The arrival of Kink at half-past six was a great relief. Robert hailed him, and Kink said it was a beautiful morning.
"Don't you get up yet," he said, after Robert and Janet had both told him of the night. "I'll make the fire and boil the kettle, and fetch water, and so on, and you get up when I tell you. Otherwise, you'll all be too tired and get ill."
And so they had the blessed experience of lying still and drowsy, and hearing Kink move about for their comfort.
The boys were up first, and made extremely noisy toilets in the washing-up basin, and then Jack and Gregory went off to the farm for milk and butter and eggs, and Mrs. Gosden, who seemed, early as it was, to be in the very middle of a day's work, and who refused to believe that the boys were not deceiving her when they denied having sore throats, gave them leave to gather strawberries, so that their return to the Slowcoach was a new triumph.
Their breakfast was chiefly scrambled eggs, ham, and strawberries, and by ten o'clock, true to their bargain, they were out of the field and on the highroad, and no sign of their camp remained, save a black circle caused by the fire and a slight crushing of the grass all round it.
They had gone a very little way before Robert, who had already been to Woodstock with the morning telegram, began to realize that he was in for a blister on his left heel, and, on asking the others, he found that they were not too comfortable either.
"This means," he told Mary, speaking to her in her official capacity of Regulator of Rests, "that we shall have to ride a good deal, because we simply must go twelve miles today, or we shan't be at Stratford in time for mother tomorrow afternoon."
Mary therefore ordered them in and out of the Slowcoach with great frequency, but it was not a great deal of use, for they hobbled more and more.
At Enstone they stopped for lunch, which consisted of a tongue and bananas and ginger beer; and here they met a friendly tinker, drinking his ale outside the inn, who, noticing their lameness, gave them some good advice. "If you can't stop and rest," he said, "you should soap your stockings, and it's a good thing now and then to change the stockings from left to right." They found that the soap was really useful, and got on much better, and a little later they were overtaken by two young men on a walking tour, who slowed down to fall into step for a while with Robert and Jack. One gave them some hints. "When you are very tired," he said, "it helps to hold something in front of you at full length—even a walking stick will do, or a coat rolled up. It pulls you along. You look like an idiot, of course, but that doesn't matter. No one who minds looking foolish will ever have a really good time. It is a good thing to prevent a stitch in your side to carry a little pebble in your mouth. Squeezing a cork in each hand helps."
"Another way to make walking easier," said the other young man, "is to sing as you go. All sing together—marching songs, if you know any, such as 'Tramp, boys, tramp.' That's what soldiers do on long marches, and it makes all the difference."
They didn't take the road to Chipping Norton, but stopped at the town, while Kink, who had no blisters, went into the town to get the evening's dinner; and meanwhile Janet persuaded the Beatrice stove to give them tea. It was while here that they had their first experience of Diogenes as a guardian, for he frightened away two tramps who seemed likely to be troublesome.
On Kink's return, Robert urged them on, for he had marked down on his map a spot called the Hollow, about five miles farther on, near Long Compton, which sounded exceedingly attractive as a campingground, especially to one who had read "Lavengro" and remembered the Dingle there, near Long Melton; and hither, very footsore, but still brave and happy, they came about half-past four, and made a very snug camp in it without asking anyone's leave.
It was not time for supper, and they were very glad to lie about and be lazy while the stew was slowly cooking. Robert and Janet and Mary consulted very deeply about the morrow, and at last decided that it would be best to remain there all the day and get their blisters cured with Mr. Lenox's ointment, and therefore a telegram would have to go to Mrs. Avory at once, telling her not to go to Stratford till Saturday, "and also," Robert added, "to bring my bicycle. We can easily fasten it on the roof, and it's going to be frightfully necessary often and often. This evening, for instance. Here we are, goodness knows how far from a telegraph-office, and everyone lame except Kinky, who'll have to go."
Kink, however, had luck, for he met a baker's cart on its way to Chipping Norton, and the man not only said he would take the telegram and the letter, but he agreed to bring out a number of things to eat the next day.
Feeling rested and well fed, they therefore went to bed that Thursday night much more likely to sleep than on the night before.
And, indeed, everyone did sleep well, except, once again, Robert. Whatever the reason, he was very wide awake; and at some hour in the middle of the night he crept out of his sack and walked into the open, away from the trees, intent upon comparing the magnetic north—which his compass gave him—with the true north, which anyone can find by looking at the Great Bear sprawling across the skies and getting the Pole Star from its pointers.
