Chapter Seven.The Rescue.“That you, boys?” came from somewhere far above, out of the darkness, and it was Josh who answered, while Will said in a low tone:“I say, Mr Manners, I am glad. Now don’t you think you could get up? It’s father and Mr Carlile.”The artist made a brave attempt.“I could stand on one leg,” he said, “but that’s about all I’m good for. My ankle gives way at once.”“Then we must just wait,” said Will. “That’s the only thing to do. It was my father who called. Say, Josh!”“Hallo!”“That you, my boy?” came from above.“Yes, father.”“I must sit down again,” said the artist, in a low tone, for he had been standing supporting himself against the wall of the ledge.“No, sir,” said Drinkwater, as he flashed his lantern round. “If Mr Manners has hurt himself and can’t walk, as Mr Josh says he has, we shan’t be able to haul him up. The rope I brought wouldn’t do it; and besides, we should have no purchase here.”“Then what are we to do?” said Mr Willows, impatiently. “Tell me what you advise.”“There’s another way down,” said the man, sturdily. “We couldn’t pull him up there. I know the place he’s on. We can get to it if we go along here; there’s a zig-zag path.”“Capital!” said the mill-owner. “Come along.”The path the man referred to was a roundabout one, but it led them to the place where the artist lay.“It’s a good job we came, sir,” said Mr Willows. “Not a nice place to spend the night in. You fell down here?”“Yes,” said the artist; “unfortunately.”“Humph!” said the mill-owner. “Now we have got to get you up.”“What a pity he’s such a heavy-weight,” said Will to Josh, in a whisper.“Drinkwater has found a special way down here. You will have to lean on two of us and manage it somehow. Mr Carlile, take the lantern, will you, please? Now, Drinkwater, get hold of Mr Manners’ other arm.”“Right, master.”“Do you think you can do it?” said Mr Willows.“Don’t know,” said the artist; “but I will try.”“That’s the style,” said the mill-owner. “There, lean heavily on me. You, Drinkwater, get firm hold of his other arm. Slowly does it!” And the little procession started.“It took me a long while to get here,” said the artist, “but as for getting back—”“Don’t you worry about that,” said the Vicar. “We shall manage all right, never fear.”It was after about an hour that the Vicar went up to Mr Willows.“Now let me have a turn, Drinkwater,” he said.“We are getting along so well that I think we had better not change,” said the mill-owner.Mr Carlile nodded.“Remember,” he said, “that I am ready to act as relief directly I am needed.”“I’ll remember that,” said Mr Willows. “Here, Will, what are you doing?”“Carrying Mr Manners’ tackle,” said the lad.“Oh! then you, Josh. Take the lantern for a bit.”“Not at all,” said the Vicar, stoutly. “That little bit of duty I do cling to, and I am not going to surrender the light to any one. How are you feeling, Mr Manners?”“Fairly, thank you,” was the response; “but I am thankful that the journey is not twice as far.”“Well, yes,” said Mr Willows, dryly. “We can do with it as short as it is. Have a rest now, sir?”“No, no,” said the artist; “not for a bit.”It was a slow march home indeed, and later frequent rests had to be indulged in.“I say,” said Will to Josh, “it’s a pretty holiday, isn’t it! Here, you take these things. Catch hold.”“All right.”The march was resumed.“Drinkwater is a trump,” said Will at last.“Rather a surly one,” said Josh. “Why can’t he be amiable?”“I don’t know.”“Whatever he says has got a sort of a sting in it.”“Hush! He’ll hear.”“I wish he had.”“Look here, my man,” said Mr Carlile at last, “have a rest now for a bit. I will go on the other side of Mr Manners.”“No, no, sir; I can manage, thank ye,” said Drinkwater. “I am a strong one, you know, and it comes easy to such as me.”“So I see. But even the strong need rest, you know.”The man shook his head.“I don’t need no rest,” he said. “I have worked hard all my life, and it won’t hurt me to do a bit more.”“Hark at that,” said Josh. “Old grumpus!”“Better leave him alone,” said Willows. “He will have his own way. Don’t interfere.”“Oh, very well,” said the Vicar. “Want a rest, Mr Manners?”“No, no. We had better get on. What time is it?”“Midnight—just after,” said the mill-owner.“Your wife will be anxious about you, Drinkwater,” said the artist.“Not she,” was the response. “My wife knows me.”“Old stupid!” said Will. “As if we didn’t know that! How could she help knowing him when she’s his wife?”“I wonder your father puts up with him as he does,” said Josh.“Yes; I often wonder that,” said Will. “But then old Boil O does know such a lot. Look at to-night, for instance. Where should we have been without him?”“That’s why he thinks he can be disagreeable, I suppose,” said Josh.The cottage was reached at last, and evidently Mrs Drinkwater had been waiting anxiously all the time. She came hurriedly down the garden path to meet the travellers.“Oh, Mr Manners,” she said, “you have hurt, yourself!”“A trifle,” he answered. “But you will know how to treat an injured ankle, Mrs Drinkwater.”“I think I do, sir,” said the woman, brightly, as she preceded the little party into the cottage, and hastily put a cushion in the dark brown Windsor chair which stood sentry-like by the fire.Into this the artist was helped.“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, with a smile, as he gazed at his rescuers. “Thank you, boys, and you, Drinkwater—very sincerely, one and all. I am grateful. Astonishing how helpless an accident like this makes a man. Now with a cold compress and a rest I ought soon to be all right again.”“I trust so,” Mr Willows, with a smile, looking down at him; “only don’t be in too much of a hurry to think you are well. It is a case for one remedy, and that is r-e-s-t. How are you going to get to bed? Shall I remain and assist?”“It’s only up two stairs, sir,” said Mrs Drinkwater, “and my man will help.”“Of course he will,” said the artist. “I shall be quite all right. Good-night, friends, and a thousand thanks. One day may I be able to do as much for you.”“I’ll take good care you don’t,” said Willows, with a laugh; and then as they started for home he clapped Will on the shoulder. “Your artist’s a splendid fellow,” he said.
“That you, boys?” came from somewhere far above, out of the darkness, and it was Josh who answered, while Will said in a low tone:
“I say, Mr Manners, I am glad. Now don’t you think you could get up? It’s father and Mr Carlile.”
The artist made a brave attempt.
“I could stand on one leg,” he said, “but that’s about all I’m good for. My ankle gives way at once.”
“Then we must just wait,” said Will. “That’s the only thing to do. It was my father who called. Say, Josh!”
“Hallo!”
“That you, my boy?” came from above.
“Yes, father.”
“I must sit down again,” said the artist, in a low tone, for he had been standing supporting himself against the wall of the ledge.
“No, sir,” said Drinkwater, as he flashed his lantern round. “If Mr Manners has hurt himself and can’t walk, as Mr Josh says he has, we shan’t be able to haul him up. The rope I brought wouldn’t do it; and besides, we should have no purchase here.”
“Then what are we to do?” said Mr Willows, impatiently. “Tell me what you advise.”
“There’s another way down,” said the man, sturdily. “We couldn’t pull him up there. I know the place he’s on. We can get to it if we go along here; there’s a zig-zag path.”
“Capital!” said the mill-owner. “Come along.”
The path the man referred to was a roundabout one, but it led them to the place where the artist lay.
“It’s a good job we came, sir,” said Mr Willows. “Not a nice place to spend the night in. You fell down here?”
“Yes,” said the artist; “unfortunately.”
“Humph!” said the mill-owner. “Now we have got to get you up.”
“What a pity he’s such a heavy-weight,” said Will to Josh, in a whisper.
“Drinkwater has found a special way down here. You will have to lean on two of us and manage it somehow. Mr Carlile, take the lantern, will you, please? Now, Drinkwater, get hold of Mr Manners’ other arm.”
“Right, master.”
“Do you think you can do it?” said Mr Willows.
“Don’t know,” said the artist; “but I will try.”
“That’s the style,” said the mill-owner. “There, lean heavily on me. You, Drinkwater, get firm hold of his other arm. Slowly does it!” And the little procession started.
