Hence he bustled in, looking very important, and drew out a note-book and pencil, examined the sufferer, asked a few questions, made a show of putting down the answers, with a sad hieroglyphical result, and then turned to Joey.
“Now, then,” he said, “I’ll take charge of him; and one of you must go for the doctor.”
“Doctor!” cried Joe indignantly. “Why, we sent for him goin’ on for hour ago.”
“Ho! well: stand aside!”
“What for?”
“Don’t you stand arguin’, or you may get yourself into trouble,” said the constable importantly. “Stand aside!”
“Shan’t!”
“What!” cried the constable, gripping the labourer by the arm.
“Can’t you see what I’m doing? Want the poor young chap to bleed to death?”
“How was I to know?” cried the constable. “Why didn’t you say you were doing it? Why don’t you tie him up?”
“’Cause I wasn’t born a doctor,” grumbled Joey. “Hops is my line—I can tie them up. Thought you pleecemen did that sort of thing.”
The constable coughed.
“How long will the doctor be?” he said.
“All depen’s whether he’s at home or not. P’raps he’s gone on a twenty mile round.”
“Then we’d better get a door and carry him somewhere,” suggested the policeman.
“Nay, it’s in and out bad enough moving him at all, Joey,” cried Smiler. “I won’t help move him, for it’ll finish him off if we do.”
The constable frowned, hesitated, and finally said:
“Well, as you have sent for the doctor, we’ll wait.”
And they waited for quite two hours before the man who had been again and again sent up to play Sister Anne in the great cowl came down at last to say that he had seen the doctor’s chaise coming along the lane, and five minutes after a keen-looking youngish man entered the great barn-like place, examined his patient at once, asking questions the while, and then with clever hands put a stop to further bleeding, bandaged the wound, and contrived that a little water should trickle between the sufferer’s lips.
“Now then,” said the doctor, “the poor fellow ought to be taken over to Ratcham to the military hospital; but you had better get a door, and we’ll lay him on that and you will carry him to the Seven Steers. It isn’t above a mile, is it?”
“Mile an harf, sir,” said Joe.
“Well, he must be carried there. To-morrow the people at Ratcham will send an ambulance to fetch him. Now, then, a light door.”
“Don’t see as we can get a door off without tools, sir,” said Smiler. “What d’yer say to a huddle?”
“The very thing. We can lift this mattress right on to it, and it will be lighter and easier to carry.”
The light hurdle was soon brought, and the rough bed lifted carefully on. Volunteers were plentiful enough, and one of the men was sent on in advance to the little roadside inn, to give warning of the approach of the wounded man, while the four bearers—possibly from the load being what it was—stepped out in regular slow military fashion, and went on along the dusty lane.
“Will he die, sir?” whispered Joey, as they reached the road.
The doctor shook his head.
But fate had destined that the patient should find a different resting-place that night, for before half a mile had been traversed the sound of wheels was heard behind, and the doctor called to the party to step on one side of the lane and to let the waggonette which approached pass by.
This necessitated a halt, which was taken advantage of for a change to be made in the bearers; and, while this was going on, the waggonette was stopped, and the younger of two ladies within the vehicle addressed the doctor.
“What is the matter?” she asked. “An accident?”
“Rather worse than an accident, I’m afraid,” said the doctor, raising his hat in a combination of respect and admiration for the speaker. “A young soldier has been found injured by a bullet.”
“And you are taking him to Ratcham?”
“No; to the neighbouring public-house. But, may I ask, are you going into Ratcham?”
“Yes, yes,” said the lady excitedly, as she rose, held on by the rail of the driver’s seat, and peered over the heads of the bearers, adding wildly—“Oh, aunt, aunt! it must be poor Smithson they have found.”
“Anna, my dear, what are you going to do?” cried the elder lady from behind her veil.
“Nothing—I—oh, aunt, I—”
The words were faltered out, but the girl’s movements were quick and decisive as she unfastened the door at the back of the waggonette and sprang down, the labouring men drawing right and left as she turned to the side of the hurdle.
“It is—it is!” she cried, as she bent over the pallid face and laid her hand upon Dick’s forehead.