Having marked the difference on the glass of his compass with a spot of ink from his fountain-pen, Robert returned to the Hollow; but to his astonishment and alarm, on reaching the caravan he could not find the tent. There was the Slowcoach right enough, with its white blinds glimmering, and he could hear Moses munching close by; but there was no tent, and apparently no Diogenes.
Robert was not a timid boy, but the lateness of the hour and the loneliness of the place and this extraordinary occurrence affected his nerves, so that he suddenly had a panic, and, running up the steps, he beat on the caravan-door as if wolves were after him.
"Hullo! hullo!" cried a gruff voice that certainly did not belong to any of the girls. "What the dickens do you want?"
Robert nearly fell off the steps in his surprise. "Please," he said, "I want the Slowcoach."
For answer the door opened, and a big head and beard and a pyjama arm were pushed out.
"Slowcoach?" the head said. "What Slowcoach? There's no Slowcoach here."
"The Slowcoach is the name of our caravan," said Robert.
"Oh, it is?" said the head. "Then it's over there. I saw it as I came in. This is the Snail."
"Thank you very much," said Robert, who had quite recovered his composure. "How late are you going to stay here in the morning?"
"I don't know," said the head, yawning vastly. "It depends on the country. I shan't go till after breakfast, anyhow. But I'm much too tired to talk now. Goodnight, Slowcoach."
"Good night, Snail," said Robert.
And that is how the Avories came to know the great Hamish MacAngus; for when Robert led them round to visit him the next morning ("And it is right for us to call first," said Janet, "since we have lived here longer"), they found that the owner of the Snail was nothing less than the famous—But I must tell you in the next chapter.
Mr. MacAngus had just finished his ham and eggs, and was lighting his pipe.
"Good morning, Slowcoaches," he said. "I'm very pleased to see you. Sit down wherever you like. Furniture by Dame Nature; everything as nice as Mother makes it. This is a friendly, reasonable hour to meet. That young brother of yours—I suppose he is your brother"—pointing to Robert—"pays calls in the middle of the night. He seems to think every caravan in the world belongs to him. How a man who lives in a London terrace knows his house I never could understand, but to recognize one's own caravan ought to be quite easy."
Mr MacAngus, you must understand, did not say all this in one breath, for he was a slow man. But it reads as if he did, because none of the others uttered a word. It was all too bewildering and also too amusing. He was so big and so strange, and he had such a twinkle in his eye, that they preferred to let him go on, knowing that whatever he said would be entertaining.
"Well," he said at last, "now we must stop talking nonsense and introduce ourselves. But first I should like you all to guess who I am and what I do for a living. You first," he said, pointing to Janet.
"I think you are a kind of hermit," she said at last.
"Right," he said. "But that's not enough. What do I do? You," he added, pointing to Mary, "what do you think I do?"
"Perhaps you lecture," said Mary, "or preach. No, I don't think you preach. I think very likely you speak to villagers about politics—tariff reform and things like that."
The big man laughed. "Very well," he said. "Now you," to Robert.
"I think you're a gentleman gipsy," said Robert. "Like Lavengro. Are you?"
"In a way," said the stranger, "but I shan't tell you till you've all guessed."
Jack Rotheram then guessed that he was a spy, and this amused him immensely.
"In a kind of way I am that too," he answered. "At any rate, I am always looking out for the fatness of the land."
Hester guessed he had a broken heart because of a disappointment in love, and was living all alone because he hated the world, like Lord Byron.
He liked this most of all, and laughed for a long time—much longer, he explained afterwards, than a broken-hearted Lord Byron would have done.
Horace Campbell did not exactly guess, but said that he hoped that the stranger was a gentleman burglar—a kind of Raffles and Robin Hood in one—who robbed only the wicked rich and helped the poor. "As," he added, "I want to."
"Oh, do you?" said the big man. "Well, don't rob me, anyway. Wait till I have led the Snail to a place of safety."
And lastly Gregory guessed. "I think," he said, "you are a vagabond."
"Gregory!" cried Janet; "you mustn't say things like that," while the stranger laughed again.
"Why not?" Gregory inquired. "I mean like the Wandering Jew Mr. Crawley told us about. He called him the prince of vagabonds."