“It took me a long while to get here,” said the artist, “but as for getting back—”
“Don’t you worry about that,” said the Vicar. “We shall manage all right, never fear.”
It was after about an hour that the Vicar went up to Mr Willows.
“Now let me have a turn, Drinkwater,” he said.
“We are getting along so well that I think we had better not change,” said the mill-owner.
Mr Carlile nodded.
“Remember,” he said, “that I am ready to act as relief directly I am needed.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Mr Willows. “Here, Will, what are you doing?”
“Carrying Mr Manners’ tackle,” said the lad.
“Oh! then you, Josh. Take the lantern for a bit.”
“Not at all,” said the Vicar, stoutly. “That little bit of duty I do cling to, and I am not going to surrender the light to any one. How are you feeling, Mr Manners?”
“Fairly, thank you,” was the response; “but I am thankful that the journey is not twice as far.”
“Well, yes,” said Mr Willows, dryly. “We can do with it as short as it is. Have a rest now, sir?”
“No, no,” said the artist; “not for a bit.”
It was a slow march home indeed, and later frequent rests had to be indulged in.
“I say,” said Will to Josh, “it’s a pretty holiday, isn’t it! Here, you take these things. Catch hold.”
“All right.”
The march was resumed.
“Drinkwater is a trump,” said Will at last.
“Rather a surly one,” said Josh. “Why can’t he be amiable?”
“I don’t know.”
“Whatever he says has got a sort of a sting in it.”
“Hush! He’ll hear.”
“I wish he had.”
“Look here, my man,” said Mr Carlile at last, “have a rest now for a bit. I will go on the other side of Mr Manners.”
“No, no, sir; I can manage, thank ye,” said Drinkwater. “I am a strong one, you know, and it comes easy to such as me.”
“So I see. But even the strong need rest, you know.”
The man shook his head.
“I don’t need no rest,” he said. “I have worked hard all my life, and it won’t hurt me to do a bit more.”
“Hark at that,” said Josh. “Old grumpus!”
“Better leave him alone,” said Willows. “He will have his own way. Don’t interfere.”
“Oh, very well,” said the Vicar. “Want a rest, Mr Manners?”
“No, no. We had better get on. What time is it?”
“Midnight—just after,” said the mill-owner.
“Your wife will be anxious about you, Drinkwater,” said the artist.
“Not she,” was the response. “My wife knows me.”
“Old stupid!” said Will. “As if we didn’t know that! How could she help knowing him when she’s his wife?”
“I wonder your father puts up with him as he does,” said Josh.
“Yes; I often wonder that,” said Will. “But then old Boil O does know such a lot. Look at to-night, for instance. Where should we have been without him?”
“That’s why he thinks he can be disagreeable, I suppose,” said Josh.
The cottage was reached at last, and evidently Mrs Drinkwater had been waiting anxiously all the time. She came hurriedly down the garden path to meet the travellers.
“Oh, Mr Manners,” she said, “you have hurt, yourself!”
“A trifle,” he answered. “But you will know how to treat an injured ankle, Mrs Drinkwater.”
“I think I do, sir,” said the woman, brightly, as she preceded the little party into the cottage, and hastily put a cushion in the dark brown Windsor chair which stood sentry-like by the fire.
Into this the artist was helped.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, with a smile, as he gazed at his rescuers. “Thank you, boys, and you, Drinkwater—very sincerely, one and all. I am grateful. Astonishing how helpless an accident like this makes a man. Now with a cold compress and a rest I ought soon to be all right again.”
“I trust so,” Mr Willows, with a smile, looking down at him; “only don’t be in too much of a hurry to think you are well. It is a case for one remedy, and that is r-e-s-t. How are you going to get to bed? Shall I remain and assist?”
“It’s only up two stairs, sir,” said Mrs Drinkwater, “and my man will help.”
“Of course he will,” said the artist. “I shall be quite all right. Good-night, friends, and a thousand thanks. One day may I be able to do as much for you.”
“I’ll take good care you don’t,” said Willows, with a laugh; and then as they started for home he clapped Will on the shoulder. “Your artist’s a splendid fellow,” he said.
Chapter Eight.Drinkwater’s Manners.“Soon be able to walk all right; eh. Mr Manners?” asked Will, who with Josh had come up to the cottage.“Soon, my lad? Yes, I think so,” said the artist, cheerily. “I was talking to Drinkwater here about painting his portrait; but he won’t hear a word of it. But I have got him in my mind’s eye all the same, and I shall paint him whether he likes it or not,” continued Mr Manners, as he looked laughingly at the boys, and then went on dipping his brush in the colours on the palette, rubbing it round and twiddling it in the pigment, while his landlord, pipe in mouth, gazed at him rather surlily. “Wouldn’t he make a fine picture? Eh?” And the artist leaned back in his chair and smiled good-humouredly first at Drinkwater and then at the boys, ending by shaking his head at his injured ankle, which was resting on another chair placed nearly in front of him.“I don’t want my portrait painted, I tell ye,” said the man, gruffly.“Hark at him!” said Manners. “I should have thought he would be pleased.”“What’s the matter, Boil O?” asked Will. “Did you get out of bed the wrong way this morning?”“No, sir,” said the man, shortly.“Oh,” said Will.“Leave the sulky bear alone,” put in Josh.“Be quiet,” said Will to his companion. “I say, Boil O, old chap, when are you going to make me that fishing-rod you promised?”“Oh, I have no time to make fishing-rods for boys,” said the man. “I have to work.”“Look at him. How busy he is!” cried Will, with mock seriousness, while the artist made a vermilion smudge on his canvas as the ground plan of a sunset.“No, sir, no time. Your father keeps me too busy.”“Shame,” said Will. “Why, my father was saying only the other day that you had done so much good work for him all your life, that he would be very pleased to see you take things a bit easier now; so there.”“’Tain’t true,” said the man.“What!” cried Will, his face growing very red. “Don’t you believe what I say?”“Not that exactly; but you don’t know all I’ve done—no more than Mr Willows does, nor Mr Manners.”“Oh, doesn’t he?” said Will.“I know you to be a very faithful and good friend, Drinkwater,” said the artist, making a dab, and then leaning back in his chair with his head on one side to judge the effect.“Look at him,” said Will, in a whisper, to Josh. “He always wags his head like that when he’s at work painting. What does he do it for?”“Oh, I heard what you said,” continued the artist. “I do it because I can judge distance better that way. But as I was saying, Drinkwater here is a very good friend indeed, and if it had not been for his kindness, my little accident would have been twice as annoying as it is. Thanks to his help, I am able to go out painting and fishing all the same, and I am very grateful to him.”“I don’t want that, master,” said the man. “I don’t want thanks;” and he slouched off, leaving the boys and the artist to continue the conversation.“Surly old toad!” said Will. “What’s wrong with him?”“Something must have put him out,” said the artist.“But he’s always getting into his nasty tempers.”“Ah, well, he’ll soon come round. He has been most thoughtful for me.”“But I say, Mr Manners,” said Josh, “you will be able to come fishing to-night, won’t you?”“Don’t know,” said the artist.“Oh, yes,” cried Will. “We will look after you; won’t we, Josh?”“Of course.”“All right, I’ll come; but in a few days, you know, I shall be quite all right again.”“Hooray!” cried Will. “But I was forgetting: father sent me up here with his compliments, and he hopes you are going on A1.”“So did mine,” said Josh.“I am very grateful to Mr Willows and Mr Carlile,” said the artist. “Very kind of them to have thought of me.”Mr Manners’ prophecy was quite right. In a few days practically all trace of his unfortunate mishap on the Tor had vanished, and there followed not merely one fishing trip, but several, for the artist’s chief recreation was throwing a fly, and one evening as he whipped the stream he turned quickly to the boys, who were a few yards away.“See that?” he said.“No,” said Will. “Was it a bite?”“No, no,—amidst those trees,—Drinkwater.”“Oh,” said Josh. “What about him?”“I thought he wanted to speak to me,” said the artist. “It looked as though he crept away because he saw you.”“Glad he’s gone,” said Will. “I don’t want him. He’s too plaguey disagreeable, isn’t he, Josh?”“Yes,” said the lad addressed.“No, no,” said the artist. “I am afraid something’s wrong. He was too good over my accident for me to run him down.”“Don’t run him down then,” said Will; “but he is getting to be an old curmudgeon all the same.”“He has been with your father a long time.”“What, old Boil O?” said Will, who had begun to draw in. “Oh, yes, years and years. He used to be a very good sort of a chap, but of late something’s made him as cross as a bear.”“Perhaps he doesn’t like you calling him Boil O,” said the artist, taking out his book and carefully selecting a fresh fly, fastening the other in his hat.“Oh, he doesn’t mind that,” said Will. “Besides, it’s his name, or was his name before it was changed to Drinkwater.”“I wish I could find out what has upset him,” said the artist.“It’s nonsense, Mr Manners,” said Will. “Old Boil O was always like that at times, and he’s as close as—as anything. He gets some pepper in him somehow. But he will come round. He always does. It’s just his way. He’s a strange chap. Fancy his creeping about after you like that.”“I take it as a compliment,” said the artist, smiling. “Drinkwater and I are very good friends.”“Well, my father likes him,” said Will, “and thinks he’s a very good workman, but his rough manners—”“You are not speaking of me, I hope?” said the artist.“Speaking of you! No. But my father says that he often feels irritated by him.”“Ah!” said the artist, reflectively. “He never shows them to me when we have a pipe together at night. He is a very interesting character, Will. Of course, as somebody said, ‘manners makyth man—’”“Oh,” said Will, “I thought Manners made pictures.”“No wonder you lost that fish,” said the artist, dryly, “if you waste your time making bad jokes.”