“You know him, then?” said the doctor eagerly, for his patient began to be of much greater importance in his eyes.
“Oh, yes—a little. Yes—very well,” cried Miss Deane, contradicting herself.
“Anna, my dear, pray come here!”
“Yes, aunt, directly.—But, tell me quickly, is he very much hurt?”
“Very gravely, as far as I can tell after so slight an examination.”
“He will not die?” she cried, with the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I hope not. I will do my best to save him.”
“Yes, yes; of course. But we must not waste time. Sir, he once saved my life. Oh, pray, pray make haste!”
“Yes. Forward, my lads!”
“But where are you taking him?”
“To the nearest inn.”
“Oh, no—no—no!” she cried. “He ought to be taken to where he will be properly attended.”
“Yes; but it is impossible for the men to carry him all the way to Ratcham. If you would drive on and give notice at the barracks, they would send their ambulance and take him at once to the hospital.”
“The hospital?” said the girl piteously.
“What a fool I am!” thought the young doctor, whose sympathies were aroused by this great display of interest; “I am throwing away an interesting patient.”
“Anna, my dear, this is very dreadful!” cried Miss Deane, senior. “Let us drive on at once!”
“Yes, aunt dear—no, aunt dear! I know!” she cried excitedly. “The men could lay that wooden thing upon the seats of the carriage, and he could be driven gently right into the town.”
“Anna!”
“Hush, aunt, pray!” cried the girl decisively. “Do you not see it is a case of life and death? Now, doctor, move him at once! Aunt, come down out of the carriage!”
Miss Deane, senior, uttered an indignant sob, and descended into the dusty road. Then she not only made a virtue of necessity, but felt her own sympathies aroused.
“I wish I were a soldier and had shot myself,” thought the doctor, as he directed the men, and had the hurdle carefully lifted into the waggonette, where, with a little management, it rode securely enough, while the girl watched every step of the proceedings, with her fingers twitching as if she longed to help.
“But you?” said the doctor now.
“Oh, never mind us; we can walk,” said Miss Deane; and her aunt suppressed a groan.
“But it is a long distance,” said the doctor.
“Don’t talk of us when that poor lad may be dying,” she cried. “You must ride with him and watch him.”
“Yes, and send my chaise back,” said the doctor eagerly. “Or—one moment; this would be better, if you would not mind riding on the box.”
“Oh, pray, pray think of him!”
“I am thinking of him—and of you,” said the doctor firmly. “We will not waste time. Let me help you up, and then I can drive this lady in my chaise and keep close by and have an eye to my patient as we go.”
Anna Deane needed no assistance. She sprang up beside the driver, while her aunt was helped into the chaise. Then a thought struck her, and, taking out her purse, she emptied it into her hand, and beckoned to Joey, who came up, followed by Smiler, whose face had never looked so pleasantly full of admiration before.
“Will you pay all the men? Share it, please,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you so very much for what you’ve all done!”
The party of labourers followed till they had passed the little roadside inn, where they stopped and stood watching till chaise and waggonette had passed a corner of the road.
Then Joey turned to his companions, and opened his hand to count over the coins.
“There’s four-and-twenty, Smiler,” he said.
“And there’s eight on us,” said Smiler.
“And eight into twenty-four goes three times,” said the man who left school last, amidst a murmur of satisfaction.
“Eight shillin’s apiece,” said Smiler.
“Get along with you,” cried Joey. “Three shillin’s apiece. Hands out, boys.”
Seven hard palms were extended to him instantly, the coins counted into them, and Joey looked round.
“Before we can get to work again, boys, it’ll be nigh time to leave off.”
“Ay,” was chorussed.
“There’s a drop of yale nigh at hand, we’re all dry and we’ve yearned it, so I says let’s have one drink and then talk about it as we goes back.”
“And so says all you,” cried Smiler.
But they did not in words, only in acts; so that the aphides left on the hops enjoyed a few more leaves of life.