"Well," said the stranger, "Gregory's right. I am a vagabond. But I'm something else too, and I'll tell you. I'm an artist. My name is Hamish MacAngus. I live in the Snail most of the summer, and in London in the winter. I cover pieces of cardboard and canvas with paint more or less like trees, and cows, and sheep, and skies, and people who have more pennies than brains buy them from me; and then I take the pennies, and change them for the nice sensible things of life, such as bacon, and tobacco, and oats. My horse's name is Pencil. I came here from Banbury, and I am making slowly for Cropthorne. Now tell me all about yourselves. Tell me in the order of age."
The children looked at each other, and laughed.
"You first," said Mr. MacAngus, again to Janet; "you're the eldest, I can see."
"My name," said Janet, "is Janet Avory. I live in Chiswick. Our caravan is the Slowcoach. We are going to Stratford-on-Avon. Our horse is called Moses. Our—"
"Oh, Janet," said Hester, "you're not leaving anything for us to tell!"
"Very well," said Janet, "that's all."
"My name," said Mary, "is Mary Rotheram. I am the daughter of a doctor at Chiswick. My brother and I are the Avories' guests. I am fourteen. Father has one of your pictures."
"Good judge!" Mr. MacAngus said.
"Now, Macbeth," he said, pointing to Robert.
"My name isn't Macbeth," said Robert.
"No," said the artist, "but that's how I think of you. Why? Can anyone tell me?"
"I can," said Hester. "Because he woke you up—'Macbeth hath murdered sleep.'"
"Splendid!" said Mr. MacAngus. "As a reward you shall tell your story before Macbeth does."
"I am nine," said Hester. "My name is Hester. I adore Shakespeare. I am Janet's sister."
"Good!" said Mr. MacAngus. "We will read Shakespeare together this afternoon. From the way you walk I can see that this is blister day. We will all take it easy and be happy, and you shall cure your lameness. Now, Mac."
"I am thirteen," said Robert. "I am the geographer of the party. I am sorry for murdering your sleep, but glad, too, because you're so jolly."
"Now you," said Mr. MacAngus to Jack Rotheram.
"I am not an Avory," said Jack. "I am Mary's brother. I am twelve. I am going to Osborne next year."
"Very sensible of you," said Mr. MacAngus. "And you, sir," he added to Horace Campbell, "the burglar's friend."
"My name is Horace Campbell," he replied. "I am the son of the Vicar of Chiswick. I am nine. I am also the Keeper of the Tin-opener."
"Oh, yes," said Jack, "I forgot that. I am the Preserver of Enough Oil in the Beatrice Stove."
"I am proud to meet such important personages," said Mr. MacAngus. "And now, lastly, you,"—he said to Gregory,—"the little nipper, the tiny tot of the party."
Gregory was furious. He scowled at the artist like thunder.
"Go on," said Mr. MacAngus; "don't mind me. I always tease little important boys."
"My name is Gregory Bruce Avory," said Gregory, "and I am seven. I am going to be an aviator. I have to ask the farmers if we may camp in their fields, and I keep the corkscrew. Please tell me," he added, "why you call your horse Pencil?"
"Because he draws me," said Mr. MacAngus.
"And now," he continued, "let us do the most interesting thing in the world to people like ourselves: let us examine each other's caravans."
After they had finished visiting each other, and Mr. MacAngus had given them, speaking as an old campaigner, some very useful if simple hints, such as always pitching the tent with its back to the wind; and keeping inside a supply of dry wood to light the fires with; and tying fern on Moses's head, against the flies; and carrying cabbage leaves in their own hats, against the heat; and walking with long staves instead of short walking sticks—after this he made them all sit round their fire, and sketched them, and the picture hangs at this very moment in Mrs. Avory's bedroom at "The Gables."
After lunch, which he shared with them, adding to the pot some very fragrant mixed herbs from a little packet, they lay on the grass round him, and he read to them from Shakespeare—first from "Macbeth," which was very dreadful, but fine, and then from "Midsummer Night's Dream" and the "Winter's Tale."
After supper he took them outside the Hollow, and they lay on their backs and studied the stars, about which he knew everything that can be known, and nothing whatever that Gregory wanted to know.
And they went to bed early, to be ready for the long journey on the morrow—with their feet covered with Mr. Lenox's ointment—declaring it was one of the most delightful days they had ever spent.
The next morning was dull, but dry, and they were ready early, for there were sixteen miles to be done before Stratford-on-Avon was reached. They were, however, easy miles, twelve of them being on the flat beside the Stour.