“Soon be able to walk all right; eh. Mr Manners?” asked Will, who with Josh had come up to the cottage.
“Soon, my lad? Yes, I think so,” said the artist, cheerily. “I was talking to Drinkwater here about painting his portrait; but he won’t hear a word of it. But I have got him in my mind’s eye all the same, and I shall paint him whether he likes it or not,” continued Mr Manners, as he looked laughingly at the boys, and then went on dipping his brush in the colours on the palette, rubbing it round and twiddling it in the pigment, while his landlord, pipe in mouth, gazed at him rather surlily. “Wouldn’t he make a fine picture? Eh?” And the artist leaned back in his chair and smiled good-humouredly first at Drinkwater and then at the boys, ending by shaking his head at his injured ankle, which was resting on another chair placed nearly in front of him.
“I don’t want my portrait painted, I tell ye,” said the man, gruffly.
“Hark at him!” said Manners. “I should have thought he would be pleased.”
“What’s the matter, Boil O?” asked Will. “Did you get out of bed the wrong way this morning?”
“No, sir,” said the man, shortly.
“Oh,” said Will.
“Leave the sulky bear alone,” put in Josh.
“Be quiet,” said Will to his companion. “I say, Boil O, old chap, when are you going to make me that fishing-rod you promised?”
“Oh, I have no time to make fishing-rods for boys,” said the man. “I have to work.”
“Look at him. How busy he is!” cried Will, with mock seriousness, while the artist made a vermilion smudge on his canvas as the ground plan of a sunset.
“No, sir, no time. Your father keeps me too busy.”
“Shame,” said Will. “Why, my father was saying only the other day that you had done so much good work for him all your life, that he would be very pleased to see you take things a bit easier now; so there.”
“’Tain’t true,” said the man.
“What!” cried Will, his face growing very red. “Don’t you believe what I say?”
“Not that exactly; but you don’t know all I’ve done—no more than Mr Willows does, nor Mr Manners.”
“Oh, doesn’t he?” said Will.
“I know you to be a very faithful and good friend, Drinkwater,” said the artist, making a dab, and then leaning back in his chair with his head on one side to judge the effect.
“Look at him,” said Will, in a whisper, to Josh. “He always wags his head like that when he’s at work painting. What does he do it for?”
“Oh, I heard what you said,” continued the artist. “I do it because I can judge distance better that way. But as I was saying, Drinkwater here is a very good friend indeed, and if it had not been for his kindness, my little accident would have been twice as annoying as it is. Thanks to his help, I am able to go out painting and fishing all the same, and I am very grateful to him.”
“I don’t want that, master,” said the man. “I don’t want thanks;” and he slouched off, leaving the boys and the artist to continue the conversation.
“Surly old toad!” said Will. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Something must have put him out,” said the artist.
“But he’s always getting into his nasty tempers.”
“Ah, well, he’ll soon come round. He has been most thoughtful for me.”
“But I say, Mr Manners,” said Josh, “you will be able to come fishing to-night, won’t you?”
“Don’t know,” said the artist.
“Oh, yes,” cried Will. “We will look after you; won’t we, Josh?”
“Of course.”
“All right, I’ll come; but in a few days, you know, I shall be quite all right again.”
“Hooray!” cried Will. “But I was forgetting: father sent me up here with his compliments, and he hopes you are going on A1.”
“So did mine,” said Josh.
“I am very grateful to Mr Willows and Mr Carlile,” said the artist. “Very kind of them to have thought of me.”
Mr Manners’ prophecy was quite right. In a few days practically all trace of his unfortunate mishap on the Tor had vanished, and there followed not merely one fishing trip, but several, for the artist’s chief recreation was throwing a fly, and one evening as he whipped the stream he turned quickly to the boys, who were a few yards away.
“See that?” he said.
“No,” said Will. “Was it a bite?”
“No, no,—amidst those trees,—Drinkwater.”
“Oh,” said Josh. “What about him?”
“I thought he wanted to speak to me,” said the artist. “It looked as though he crept away because he saw you.”
“Glad he’s gone,” said Will. “I don’t want him. He’s too plaguey disagreeable, isn’t he, Josh?”
“Yes,” said the lad addressed.
“No, no,” said the artist. “I am afraid something’s wrong. He was too good over my accident for me to run him down.”
“Don’t run him down then,” said Will; “but he is getting to be an old curmudgeon all the same.”
“He has been with your father a long time.”
“What, old Boil O?” said Will, who had begun to draw in. “Oh, yes, years and years. He used to be a very good sort of a chap, but of late something’s made him as cross as a bear.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t like you calling him Boil O,” said the artist, taking out his book and carefully selecting a fresh fly, fastening the other in his hat.
“Oh, he doesn’t mind that,” said Will. “Besides, it’s his name, or was his name before it was changed to Drinkwater.”
“I wish I could find out what has upset him,” said the artist.
“It’s nonsense, Mr Manners,” said Will. “Old Boil O was always like that at times, and he’s as close as—as anything. He gets some pepper in him somehow. But he will come round. He always does. It’s just his way. He’s a strange chap. Fancy his creeping about after you like that.”
“I take it as a compliment,” said the artist, smiling. “Drinkwater and I are very good friends.”
“Well, my father likes him,” said Will, “and thinks he’s a very good workman, but his rough manners—”
“You are not speaking of me, I hope?” said the artist.
“Speaking of you! No. But my father says that he often feels irritated by him.”
“Ah!” said the artist, reflectively. “He never shows them to me when we have a pipe together at night. He is a very interesting character, Will. Of course, as somebody said, ‘manners makyth man—’”
“Oh,” said Will, “I thought Manners made pictures.”
“No wonder you lost that fish,” said the artist, dryly, “if you waste your time making bad jokes.”