Chapter Forty.Jerry lets out the Cat.That night, after the mess dinner, Jerry, when seeing about the coffee for his master, had a note given to him to take into the room, and this he handed to the lieutenant, who flushed a little as he recognised the hand, and, disregarding the smiles of those nearest to him, he read, hastily written:—“Pray come at once! Aunt and I were out driving, and we found poor Smithson. We brought him here. He is wounded, and dying. I know no more.”“Anna.”The lieutenant sprang up excitedly, and strode to the colonel’s side, giving him the note to read.“Poor boy!” cried the colonel. “Then he did not desert. I’m glad of that. Doctor, Smithson is found. He is, it seems, badly hurt.”“Bless my soul!” cried the doctor.“Yes. Will you go on with Lacey at once, and—My good fellow, are you mad?”“Yes, sir, a’most,” cried Jerry, whose appearance and action justified the colonel’s question, for he had suddenly seized the old officer’s arm and made a snatch at the note.“Stand back, sir! Leave the room at once! Here, turn this scoundrel out.”“Keep off, or I’ll do you a mischief,” roared Jerry, as two of the men sprang at him, and they shrank from his menacing gesture. “Here, Mr Lacey, Colonel, I want to know—I will know—if S’Richard’s hurt—”“Sir Richard! The man’s drunk,” cried the colonel.“No, I ain’t; but it’s enough to make me,” roared Jerry. “I am drunk now with what you gents call indignation. If S’Richard’s hurt, it’s foul play, and it’s that black-hearted, cheating, gambling hound as done it. Keep back!—d’yer hear? It’s all over now. It’s the cat out of the bag, and no mistake!”“One moment, colonel,” cried Lacey firmly. “Brigley never drinks.—Look here, my man, you said foul play. Do you know who was likely to injure Smithson?”“Smithson!” cried Jerry in contemptuous tones. “I don’t care; I will speak now. Smithson—do I know? Yes, sir, I do; and I ought to have spoke before, when he was missing first.”“Then speak out,” said Lacey, and the angry frown upon the colonel’s face began to change to a look of interest. “Who is the scoundrel that had a grudge against Smithson?”“Tell you he ain’t no Smithson!” roared Jerry, bringing his fist down upon the table and making the glasses jump and one fall to the floor with a crash. “He made me swear I wouldn’t speak; but I will now. He’s no Smithson. He’s Sir Richard Frayne, Baronet, and the man as hurt him is his black-hearted cousin Mark, as calls himself ‘Sir.’ Him of the 310th.”“Stop, my man,” cried the colonel. “This is a terribly serious charge to make against an officer and a gentleman.”“Officer!” cried Jerry, who was boiling over with hysterical excitement; “he deserves to have his uniform stripped off his back. Gentleman! as borrowed money on bills, and forged Sir Richard’s name; said he didn’t; and made the poor feller go off, leave everything, and come here and ’list.”“You are too excited, my man,” said the colonel. “If all this is true—”“True, sir? Bring me face to face with him—no: don’t; for if he’s killed that poor dear lad, I shall be hung for him as sure as I’m a man.”“Brigley,” said the colonel, “you will be brought face to face with Sir Mark—”“Mark—noSir,” cried Jerry hotly.“Silence, man. You will be brought face to face with the officer you accuse. Meanwhile, you do not leave the barracks. You are under arrest.”“No, sir; pray, sir—Colonel, don’t say that. Let me go and see him,” cried Jerry, with the tears now streaming down his cheeks. “Mr Lacey, sir, say a word for me to the colonel. I must go to Sir Richard. If you shut me up—I can’t help it, even if you shoot me for it—I shall desert.”“Silence, sir!”“I beg pardon, sir,” said Lacey; “the man is over-excited. I will be answerable for him, if you will let him come with me.”The colonel nodded his consent.“What he says is true,” continued Lacey, flushing now. “It must be. There have been so many things to prove that Smithson—”“S’Richard, sir,” cried Jerry.“Well, that the young man we are going to see is a gentleman. I believe it all, Colonel; for, to my sorrow, I know Mark Frayne is little better than a sharper and a cheat.”“Mind what you are saying, Mr Lacey,” cried the colonel sternly.“I can prove my words, sir,” said Lacey firmly.