Mr. MacAngus had decided to stay on in those parts a little longer before making for Cropthorne, and therefore, after helping with the inspanning, as he called packing up, he said good-bye, but gave them a list of the places where it was worth while asking for him. They were sorry to lose him, but the immediate future was too exciting, with Stratford-on-Avon and Mrs. Avory in it, to allow time for regrets.
After a day entirely without any adventures they found Mrs. Avory. She was waiting for them at the Shakespeare Hotel, which is one of the most fascinating inns in England, with staircases and passages in lavish profusion, and bedrooms named after the plays. Hester and her mother slept in the "Winter's Tale," Janet and Mary in "Cymbeline." Robert and Gregory were "The Two Gentlemen of Verona" for the time being, and Horace and Jack lay in the "Comedy of Errors." Kink and Diogenes were somewhere at the back, and the Slowcoach was in the yard, surrounded by motor-cars.
At the next table at dinner—in a beautiful old room with green matting on the floor and a huge open fireplace—sat an old gentleman with white hair and bright eyes behind very luminous spectacles, and from the tone in which he talked to the waiter they guessed him to be an American. After dinner he smoked cigarettes in an immensely long holder of amber and gold, and now and then smiled at the children.
They were all rather tired, and went quickly to bed. Robert, who, you remember, had been so contemptuous of the Shakespeare Hotel blankets and sheets, slept a full ten hours; never, indeed, can a Gentleman of Verona have passed a better night; and the others expressed no grief at having to lie in proper beds once more.
When they came down to breakfast the next morning, they found a letter addressed to
Mr. KINK'S CHILDREN'S PARTY.Shakespeare Hotel,Stratford-on-Avon.
Robert looked at it, and threw it down.
"Very offensive," he said.
Mrs. Avory handed it to Janet.
"Whoever can it be from?" Janet asked, turning it over and over. "The postmark is Chiswick."
"A good way to find out," said Gregory, "is to open it."
Janet did so, and read it, laughing. "It's an attempt at a nasty letter from William," she said. "He's pretending to be cross because Jack won. Poor William! Listen:
DEAR LITTLE ONES,"I hope you are having a good time in that stuffy caravan, and manage to avoid blisters. I thought you would like to hear that father has given me leave to go to Sheppey, and stay for three days with Mr. Fowler, who has promised to take me up in an aeroplane. I am also to have riding-lessons, and Aunt Mildred has promised me a pony, being so sorry to hear that I was done out of the caravan trip by a fluke. Uncle Jim has sent me 5 pounds. According to the papers the weather is going to break up directly. Your affectionate and prosperous friend,WILLIAM ROTHERAM.
Jack was speechless with fury. "The story-teller!" he cried.
But Mary laughed. "I think it's rather clever," she said. "It almost took me in."
"Do you mean to say it's a good joke?" Jack asked.
"I think so," said Mary.
"I don't," said Jack. "I think jokes ought to be straightforward. I think you ought to know exactly that they are jokes."
"Miss Bingham," said Robert, "would say that such inventions were in poor taste."
"So they are," said Jack.
"Poor William!" said Mrs. Avory. "You oughtn't to be cross with him, Jack. After all, he did lose when you tossed up."
"Yes," said Jack. "But, look here, Mrs. Avory, suppose some of it's true."
At this they all roared, for it showed what Jack's trouble really was.
"Oh, Jack," said his sister, "you mustn't want everything. Even if it were true, you ought to be much happier here."
"Have some more coffee, Jack," Mrs. Avory said quickly.
As it was Sunday, they went to Trinity Church (which usually costs sixpence to enter, because of Shakespeare's tomb—a charge of which I am sure the poet would not approve). As the words in the sermon grew longer and longer, Hester made renewed efforts to get a glimpse of the tomb, but it was in a part of the chancel that was not within sight. She had instead to study the windows, which she always liked to do in church; and she found herself repeating the lines on the tomb, which she had long known:
"Good friend, for Jesus sake forbeareTo digg the dust enclosed heare:Bleste be ye man Yt spares these stones,And curst be he yt moves my bones."
On Sunday, even after service, the church was not on view, but the next day it was there that they hurried directly after breakfast, Hester carrying with her some little bunches of flowers. They paid their sixpences, and made straight for Shakespeare's tomb, and stood before the coloured bust—that bust which you see in reproduction at every turn in this loyal town. It is perhaps more interesting than impressive, and the children had a serious argument over it, Jack even daring to say that the face was stupid-looking, and Gregory declining almost petulantly to consider Shakespeare in the least like a swan.