Chapter Nine.A Queer Character.“Old Boil O’s in a regular rage,” said Josh, laughing.“Well, but he hasn’t been talking to you about it, has he?” replied Will.“Yes; said your father must be getting off his head to go and buy up such a miserable ramshackle piece of rubbish. It was only fit to knock to pieces and sell for old copper.”“Old Drinkwater had better keep his tongue quiet,” said Will, shortly, “or he’ll make my father so much off his head that he will give him what he calls the sack.”“Nonsense! Your father would not turn away such an old servant as that.”“He wouldn’t like to, of course,” said Will, loftily; “but Boil O has grown so precious bumptious, and he doesn’t care to do this, and he doesn’t care to do that. I believe he thinks he’s master of the whole place.”“Well, he always was so ever since I can remember; but—tchah!—your father would not turn him away. My father says he is the most useful man he ever knew. Why, he’s just like what we say when we count the rye-grass: soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor—you know.”“Oh, yes, I know,” said Will, “and he isn’t soldier nor thief; but he can do pretty well everything, from making a box, plastering and painting, to mending a lock or shoeing a horse. But such impudence! My father mad, indeed! I think it was a very wise thing for him to do, to buy that engine so cheaply. The old mill’s nearly all wood. Suppose it were to catch fire?”“Bother!” said Josh. “Why hasn’t it caught fire all these two hundred years since it was built?”“Because everybody’s been so careful,” said Will. “But it might catch fire any day.”“Pigs might fly,” said Josh. “Well, suppose it did. Haven’t you got plenty of water to put it out?”“Yes, but how are you going to throw it up to the top? Why, with that engine hose and branch, now old Boil O’s put the pump suckers right, you could throw the water all over the place a hundred feet, I daresay, in a regular shower. Ha, ha, ha! I say, Josh, what a game!”“What’s a game?”“Shouldn’t I like to have the old thing out, backed up to the dam, with some of the men ready to pump—a shower, you know.”“Well, I suppose you mean something, but I don’t understand.”“A shower—umbrella.”“Well, everybody puts up an umbrella in a shower.”“Yah! What an old thick-head you are!—old Manners sitting under his umbrella, and we made it rain.”Josh’s face expanded very gradually into the broadest of grins, wrinkling up so much that it was at the expense of his eyes, which gradually closed until they were quite tightly shut.“Oh, no,” he said at last. “It would be a game, but,”—he began to rub himself gently with both hands—“the very thought of it makes me feel as if my ribs were sore. He was such a weight.”“Yes, we mustn’t play any more tricks; he’s such a good chap. But about old Boil O—I don’t like his turning so queer. He went on at me like a madman—I felt half frightened—said all sorts of things.”“What sort of things?”“Oh, that father imposed upon him because he was a poor man, and set him to do all kinds of dirty jobs about the place because he was willing. Said he’d repent it some day. When you know father picks out those jobs for him because he’s such a clever old chap and does the things better than the clumsy workmen from the town. But as for imposing upon him,” said the boy, proudly, “father would not impose upon anybody.”“No, that he wouldn’t. My father says he’s the most noble-hearted, generous man he ever knew; he’s always ready to put his hand in his pocket for the poor.”“So he is,” cried Will. “Impose! Why, do you know what he pays old Boil O every week?”“No.”“Then I shan’t tell you, because that’s all private; but just twice as much as he pays any of the other men.”“And he has that cottage rent-free, hasn’t he?”“Yes, and Mrs Drinkwater makes a lot every year by letting her rooms to the artists who come down. She charges just what she likes, and the people are glad to pay it, because it’s such a nice place, and Mrs Waters makes them so comfortable. Why, look at old Bad Manners—this is the third year he’s been down to stay a couple of months. Now what has old Boil O got to grumble about.”“Nothing,” said Josh; “only against himself. My father says that he was born in a bad temper. Why, he won’t even say ‘Good-morning’ sometimes, only gives you a surly scowl or a snap as if he were going to bite.”“‘Let dogs delight to bark and bite, for ’tis their nature to’—that’s poetry. Hollo! What’s the matter now?”The two lads looked sharply round in the direction of the mill-yard, from whence a loud, strident voice was heard, saying something in angry tones, which rose at last to a passionate outburst, drowning the deep voice of someone responding, and echoing strangely from the high, cliff-like walls above the picturesque old mill.“It’s old Drink in one of his fits,” said Josh. “Come on; let’s see what’s the matter.”Will had already started off at a dog trot, and the boys ran side by side towards the mill-yard, where quite a little group of the silk-weavers and their wives and daughters were hurrying out to ascertain the cause of the trouble.“Why, there’s father there,” said Josh.“What is the matter now?” cried Will.The next minute they knew, for, as they readied the spot where grave-looking John Willows stood looking like a patriarch amongst his people, beside his friend the gray-headed Vicar, a short, almost dwarfed, thick-set, large-headed man, with a shiny bald head fringed by grisly, harsh-looking hair,—and whose dark, wrinkled face was made almost repellent by the shaggy brows that overhung his fierce, piercing, black eyes—took a step forward menacingly, and holding out his left hand, palm upwards, began beating it with his right fist, fiercely shouting in threatening tones—“It’s been so from the first, John Willows, ever since I came to this mill as a boy. You’ve been a tyrant and a curse to all the poor, struggling people who spent their days under you, not as your servants, but as your slaves.”“Oh! Oh! Oh! No! No! No!” rose from the hearers, in a murmured chorus of protest.“Silence there!” yelled the man, furiously.“You cowardly fools! You worms who daren’t speak for yourselves! Silence, I say, and let one who dares speak for you.”The Vicar stepped forward and laid his hand on the speaker’s shoulder.“Drinkwater, my good fellow! My good friend! Pray be calm. You don’t know what you are saying!—you don’t know what you are saying!”“Oh, yes, I do, Parson. Don’t you interfere,” added the man, fiercely.“But, my dear sir—”“Oh, yes, I know! I know you, too, better than you know yourself. You belong to his set. You side with the money. Make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness, as you’d say, with that with which he grinds down all these poor, shivering wretches—money, money, money! Piling up his money-bags, and making us slaves!”“Drinkwater, I cannot stand and listen to this without raising my voice in protest.”“Because it gives you a chance to preach,” said the man, with a bitter sneer.Will’s father stepped forward, but the Vicar raised his hand.“One moment, Mr Willows,” he said, quietly. “No, James Drinkwater,” he went on, gravely, “I raise my voice in protest, because everyone who hears you knows that what you say is utterly false. They are the angry words of an over-excited man. You are not yourself. You have let your temper get the better of you through brooding over some imaginary grievance, and to-morrow when you are calm I know from old experience that you will bitterly regret the insults you have heaped upon the head of as good and true-hearted a man as ever stepped this earth.”Drinkwater was about to reply, but he was checked by a fresh speaker, for Will suddenly threw up his cap high in the air with as loud a hurrah as he could utter, acting as fugleman to the group around, who joined in heartily, helped by Josh, in a cheer, strangely mingled, the gruff with the shrill of the women’s voices.“Well done!” whispered Will, half-bashfully shrinking back, and gripping his comrade’s arm. “Oh, Josh, I never knew your father could preach like that!”“Cowards! Pitiful, contemptible worms! That’s right; put your necks lower under his heel. I’ll have no more of it. From this day, after the words he’s said to me this morning, never another stroke of work I will do here.”“Stop, James Drinkwater,” cried Will’s father, firmly; “as the Vicar says, you are not yourself. Don’t say more of the words of which you will bitterly repent, when you grow calm—when this fit has passed—and can see that the fault I found this morning was perfectly justified by your neglect, in a fit of temper, of a special duty—a neglect that might have resulted in a serious accident to the machinery, perhaps loss of life or limb to some of the people here.”“It’s a falsehood,” shouted the man. “If I left out those screws it was because I was dazed—suffering from overwork—work forced upon me that I was not fit to do, but heaped upon me to save your pocket and the blacksmith’s bill.”“No,” said John Willows, gravely; “I asked you to repair that engine because I knew it was a mechanical task in which you delighted to display your skill—because you would do it better than the rough smith of the town.”“Nay, it was to save your own pocket.”“That is untrue,” said Mr Willows, “and, if any of your fellow-workers like to go into the office, the clerk will show them that a liberal payment, to show my satisfaction over the way the work was done, has been added as a bonus to your weekly wage.”Another cheer arose at this, which seemed to add fresh fuel to the angry fire blazing in the half-demented man’s breast.