“Go on, and see what is the matter,” said the colonel. “Gentlemen, will you excuse me? Major, will you come to my quarters? I should like a word.”Lacey, the doctor, and Jerry went off at once, and ten minutes later they were at the bedside of Richard Frayne, who was slowly recovering after the young doctor’s bandaging, and was talking wildly, but with sufficient coherence about the scene among the hops to let his hearers grasp the fact that this was no attempt at suicide, but a would-be murderer’s deed.The colonel and major left the barracks some time later, and were driven up to the quarters of the colonel of the 310th, who looked surprised at the visit, but saiden passant—“I have just heard that your missing bandsman has been found. Suicide, I suppose?”“Or attempted murder!” said the colonel gravely. “We have come about that.”He related what had taken place, and the colonel of the 310th smiled.“I have heard of romances,” he said quietly. “Excuse me.”He touched the bell, and, upon a servant appearing, said—“Go to Sir Mark Frayne’s quarters, and ask him, with my compliments, to be good enough to step here.Audi alteram partem, gentlemen. You have an impostor in your band.”“We shall see.”Five minutes later the servant returned.“Well?”“Sir Mark Frayne left the mess-table, sir, when the news came of that man being found in the hop-field, and went to lie down, sir; but his man says he went out about a quarter of an hour afterin mufti, sir, and with a little Gladstone bag. Sergeant at the station, sir—provost—saw him leave by the up train at eight.”“That will do,” said his master, and the colonel and the major rose to go.“Looks bad, gentlemen,” continued the colonel of the 310th. “A nasty scandal to have in one’s corps!”“Yes; but I don’t think we want any more confirmation. That Gladstone bag and the train are enough.”“And if he had been a gentleman,” said the major hotly, “he would have had the door of his quarters locked.”“How will it all end?” muttered the colonel. “Ah, well! there are black sheep in every flock, even if they hide their wool under our uniform.”
That night, after the mess dinner, Jerry, when seeing about the coffee for his master, had a note given to him to take into the room, and this he handed to the lieutenant, who flushed a little as he recognised the hand, and, disregarding the smiles of those nearest to him, he read, hastily written:—
“Pray come at once! Aunt and I were out driving, and we found poor Smithson. We brought him here. He is wounded, and dying. I know no more.”
“Anna.”
The lieutenant sprang up excitedly, and strode to the colonel’s side, giving him the note to read.
“Poor boy!” cried the colonel. “Then he did not desert. I’m glad of that. Doctor, Smithson is found. He is, it seems, badly hurt.”
“Bless my soul!” cried the doctor.
“Yes. Will you go on with Lacey at once, and—My good fellow, are you mad?”
“Yes, sir, a’most,” cried Jerry, whose appearance and action justified the colonel’s question, for he had suddenly seized the old officer’s arm and made a snatch at the note.
“Stand back, sir! Leave the room at once! Here, turn this scoundrel out.”
“Keep off, or I’ll do you a mischief,” roared Jerry, as two of the men sprang at him, and they shrank from his menacing gesture. “Here, Mr Lacey, Colonel, I want to know—I will know—if S’Richard’s hurt—”
“Sir Richard! The man’s drunk,” cried the colonel.
“No, I ain’t; but it’s enough to make me,” roared Jerry. “I am drunk now with what you gents call indignation. If S’Richard’s hurt, it’s foul play, and it’s that black-hearted, cheating, gambling hound as done it. Keep back!—d’yer hear? It’s all over now. It’s the cat out of the bag, and no mistake!”
“One moment, colonel,” cried Lacey firmly. “Brigley never drinks.—Look here, my man, you said foul play. Do you know who was likely to injure Smithson?”
“Smithson!” cried Jerry in contemptuous tones. “I don’t care; I will speak now. Smithson—do I know? Yes, sir, I do; and I ought to have spoke before, when he was missing first.”
“Then speak out,” said Lacey, and the angry frown upon the colonel’s face began to change to a look of interest. “Who is the scoundrel that had a grudge against Smithson?”