Poor Hester, how to defend him against these horrid boys!
Janet came to the rescue by saying that Jack was probably thinking that the forehead was too high; but a high forehead was a sign of genius.
"It may be so," said Jack, "but father has a poor patient with water on the brain just like that." (What can you do with people, who talk in this way?)
"But, of course," said Horace, "it doesn't matter what he looked like really, because he didn't write the plays at all. They were written by Roger Bacon."
This led to acute trouble.
"How can you say such wicked things!" Hester protested, bursting into tears.
"But I read it in a book," said Horace, who had not wished to hurt her, but still desired to serve the truth. "It was sent to father."
"Everything in books isn't true," said Janet.
"Oh, I say!" said Horace.
"Of course it's not," said Mary. "Books are always being replied to and squashed."
"Well, this book was by a Member of Parliament," said Horace.
This was very awkward for the defenders of Shakespeare. What were they to do?
Gregory, who had not seemed to be interested in the debate, settled it. He walked up to an old man who was standing near them, and asked him. "It isn't true," he said, "is it, that Shakespeare's works were written by Bacon?"
"No," said the old man, "it's a wicked falsehood."
"How do you know?" asked Horace.
"How do I know!" exclaimed the old man. "Why, I've lived at Stratford, man and boy, seventy years, and of course I know."
"Of course," said Janet.
"But a Member of Parliament says it was Bacon," Horace persisted.
"What's he Member for?" the old man asked. "Eh? Not for Stratford-on-Avon, I'll be bound."
"I don't know," said Horace, who had nothing else to say.
"Take my advice," the old man replied, "and don't believe anyone who says that Shakespeare wanted help. Look at that brow!"
"But he isn't like a swan, is he?" Gregory asked.
"Of course not," said the old man. "That's poetry. If he had been like a swan, it wouldn't have been poetry to call him one."
Gregory pondered for a little while. Then he asked: "Would it be poetry to call a swan a Shakespeare?"
"Oh, Gregory, come away," said Janet; "you're too clever this morning!"
Hester, however, still had much to do, and she refused to go until she had laid some flowers also on Anne Hathaway's tomb and on that of Susanna, Shakespeare's daughter, who married Dr. Hall. She also copied the epitaph, which begins:
"Witty above her sexe, but that's not all,Wise to Salvation was good Mistress Hall."
But I am going too fast, for this was Monday morning, and we have not yet accounted for all of Sunday. The only Shakespeare relic which they visited that day was the site of his house, New Place, close to the hotel. The house, of course, should be standing now, and would be, but for the behaviour of a deplorable clergyman, as you shall hear. Shakespeare, grown rich, and thinking of returning to Stratford from London, bought New Place for his home; he died there in 1616, and his wife and daughter, or his descendants, lived in it for many years after. And then it was bought by the Rev. Francis Gastrell, a Cheshire vicar, who began by cutting down Shakespeare's mulberry tree—under which not only the poet had sat, but also Garrick—because he was annoyed that visitors wished to see it; and then, a little later, in his rage at the demand for the poor rate (a tax to help support the workhouse, which, since he was living elsewhere, he considered he ought not to have to pay), he pulled down the building too. That was in 1759, and now the site of the house is a public garden where you may walk and still see of this memorable habitation only the traces of some of the walls and Shakespeare's well.
They found the old gentleman from the hotel in the garden reading his guidebook, and it was he who told them the story. "So far as I can understand," said he, "nothing was done to the man at all. Nobody horsewhipped him. It was lucky it did not happen in America."
The old gentleman, whose name was Nicholas Imber, and who came from Philadelphia, then took them to see Harvard house, of which he, as an American, was very proud, and they drifted about with him, and looked at other of the old Stratford buildings.
All the time he kept on saying quietly to himself: "Vengeance on the Rev. Francis Gastrell!"
"Perhaps," said Hester, "there is a mistake in the verses in the church. Perhaps they ought to be:
"'Bleste be ye man yt spares these bones,And curst be he yt moves my stones.'
That would mean the Rev. Francis Gastrell."
"I hope so," said Mr. Imber. "It's a very good idea. But why do you like Shakespeare so?"
"He's so wonderful," said Hester.