“Bah!” yelled Drinkwater, more furious than ever. “Oil! To smooth me down. But it’s too late now. It has meant years of oppression, and the end has come. But don’t think I mean to suffer like these cowardly worms. I too have been your worm for years, and the worm has turned at last—a worm that means to sting the foot that has trampled upon it so long. Here, what do you want, boy?” For Will had stepped forward, and thrust his hand through the man’s arm.“You, James, old chap. You come away. Mr Carlile was right; you don’t know what you are saying, or you wouldn’t talk to father like that.”“Let go!” cried the man, fiercely trying to shake the boy off; but Will clung tightly.“No—come and take his other arm, Josh—here, come on up to the cottage, Jem. What’s the good of going on—”Will did not finish his sentence, for a heavy thrust, almost a blow, sent him staggering back towards Josh, who had hurried up, and was just in time to save his companion from a heavy fall.This was too much for Will’s father, whose calm firmness gave way.“Yes,” he said, angrily, “it does now come to that! You talk of putting an end to the oppression under which you seem to writhe. It shall be so. I, as your employer, tell you most regretfully, James Drinkwater, that from this day your connection with the mill must cease—I will not say entirely, for it would cause me bitter regret to lose so old and valued a servant; but matters cannot longer go on like this. In justice to others, as well as myself, this must come to an end. You have always been a difficult man with whom to deal, but, during the past six months, a great change has come over you, and I am willing to think that much of it is due to some failing in your health. There: I will say no more. This shall not be final, James. I speak for your wife’s sake as well as your own. Go back to the cottage, and, if you will take advice, you will go right away for a month, or two, or three. You are not a poor man, as you have proved to me by your acts, by coming to your bitter tyrant to invest your little savings again and again. Now, sir, speak out as you did just now, so that all your fellow-workers may hear. Are not these words true?”James Drinkwater stood alone out there in the bright sunshine, which glistened on his polished bare crown as he glared at his employer, whilst his hands kept on opening and shutting in company with his lips.“Yes,” he uttered, at last, in a low, fierce growl, “that’s true enough. Why shouldn’t I? Do you think I want to end my days in the Union when you kick me off like a worn-out dog? Yes, yes, I’ll go; but look out. Long years of work have not crushed all the spirit out of your slave. Look out! Look out! The worm has turned, and the days are coming when you will feel its sting.”He snatched himself fiercely round, and made for the stony slope—half-rugged steps—which led upwards towards the dam, and the Vicar hurried after him; but hearing his steps, the man turned and waved him back, before striding along till he stopped suddenly in the middle of the great stone dam, raised his clenched hands towards the sunlit heavens, and then shook them at the group below.The next minute he made a rush towards the path leading upward towards his cottage, passing Mr Manners, who was hurrying down, and disappeared amongst the trees.“Why, hollo!” shouted the artist. “What’s the matter with my landlord? I was going to strip for a swim. Has he turned mad? I thought he was going to jump in.”“I’m afraid that he ought to see a doctor,” said the Vicar, gravely. “He is evidently suffering from a terrible fit of excitement,” and as they joined Mr Willows and the murmuring group of work-people below, he continued; “You see a great deal of him, Mr Manners. Have you noticed anything strange in his ways?”“Strange?” said the artist, bluffly. “Well, yes, he’s always strange—a silent, morose sort of fellow. But I don’t dislike him; he’s a very straightforward, good man, who rather looks down on me. We hardly ever speak, but I have noticed that his wife has seemed a little more troubled than usual lately. I left her crying only just now, and asked what was the matter; but all I could get was that her husband was not well. What’s been going on here? I heard him shouting as soon as I came outside.”“Ah! That sounds bad,” continued the artist, as soon as the Vicar had related the incident that had passed. “Poor fellow! He doesn’t drink, I know: sober as a judge. Temper—that’s what it is.”“I don’t like to hear those threats,” said the Vicar.“Pooh! Wind! Fluff! People say all sorts of things when they are in a passion, and threaten high jinks. I do sometimes, don’t I, boys? Take no notice, Mr Willows. We are not going to have the peace of our happy valley spoiled because somebody gets in a fantigue. Well, boys, how does the fire-engine go?”“Haven’t tried it yet,” said Will.“H’m! Can’t we have a bit of a blaze? I should like to come and help to put it out.”“I think we ought to have got it out to play on poor old Boil O, for he’s been quite red-hot.”“Look here, young fellow, you’re rather fond of those little games, as I well know.”The boys both looked very guilty, and turned scarlet.“You take a little bit of advice. Don’t you try such a trick as that on him. It wouldn’t do.”
“Old Boil O’s in a regular rage,” said Josh, laughing.
“Well, but he hasn’t been talking to you about it, has he?” replied Will.
“Yes; said your father must be getting off his head to go and buy up such a miserable ramshackle piece of rubbish. It was only fit to knock to pieces and sell for old copper.”
“Old Drinkwater had better keep his tongue quiet,” said Will, shortly, “or he’ll make my father so much off his head that he will give him what he calls the sack.”
“Nonsense! Your father would not turn away such an old servant as that.”
“He wouldn’t like to, of course,” said Will, loftily; “but Boil O has grown so precious bumptious, and he doesn’t care to do this, and he doesn’t care to do that. I believe he thinks he’s master of the whole place.”
“Well, he always was so ever since I can remember; but—tchah!—your father would not turn him away. My father says he is the most useful man he ever knew. Why, he’s just like what we say when we count the rye-grass: soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor—you know.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” said Will, “and he isn’t soldier nor thief; but he can do pretty well everything, from making a box, plastering and painting, to mending a lock or shoeing a horse. But such impudence! My father mad, indeed! I think it was a very wise thing for him to do, to buy that engine so cheaply. The old mill’s nearly all wood. Suppose it were to catch fire?”
“Bother!” said Josh. “Why hasn’t it caught fire all these two hundred years since it was built?”
“Because everybody’s been so careful,” said Will. “But it might catch fire any day.”
“Pigs might fly,” said Josh. “Well, suppose it did. Haven’t you got plenty of water to put it out?”
“Yes, but how are you going to throw it up to the top? Why, with that engine hose and branch, now old Boil O’s put the pump suckers right, you could throw the water all over the place a hundred feet, I daresay, in a regular shower. Ha, ha, ha! I say, Josh, what a game!”
“What’s a game?”
“Shouldn’t I like to have the old thing out, backed up to the dam, with some of the men ready to pump—a shower, you know.”
“Well, I suppose you mean something, but I don’t understand.”
“A shower—umbrella.”
“Well, everybody puts up an umbrella in a shower.”
“Yah! What an old thick-head you are!—old Manners sitting under his umbrella, and we made it rain.”
Josh’s face expanded very gradually into the broadest of grins, wrinkling up so much that it was at the expense of his eyes, which gradually closed until they were quite tightly shut.
“Oh, no,” he said at last. “It would be a game, but,”—he began to rub himself gently with both hands—“the very thought of it makes me feel as if my ribs were sore. He was such a weight.”
“Yes, we mustn’t play any more tricks; he’s such a good chap. But about old Boil O—I don’t like his turning so queer. He went on at me like a madman—I felt half frightened—said all sorts of things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Oh, that father imposed upon him because he was a poor man, and set him to do all kinds of dirty jobs about the place because he was willing. Said he’d repent it some day. When you know father picks out those jobs for him because he’s such a clever old chap and does the things better than the clumsy workmen from the town. But as for imposing upon him,” said the boy, proudly, “father would not impose upon anybody.”
“No, that he wouldn’t. My father says he’s the most noble-hearted, generous man he ever knew; he’s always ready to put his hand in his pocket for the poor.”
“So he is,” cried Will. “Impose! Why, do you know what he pays old Boil O every week?”
“No.”
“Then I shan’t tell you, because that’s all private; but just twice as much as he pays any of the other men.”
“And he has that cottage rent-free, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, and Mrs Drinkwater makes a lot every year by letting her rooms to the artists who come down. She charges just what she likes, and the people are glad to pay it, because it’s such a nice place, and Mrs Waters makes them so comfortable. Why, look at old Bad Manners—this is the third year he’s been down to stay a couple of months. Now what has old Boil O got to grumble about.”