“Tell you he ain’t no Smithson!” roared Jerry, bringing his fist down upon the table and making the glasses jump and one fall to the floor with a crash. “He made me swear I wouldn’t speak; but I will now. He’s no Smithson. He’s Sir Richard Frayne, Baronet, and the man as hurt him is his black-hearted cousin Mark, as calls himself ‘Sir.’ Him of the 310th.”
“Stop, my man,” cried the colonel. “This is a terribly serious charge to make against an officer and a gentleman.”
“Officer!” cried Jerry, who was boiling over with hysterical excitement; “he deserves to have his uniform stripped off his back. Gentleman! as borrowed money on bills, and forged Sir Richard’s name; said he didn’t; and made the poor feller go off, leave everything, and come here and ’list.”
“You are too excited, my man,” said the colonel. “If all this is true—”
“True, sir? Bring me face to face with him—no: don’t; for if he’s killed that poor dear lad, I shall be hung for him as sure as I’m a man.”
“Brigley,” said the colonel, “you will be brought face to face with Sir Mark—”
“Mark—noSir,” cried Jerry hotly.
“Silence, man. You will be brought face to face with the officer you accuse. Meanwhile, you do not leave the barracks. You are under arrest.”
“No, sir; pray, sir—Colonel, don’t say that. Let me go and see him,” cried Jerry, with the tears now streaming down his cheeks. “Mr Lacey, sir, say a word for me to the colonel. I must go to Sir Richard. If you shut me up—I can’t help it, even if you shoot me for it—I shall desert.”
“Silence, sir!”
“I beg pardon, sir,” said Lacey; “the man is over-excited. I will be answerable for him, if you will let him come with me.”
The colonel nodded his consent.
“What he says is true,” continued Lacey, flushing now. “It must be. There have been so many things to prove that Smithson—”
“S’Richard, sir,” cried Jerry.
“Well, that the young man we are going to see is a gentleman. I believe it all, Colonel; for, to my sorrow, I know Mark Frayne is little better than a sharper and a cheat.”
“Mind what you are saying, Mr Lacey,” cried the colonel sternly.
“I can prove my words, sir,” said Lacey firmly.
“Go on, and see what is the matter,” said the colonel. “Gentlemen, will you excuse me? Major, will you come to my quarters? I should like a word.”
Lacey, the doctor, and Jerry went off at once, and ten minutes later they were at the bedside of Richard Frayne, who was slowly recovering after the young doctor’s bandaging, and was talking wildly, but with sufficient coherence about the scene among the hops to let his hearers grasp the fact that this was no attempt at suicide, but a would-be murderer’s deed.
The colonel and major left the barracks some time later, and were driven up to the quarters of the colonel of the 310th, who looked surprised at the visit, but saiden passant—
“I have just heard that your missing bandsman has been found. Suicide, I suppose?”
“Or attempted murder!” said the colonel gravely. “We have come about that.”
He related what had taken place, and the colonel of the 310th smiled.
“I have heard of romances,” he said quietly. “Excuse me.”
He touched the bell, and, upon a servant appearing, said—
“Go to Sir Mark Frayne’s quarters, and ask him, with my compliments, to be good enough to step here.Audi alteram partem, gentlemen. You have an impostor in your band.”
“We shall see.”
Five minutes later the servant returned.
“Well?”
“Sir Mark Frayne left the mess-table, sir, when the news came of that man being found in the hop-field, and went to lie down, sir; but his man says he went out about a quarter of an hour afterin mufti, sir, and with a little Gladstone bag. Sergeant at the station, sir—provost—saw him leave by the up train at eight.”
“That will do,” said his master, and the colonel and the major rose to go.
“Looks bad, gentlemen,” continued the colonel of the 310th. “A nasty scandal to have in one’s corps!”
“Yes; but I don’t think we want any more confirmation. That Gladstone bag and the train are enough.”
“And if he had been a gentleman,” said the major hotly, “he would have had the door of his quarters locked.”
“How will it all end?” muttered the colonel. “Ah, well! there are black sheep in every flock, even if they hide their wool under our uniform.”