"Yes, but so is Scott, say, and Dickens."
"Oh, but Shakespeare's so beautiful, too," said Hester.
The children had gone alone to the church on the Monday morning. On returning to the hotel they found Mrs. Avory ready for them, and all started for the birthplace in Henley Street, where Shakespeare was born, probably on April 23, 1564. This is now a museum with all kinds of Shakespeare relics in it, profoundly interesting to Hester if not to the others. The desk at which he sat in the Grammar School is there; and his big chair from the Falcon Inn at Bidford; and many portraits; and on one of the windows, scratched with a diamond, is the name of Sir Walter Scott. The boys wanted to write their names, too, but it is no longer allowed; although I fancy that if Sir Walter Scott could visit Stratford again he would be permitted to break the rule.
They stood in the bedroom where Shakespeare was born, and where his father and mother probably died; and they looked into the garden where he used to play; and Horace very mischievously pointed out the fireplace in the kitchen where, as he told Hester, they cooked their bacon.
Mrs. Avory was then informed of the mean attacks on Shakespeare which Horace had made in the church, and their complete refutation by the old man, whose judgment she upheld.
"Horace," she said, "oughtn't to be here at all. He ought to be at St. Albans. We will look up the trains when we get back to the hotel."
Horace was not quite certain whether this was serious or not. "Why St. Albans?" he asked.
"Because that is where your friend Bacon lived," said Mrs. Avory.
The next place to visit was the Memorial, which is a very ugly building by the river, where the Festival is held every spring. This is not very interesting to children, being given up to books and pictures connected with the stage; but close by are the steps leading to the boats, each of which has a Shakespearian name, and Mrs. Avory allowed them to row about for an hour before lunch. This they did, Robert and Mary and Horace and Hester in theHermione, and Janet and Gregory and Jack in theRosalind.
After lunch, while they were waiting about in the hall looking at the pictures, and not quite sure what to do, Mr. Imber of Philadelphia approached them. "I wonder," he said, "if you would do me a favour. I have scores of nephews and nieces, and also many friends, in America, to whom I want to send picture postcards. Now," he continued, "listen here. Here's seven shillings, one for each of you; and here's a five-shilling piece. Now I am going to give you each a shilling to buy picture post cards with, and I want you each to buy them separately—in different shops if you like—and then bring them back to me, and I'll give the five-shilling piece to the one who has what I think the best collection. Now off you go."
So they hurried off. Stratford-on-Avon, I may tell you, exists almost entirely on the sale of picture postcards and Shakespeare relics, and there was therefore no difficulty in finding seven shops, each with a first-class assortment.
In this way an hour went very pleasantly, and then the results were laid before the old gentleman. Of course, there were many duplicates, but each collection had four or five cards that the others had not. After long consideration, Mr. Imber handed the five shillings to Mary.
Gregory's was the only really original collection, for, taking advantage of the circumstance that Mr. Imber had said nothing about the postcards being strictly of Stratford-on-Avon, he had bought only what pleased himself: all being what are called comic cards—dreadful pictures of mothers-in-law, and twins, and surprised lovers.
Mr. Imber laughed, and told him to keep them.
"Now," said Gregory, selecting a peculiarly vulgar picture of a bull tossing a red-nosed man into a cucumber frame, "I shall send this to Miss Bingham."
"Gregory!" exclaimed Janet; "you shall do nothing of the kind."
"Why not?" Gregory asked. "She'll only laugh, and say: 'How coarse!'"
"No," said Janet, "we'll take them back to the shop, and change them for nice ones."
"Oh, no, not all," Gregory pleaded. "Collins would love this one of the policeman with a cold pie being put into his hand by the cook behind his back."
"Very well," said Janet, "you may send her that, especially as we're getting her some pretty ones."
"Yes," said Gregory, "and Eliza must have this one of the soldier pushing the twins in the perambulator."
"Very well," said Janet, "but no others."
"Oh, yes," said Gregory, "there's Runcie. I'm sure she'd love this one of the curate being pulled both ways at once by two fat women. She's so religious."
After tea they walked to Shottery to see Anne Hathaway's cottage, although not even Hester could be very keen about the poet's wife. Hester, indeed, had it firmly in her head that she was not kind to him. "Otherwise," she said, "he would have left her his best bed instead of his second-best bed."