“Nothing,” said Josh; “only against himself. My father says that he was born in a bad temper. Why, he won’t even say ‘Good-morning’ sometimes, only gives you a surly scowl or a snap as if he were going to bite.”
“‘Let dogs delight to bark and bite, for ’tis their nature to’—that’s poetry. Hollo! What’s the matter now?”
The two lads looked sharply round in the direction of the mill-yard, from whence a loud, strident voice was heard, saying something in angry tones, which rose at last to a passionate outburst, drowning the deep voice of someone responding, and echoing strangely from the high, cliff-like walls above the picturesque old mill.
“It’s old Drink in one of his fits,” said Josh. “Come on; let’s see what’s the matter.”
Will had already started off at a dog trot, and the boys ran side by side towards the mill-yard, where quite a little group of the silk-weavers and their wives and daughters were hurrying out to ascertain the cause of the trouble.
“Why, there’s father there,” said Josh.
“What is the matter now?” cried Will.
The next minute they knew, for, as they readied the spot where grave-looking John Willows stood looking like a patriarch amongst his people, beside his friend the gray-headed Vicar, a short, almost dwarfed, thick-set, large-headed man, with a shiny bald head fringed by grisly, harsh-looking hair,—and whose dark, wrinkled face was made almost repellent by the shaggy brows that overhung his fierce, piercing, black eyes—took a step forward menacingly, and holding out his left hand, palm upwards, began beating it with his right fist, fiercely shouting in threatening tones—
“It’s been so from the first, John Willows, ever since I came to this mill as a boy. You’ve been a tyrant and a curse to all the poor, struggling people who spent their days under you, not as your servants, but as your slaves.”
“Oh! Oh! Oh! No! No! No!” rose from the hearers, in a murmured chorus of protest.
“Silence there!” yelled the man, furiously.
“You cowardly fools! You worms who daren’t speak for yourselves! Silence, I say, and let one who dares speak for you.”
The Vicar stepped forward and laid his hand on the speaker’s shoulder.
“Drinkwater, my good fellow! My good friend! Pray be calm. You don’t know what you are saying!—you don’t know what you are saying!”
“Oh, yes, I do, Parson. Don’t you interfere,” added the man, fiercely.
“But, my dear sir—”
“Oh, yes, I know! I know you, too, better than you know yourself. You belong to his set. You side with the money. Make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness, as you’d say, with that with which he grinds down all these poor, shivering wretches—money, money, money! Piling up his money-bags, and making us slaves!”
“Drinkwater, I cannot stand and listen to this without raising my voice in protest.”
“Because it gives you a chance to preach,” said the man, with a bitter sneer.
Will’s father stepped forward, but the Vicar raised his hand.
“One moment, Mr Willows,” he said, quietly. “No, James Drinkwater,” he went on, gravely, “I raise my voice in protest, because everyone who hears you knows that what you say is utterly false. They are the angry words of an over-excited man. You are not yourself. You have let your temper get the better of you through brooding over some imaginary grievance, and to-morrow when you are calm I know from old experience that you will bitterly regret the insults you have heaped upon the head of as good and true-hearted a man as ever stepped this earth.”
Drinkwater was about to reply, but he was checked by a fresh speaker, for Will suddenly threw up his cap high in the air with as loud a hurrah as he could utter, acting as fugleman to the group around, who joined in heartily, helped by Josh, in a cheer, strangely mingled, the gruff with the shrill of the women’s voices.
“Well done!” whispered Will, half-bashfully shrinking back, and gripping his comrade’s arm. “Oh, Josh, I never knew your father could preach like that!”
“Cowards! Pitiful, contemptible worms! That’s right; put your necks lower under his heel. I’ll have no more of it. From this day, after the words he’s said to me this morning, never another stroke of work I will do here.”
“Stop, James Drinkwater,” cried Will’s father, firmly; “as the Vicar says, you are not yourself. Don’t say more of the words of which you will bitterly repent, when you grow calm—when this fit has passed—and can see that the fault I found this morning was perfectly justified by your neglect, in a fit of temper, of a special duty—a neglect that might have resulted in a serious accident to the machinery, perhaps loss of life or limb to some of the people here.”
“It’s a falsehood,” shouted the man. “If I left out those screws it was because I was dazed—suffering from overwork—work forced upon me that I was not fit to do, but heaped upon me to save your pocket and the blacksmith’s bill.”
“No,” said John Willows, gravely; “I asked you to repair that engine because I knew it was a mechanical task in which you delighted to display your skill—because you would do it better than the rough smith of the town.”
“Nay, it was to save your own pocket.”
“That is untrue,” said Mr Willows, “and, if any of your fellow-workers like to go into the office, the clerk will show them that a liberal payment, to show my satisfaction over the way the work was done, has been added as a bonus to your weekly wage.”
Another cheer arose at this, which seemed to add fresh fuel to the angry fire blazing in the half-demented man’s breast.
“Bah!” yelled Drinkwater, more furious than ever. “Oil! To smooth me down. But it’s too late now. It has meant years of oppression, and the end has come. But don’t think I mean to suffer like these cowardly worms. I too have been your worm for years, and the worm has turned at last—a worm that means to sting the foot that has trampled upon it so long. Here, what do you want, boy?” For Will had stepped forward, and thrust his hand through the man’s arm.
“You, James, old chap. You come away. Mr Carlile was right; you don’t know what you are saying, or you wouldn’t talk to father like that.”
“Let go!” cried the man, fiercely trying to shake the boy off; but Will clung tightly.
“No—come and take his other arm, Josh—here, come on up to the cottage, Jem. What’s the good of going on—”
Will did not finish his sentence, for a heavy thrust, almost a blow, sent him staggering back towards Josh, who had hurried up, and was just in time to save his companion from a heavy fall.
This was too much for Will’s father, whose calm firmness gave way.
“Yes,” he said, angrily, “it does now come to that! You talk of putting an end to the oppression under which you seem to writhe. It shall be so. I, as your employer, tell you most regretfully, James Drinkwater, that from this day your connection with the mill must cease—I will not say entirely, for it would cause me bitter regret to lose so old and valued a servant; but matters cannot longer go on like this. In justice to others, as well as myself, this must come to an end. You have always been a difficult man with whom to deal, but, during the past six months, a great change has come over you, and I am willing to think that much of it is due to some failing in your health. There: I will say no more. This shall not be final, James. I speak for your wife’s sake as well as your own. Go back to the cottage, and, if you will take advice, you will go right away for a month, or two, or three. You are not a poor man, as you have proved to me by your acts, by coming to your bitter tyrant to invest your little savings again and again. Now, sir, speak out as you did just now, so that all your fellow-workers may hear. Are not these words true?”
James Drinkwater stood alone out there in the bright sunshine, which glistened on his polished bare crown as he glared at his employer, whilst his hands kept on opening and shutting in company with his lips.
“Yes,” he uttered, at last, in a low, fierce growl, “that’s true enough. Why shouldn’t I? Do you think I want to end my days in the Union when you kick me off like a worn-out dog? Yes, yes, I’ll go; but look out. Long years of work have not crushed all the spirit out of your slave. Look out! Look out! The worm has turned, and the days are coming when you will feel its sting.”
He snatched himself fiercely round, and made for the stony slope—half-rugged steps—which led upwards towards the dam, and the Vicar hurried after him; but hearing his steps, the man turned and waved him back, before striding along till he stopped suddenly in the middle of the great stone dam, raised his clenched hands towards the sunlit heavens, and then shook them at the group below.
The next minute he made a rush towards the path leading upward towards his cottage, passing Mr Manners, who was hurrying down, and disappeared amongst the trees.
“Why, hollo!” shouted the artist. “What’s the matter with my landlord? I was going to strip for a swim. Has he turned mad? I thought he was going to jump in.”
“I’m afraid that he ought to see a doctor,” said the Vicar, gravely. “He is evidently suffering from a terrible fit of excitement,” and as they joined Mr Willows and the murmuring group of work-people below, he continued; “You see a great deal of him, Mr Manners. Have you noticed anything strange in his ways?”