None the less Hester was very glad to have Mr. Imber's present of little china models of the cottage and the birthplace. To the others he gave either these or coloured busts of Shakespeare; and to Gregory an ivory pencil-case containing a tiny piece of glass into which you peeped and saw twelve views of Stratford-on-Avon.
After dinner they sat down to the serious task of writing on the picture postcards which they had bought for themselves, while Gregory earned sixpence by sticking stamps on Mr. Imber's vast supply. Jack felt it his duty also to write to William:
DEAR WILLIAM,"Thanks for your very kind and informing letter. We are glad you are having such a good time. This is a rotten caravan, and you are well out of it. "Yours,"J. R."P.S.—Don't fall off your clothes-horse too often."
Mrs. Avory's train to London was an early one, and the Slowcoaches had left Stratford behind them before ten, and were by eleven at Binton Bridges, where the river again joins the road, and where they stopped to discuss the question whether to go straight on through Bidford and the Salfords, or to take the road to the south of the Avon through Welsford and the Littletons.
Robert was very firm for the Bidford way, and, of course, he won; and, as it happened, it was very well that he did.
It was a fine, bracing day, and they were all very vigorous after the two days of rest in Stratford, and they therefore trudged gaily along in the sun, not stopping again until just before Bidford, on the hill where Shakespeare's crab-tree used to grow, under which he had slept so long after one of his drinking contests. For it seems to have been his habit to go now and then with other Stratford friends to neighbouring villages to see whether they or the villagers could drink the most—a custom that even Hester found it hard to defend. Indeed, she got no farther than to say: "I am sure he was naturally troubled by thirst."
The tree has gone, but another stands in its place, and by this the children sat and ate a little lunch, and talked about the poet. Robert repeated to them the old rhyme about the Warwickshire villages which Shakespeare is said to have composed—possibly in this very field:
"Piping Pebworth, dancing Marston,Haunted Hillborough, hungry Grafton,Dodging Exhall, Papist Wixford,Beggarly Broom and drunken Bidford."
Bidford is not drunken now; it is only sleepy: a long steep street, with, at the top, the church and a beautiful old house, now cottages, once the Falcon Inn, where Shakespeare used to drink, and where the chair came from that they had seen at the birthplace yesterday; and at the foot the Swan Inn and the old bridge.
Bidford is built very like a wateringplace—that is to say, it is all on one side of the river. The water to-day looked very tempting, especially as a great number of boats were lying on it waiting to be hired; but Robert sternly ordered his party onwards.
Has it ever occurred to you that in the life of every policeman there is one day when he wears his majestic uniform in public for the first time? It must, of course, be so. No matter how many times he may have put it on at home privately, to get used to it, the day must at last come when he has to walk forth into the streets, and in the eyes of those who have known him ever since he was a boy, or even a baby, changed from a man like themselves to an important and rather dreadful guardian of the peace. If he is a simple fellow, the great day may leave him very much as he was; but if he is at all given to conceit, it may make him worse.
Now it happened that this Tuesday on which the Slowcoaches were on their way from Stratford to Evesham was the very day on which Benjamin Roper was beginning his duties as a member of the Warwickshire constabulary. His beat in the morning lay between Bidford and Salford Priors, and he was standing beside the road, on the top of the little hill called Marriage Hill—just before you cross the River Arrow and come to Salford Priors station—at the very moment that Moses, after painfully dragging the Slowcoach up the same eminence, had reached the summit.
At the door of the caravan were to be seen Mary, Hester, and Gregory, whose turn it was to ride; and P.C. Roper stared in astonishment at faces so unlike the swarthy, tanned children he was expecting.
He stared so long indeed—everything being a little strange to him that day—that Jack, who, with Horace, was walking just behind, politely but with every intention of being severe, inquired: "Do you think you'll know us next time?"
P.C. Roper said nothing, but frowned at Jack with an expression so full of dignity, reprimand, and suspicion that Jack could not help laughing.
"Oh, I say," he said, "don't be cross. Mayn't we go about in a caravan if we want to? No one else has objected."
"No," Horace added, "the King said nothing as we came through London, and the Mayor of Stratford asked us to tea."
Kink laughed at this—much too loudly—and the young policeman realized that he had been foolish. Instead, however, of laughing, too, he became more important and angry, and suddenly he thought of a means of retaliation.
Pulling out a notebook and pencil, he said: "I want to see your license for this caravan." He said this not because he really wanted to see it, but because it suggested itself as a good demand and one which would make the children realize that he was a man of authority not to be trifled with. But when he saw the blank which fell on their faces, and even on Kink's too, he knew that he had stumbled by chance on an excellent weapon, and he resolved to make the most of it.
"Come," he said, "the license. I'm waiting to see it."
Janet and Robert, who had by this time come up, were told of the difficulty.
"License?" said Robert. "What license?"
"All carriages must have licenses," said the policeman, "and all caravans have to produce theirs when called for, because they're always moving about."
The children gathered round Kink to discuss it. Kink said that it was all Greek to him. He supposed, of course, that caravans had to have licenses, but he'd never heard of demands for them in the highroad. "But do be civil to him, Master Robert," he implored. "You never get any good out of cheeking the police."
"Well," said Robert to the constable, "this caravan was given to us. The license for it was got, I feel sure, by the person who gave it to us."
"Who was that person?" P.C. Roper asked, with his pencil ready to write down the name.
Here was a poser. Who indeed? The children had discussed X. often enough, but were no nearer to discovering him.
"I don't know," Robert was forced to say.
P.C. Roper smiled a deadly smile. "Oho!" he said. "You don't know who gave you the caravan! Things are looking up. Caravans drop from the sky, do they? A very thin story indeed. I'll trouble you to come with me, all of you, and see my inspector."
P.C. Roper was quite happy now. He had not only filled the impertinent children with fear, but he had done a smart thing on his very first day as constable. He drew himself up, and returned the notebook to his pocket.
"Your inspector?" Robert said. "Where does he live?"
"Well," said P.C. Roper, "he lives at Bidford, but he's at Stratford to-day, at the Police Court, and he won't be back till the evening."
"We can't wait till evening," Robert said. "It would throw out all our plans."
"Plans!" exclaimed P.C. Roper. "Plans indeed! Aren't you suspicious-looking persons in the possession of an unlicensed caravan, and unable to give any reasonable account of how you got it? Your plans can wait."
"Please give us a little time to discuss it," Janet said, and they all surrounded Kink once more.
"Of course it's absurd," Jack said; "but what an awful pity you don't know who X. is! That's what makes the trouble. It looks so silly, too."
"Do you really think that caravans have to show licenses?" Janet asked Kink.
"I never thought about it," Kink said, "but it sounds reasonable in a way. Gipsies, you know. If Master Campbell hadn't said that about the King and the Mayor I shouldn't have laughed, and then the copper wouldn't have lost his wool, and we should be all right."
"Never mind about that," said Janet. "We can't bother about what is done. The thing is, what we are to do. How funny of Mr. Lenox not to have thought about the license!—he thought of everything else."
"Yes, and X. too," said Robert. "But it's just terrible to have to go back and wait all day for the inspector. We are due at Evesham this afternoon."
"Couldn't we overpower him," Horace said, "and bind him, and leave him in the ditch?"
"Yes," said Hester, "or ask him to have a glass of milk, and drug it?"
"Don't be absurd," said Robert. "This is serious. All right," he called out to P.C. Roper, who was getting anxious, "we're just coming."
Then Janet had a happy thought. "I say," she exclaimed, "where is that envelope that Uncle Christopher gave us? He said we were to open it if we got into a real mess. Well, now's the time."
"It's in the safe," said Robert, and he dashed into the caravan and brought it out.
Janet opened it and read it slowly. Then she smiled a radiant smile, and, advancing to the constable, handed him a paper.
"Here is the license," she said; "you will find our name and address on it. Now, perhaps, we may go on."
P.C. Roper read the license very carefully, frowned, and handed it back.
"It would save a lot of trouble," he said, "if you would produce such things directly you were asked for them."
"But we didn't know we'd got it," Janet said.
P.C. Roper pressed his hand to his forehead. "I don't know where I am," he muttered.
"They've got a caravan, and they don't know who gave it to them; and they've got envelopes, and they don't know what's in them. Does your mother know you're out?" he added as a farewell shot.
The Slowcoaches could not help it; they gave him three cheers, and then three more for Uncle Christopher.
"Well," said Janet, "that's all right, but it's lucky he did not see Uncle Christopher's letter. Listen:
DEAR CHILDREN,"It has suddenly occurred to me that some ass of a policeman may want to see your license, and I have therefore procured one for you. If you get into any kind of trouble, be sure to give my name and address, and telegraph for me."Your affectionate Uncle,CHRIS.