“Strange?” said the artist, bluffly. “Well, yes, he’s always strange—a silent, morose sort of fellow. But I don’t dislike him; he’s a very straightforward, good man, who rather looks down on me. We hardly ever speak, but I have noticed that his wife has seemed a little more troubled than usual lately. I left her crying only just now, and asked what was the matter; but all I could get was that her husband was not well. What’s been going on here? I heard him shouting as soon as I came outside.”
“Ah! That sounds bad,” continued the artist, as soon as the Vicar had related the incident that had passed. “Poor fellow! He doesn’t drink, I know: sober as a judge. Temper—that’s what it is.”
“I don’t like to hear those threats,” said the Vicar.
“Pooh! Wind! Fluff! People say all sorts of things when they are in a passion, and threaten high jinks. I do sometimes, don’t I, boys? Take no notice, Mr Willows. We are not going to have the peace of our happy valley spoiled because somebody gets in a fantigue. Well, boys, how does the fire-engine go?”
“Haven’t tried it yet,” said Will.
“H’m! Can’t we have a bit of a blaze? I should like to come and help to put it out.”
“I think we ought to have got it out to play on poor old Boil O, for he’s been quite red-hot.”
“Look here, young fellow, you’re rather fond of those little games, as I well know.”
The boys both looked very guilty, and turned scarlet.
“You take a little bit of advice. Don’t you try such a trick as that on him. It wouldn’t do.”
Chapter Ten.Among the Trout.The next week passed, and the next, and more than one of the employés said a word or two to Will about how strange it seemed without James Drinkwater.They were not alone, for Mr Willows made the same remark to his son.“The place doesn’t seem the same, Will, without James in his old place. By the way, have you seen anything of him since?”“Yes, father; Josh and I went up to take Mr Manners some flies, and James was in the garden digging; but, as soon as he saw me, he slipped away round by the back, and went off into the woods. Josh said that he shied at me.”“But you, my boy? You didn’t show any resentment for his behaviour to you?”“I? Oh, no: not I, father; I didn’t mind. I knew he was in a temper. I should have gone and shaken hands with him if he had stopped.”“Quite right, my boy. He’ll be better soon, and come back, like the true, honest fellow he is, and ask to be taken on.”“But what about his threats, father?”“Pooh!” ejaculated Mr Willows. “Mr Manners was right.”One afternoon Josh came down as usual from the Vicarage, rod in hand.“What about fishing, Will?” he said. “There’s a lot of fly out on the upper waters. Get your rod, and let’s rout out old RA, and see if we can’t show him some better sport than we had the other evening.”“Ah, yes,” said Will. “I believe he thought we took him where there wasn’t a fish, just to play him a trick.”“Yes, that comes of getting a bad character,” said Josh. “He’ll be treating us like the shepherds did the boy in the fable who cried ‘wolf!’”“Oh, bother! There were plenty of fish up there, only they had been having a good feed, and wouldn’t rise.”The boy hurried off to where his long, limber, trout rod was resting on three hooks, all ready with winch, taper line, and cast, under the eaves of the mill-shed nearest to the water.“What flies are you going to try?” said Josh.“Oh, black gnats.”“No, I wouldn’t,” said Josh. “Red spinner is the one for to-night.”“Ah, to be sure! Have you got any?”“Have you?”“Not one; but you have, or else you would not have proposed them.”“Come on; but I say, doesn’t it look black!” said Josh.“Yes, we shall have some rain to-night, I think,” said Will; “and if it does come down and Bad Manners gets wet, he’ll think it another trick!”The boys shouldered their rods, and went up upon the dam, whose waters looked deep and dark, and smooth as glass, save where here and there a big trout quietly sucked down some unfortunate fly, forming ever-expanding rings on the mirror-like surface.“My! There’s a whopper!” cried Josh, as the fish broke the surface with a loud smack.“What are you going to do?” cried Will.“Do? Why, have a few throws; they are rising splendidly.”“More reason why we should fetch old Manners.”“All right,” said Josh, securing his fly again to one of the lower rings of his rod, shouldering it, and following his companion along the ascending path leading to the cottage.They had passed along the second of the zig-zags when, at the third turn, they came suddenly upon Drinkwater standing in the shade of a drooping birch, gazing intently down upon the mill.The boys were close upon him before he heard their steps, and then, starting violently, he wrenched himself round, leaped actively upon a heap of stones at his side, seized one of the hanging boughs, dragged himself up, and dived at once into the dense undergrowth, disappearing with a loud rustling amongst the bracken.“All right, old chap!” said Will, cavalierly, “just as you like! But you are fifty, and I wouldn’t behave like a sulky boy.”“Oh, take no notice,” said Josh. “Father says that he is sure to come round.”“Not going to,” said Will. “Come along.”Ten minutes later they reached the cottage gate, to find Drinkwater’s sad-looking, patient-faced wife looking anxiously over the hedge.“How are you, Mrs Waters?” cried Will, cheerily. “We haven’t come for tea this time. We are going to catch some trout—a good creelful—for you to cook.”“I hope you will, my dears,” said the woman, gently. “Mr Manners was sadly disappointed the other night. He said he thought that you had played him another trick.”“There, what did I say?” cried Will. “Is he in his room?”“No, my dears; he’s painting down by the birches, below the cave.”“All right,” cried Will. “Look here; I’ll take his rod and basket.”The creel was hanging from a nail beneath the cottage porch, and the rod stood up like a tall reed with its spear stuck in one of the garden beds; and, quite at home, Will took them from their resting-places, swung the creel strap across his back, laid the rod alongside his own over his shoulder, and then walked sharply on along familiar paths, with a booming noise growing louder and louder as they progressed, till at one of the turns of the stream they came full in sight of the great fall where the water was thundering down into the rocky hollow it had carved, and a faint mist of spray rose to moisten the overhanging ferns.“Big mushroom, Josh!” cried Will, pointing to the great, open umbrella. “What shall we do? Say we are coming with a stone?”“No, no,” said Josh; “no larks now.”“Well, I could hit it like a shot,” said Will, picking up a rounded pebble.“Why, so could I, if you come to that,” said Josh.“Not you! Come, let’s try.”“No, no; I don’t want to tease him. Let’s get him on to fish.”“You couldn’t hit it,” said Will.“All right; think so if you like,” said Josh, and Will sent his stone flying with a tremendous jerk right away into the trees beyond the stream.“Coo-ee!” he shouted. “Mr RA! Ahoy!”“Don’t!” cried Josh.“Why?”“He won’t like it. Father says that he told him once that he was sadly disappointed that he had not had more success with the pictures he sent to town.”“Poor old chap!” said Will. “Well, I suppose they were not very good.”“That’s what father thinks,” said Josh.“How does he know?” said Will.“Oh, he says that if they were good they wouldn’t all come back.”“Well, RA goes on painting them all the same,” said Will. “Coo-ee! Mr Manners, ahoy!”This time the artist looked up, rose from his seat, stretched himself, and waved his palette in the air.“Hollo, young ’uns,” he said, as they came up; “off fishing again?”“Yes,” said Will, “and I’ve brought your rod.”“Very much obliged to you,” said the artist, sarcastically. “But not this time, thank you; I would rather paint.”“Oh—oh!” cried Will. “Do come! I’ve brought your basket too.”“To put nothing in, eh? No, not this time, thanks.”“But it’s a good evening, Mr Manners, and the fish are rising splendidly.”“Honour?” cried the artist, with a searching look.“Bright!” cried Josh, earnestly.“All right, then. Here, I want to put in that little bit of sunlight, and then I’ll come. How do you think it looks?” he said, resuming his seat and beginning to paint once more.The boys were silent for a few moments, as they examined the picture critically.“Lovely,” said Will, at last.“Yes,” said Josh; “I like it better than that last you did.”“Mean it, boys?”“Why, of course!” said the lads together.“Hum! Hum! Yes, it isn’t so bad as usual,” said the artist, sadly. “I may say it is pretty. But that’s all. I have tried very hard, but there is nothing great in my stuff. I suppose I haven’t got the right touch in me. But never mind; painting has given me many a happy day amongst the most beautiful scenes in creation, and I suppose that I oughtn’t to grumble if it gives me honest pleasure instead of coin. Why, it has made me friends, too, with a pair of as reckless young ruffians as ever gloried in playing a trick. My word, Josh, I must be a good man! If I hadn’t a better temper than your friend Drinkwater, Master Will, I should have loosened both your skins with a good licking more than once.”“Well, don’t do it now,” said Will, grinning. “Mine feels quite loose enough, and I want you to come and fish.”“Brought my rod, then, have you? But what am I to do with my traps?”“Fold up the umbrum,” said Will, “and I’ll climb up here and stuff them into the cave. Then they’ll be out of the wet when the rain comes.”“Ah, to be sure,” said the artist. “Capital! But it isn’t going to rain.”“It is,” said Will, decisively. “Look yonder: the old Tor’s got his nightcap on.”“So he has,” cried the artist, eagerly, as he looked up at the mountainous top, miles away, nearly hidden by a faint white mist. “Here, hold hard a minute; I must dash that in my picture.”“No, no,” cried the boys, in a breath. “You can do that any time. Come on.”“Well, it seems a pity,” said the artist, “but somehow you two always make me feel quite a boy again and ready to take holiday and play. There, put away my traps.”A few minutes later, umbrella, easel, and colour-box were safely stowed away in a narrow opening in the face of the limestone rock, and the three were trudging on upwards to a mighty bend. There a great rift opened out into a wide amphitheatre, where, shallow and bright with flashing stickle, the stream danced among the stones, to calm down directly after in deep pool after pool, which looked like so many silvery mirrors netted by the rings formed by the rising fish.“Now, Mr Manners,” cried Josh, “what do you say to that? Are there any trout in Willows’ waters?”“Yes, splendid! We ought to get some fish to-night. Here, where are your creels?”“Haven’t brought them,” said Will. “We are going to help fill yours.”And they did, for the fish rose to nearly every cast, quarters and half-pounders, the artist to his great delight landing two both well over a pound, for it was one of those evenings when, as if warned by their natural instinct of a fast to come, the trout rose at every fly, taking in their heedless haste the artificial as well as the true, and only finding their mistake when gasping out their brief life upon the bracken laid at the bottom of the artist’s creel.The trio fished on till the creel was nearly full, so intent upon their sport that they paid no heed to the gathering clouds, Nature’s harbingers of the storm about to break among the hills, till a bright flash of light darted down the vale, followed almost instantaneously by a mighty crash, which went roaring and rumbling on in echoes, to die distantly away.“Hold on!” shouted Will. “Look sharp; we shall have to run. It’ll be wet jackets as it is. I say, Mr M, lucky I put away your traps! Wasn’t I right?”“Right you were, young ’un,” cried the artist, making a whizzing noise as he wound up his multiplying winch. “But I’m not going to bark my shins running amongst these stones. Now then, boys. ’Tention! Shoulder rods! Right face! March!” And he led off at a rapid rate down by the side of the stream. “Here, lads, that’s heavy,” he cried at the end of a few minutes, just as the rain began to make chess pawns upon the surface of the pools. “I’ll carry it now.”“No, no,” cried Will. “But let’s shelter here for a few minutes. It’s only going to be a shower now.”He ran into where a great mass of slatey-looking rock stood out from the perpendicular side of the gorge, heedless of the fact that it necessitated splashing in through the shallow water, which nearly covered his boots.“Nice dry spot this,” said the artist, laughing, as they stood in the ample shelter.“Oh, it is only wetting one’s feet,” said Will. “We are quite dry upstairs.”“Oh, I don’t mind,” said the artist. “My word! It is coming down. How it hisses! But you are right: it won’t last long.”In less than half an hour the sky was nearly clear again, but water enough had fallen to make the stream which rushed by their feet rise full five inches, bringing forth the remark from Josh that they were getting it warmly higher up in the hills.Possibly he alluded to the lightning, for flash after flash divided the heavens in zig-zag lines, though none seemed to come near them, and they were soon after tramping on, wet-footed only, back towards Vicarage, cottage, and mill.“I say, hark at the fall!” cried Will, as they neared the spot where they had picked up their friend.“Yes, it is coming down,” said Josh. “Well, your father wanted it.”“Yes,” said Will; “the dam was getting low. I say, Mr Manners, I told old Mother Waters to get her frying-pan ready, for there’d be some fish.”“Yes, and you were right this time,” said the artist; “but I’m not going to take in all these. Here, Will, pick out four brace of the best.”“Shan’t!” said Will, shortly. “We get quite as many as we want. Take them all in yourself. One moment—send Mr Carlile up some instead. Here, come on; it’s going to rain again. My! Isn’t the fall thundering down!”Will was right. Another heavy shower was coming over from the hills; but it did not overtake the party before they had all reached home, and then Nature made up for a long dry time by opening all her reservoirs, to fill pool, gully, and lynn, the waters roaring for hours down the echoing vale, till the next morning the placid stream was one foaming torrent that seemed to threaten to bear away every projecting rock that stood in its way, while every sluice was opened at the mill to relieve the pressure of the overburdened dam.
The next week passed, and the next, and more than one of the employés said a word or two to Will about how strange it seemed without James Drinkwater.
They were not alone, for Mr Willows made the same remark to his son.
“The place doesn’t seem the same, Will, without James in his old place. By the way, have you seen anything of him since?”
“Yes, father; Josh and I went up to take Mr Manners some flies, and James was in the garden digging; but, as soon as he saw me, he slipped away round by the back, and went off into the woods. Josh said that he shied at me.”
“But you, my boy? You didn’t show any resentment for his behaviour to you?”
“I? Oh, no: not I, father; I didn’t mind. I knew he was in a temper. I should have gone and shaken hands with him if he had stopped.”
“Quite right, my boy. He’ll be better soon, and come back, like the true, honest fellow he is, and ask to be taken on.”
“But what about his threats, father?”
“Pooh!” ejaculated Mr Willows. “Mr Manners was right.”
One afternoon Josh came down as usual from the Vicarage, rod in hand.
“What about fishing, Will?” he said. “There’s a lot of fly out on the upper waters. Get your rod, and let’s rout out old RA, and see if we can’t show him some better sport than we had the other evening.”
“Ah, yes,” said Will. “I believe he thought we took him where there wasn’t a fish, just to play him a trick.”
“Yes, that comes of getting a bad character,” said Josh. “He’ll be treating us like the shepherds did the boy in the fable who cried ‘wolf!’”
“Oh, bother! There were plenty of fish up there, only they had been having a good feed, and wouldn’t rise.”
The boy hurried off to where his long, limber, trout rod was resting on three hooks, all ready with winch, taper line, and cast, under the eaves of the mill-shed nearest to the water.
“What flies are you going to try?” said Josh.
“Oh, black gnats.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” said Josh. “Red spinner is the one for to-night.”
“Ah, to be sure! Have you got any?”
“Have you?”
“Not one; but you have, or else you would not have proposed them.”
“Come on; but I say, doesn’t it look black!” said Josh.
“Yes, we shall have some rain to-night, I think,” said Will; “and if it does come down and Bad Manners gets wet, he’ll think it another trick!”
The boys shouldered their rods, and went up upon the dam, whose waters looked deep and dark, and smooth as glass, save where here and there a big trout quietly sucked down some unfortunate fly, forming ever-expanding rings on the mirror-like surface.
“My! There’s a whopper!” cried Josh, as the fish broke the surface with a loud smack.
“What are you going to do?” cried Will.
“Do? Why, have a few throws; they are rising splendidly.”
“More reason why we should fetch old Manners.”
“All right,” said Josh, securing his fly again to one of the lower rings of his rod, shouldering it, and following his companion along the ascending path leading to the cottage.
They had passed along the second of the zig-zags when, at the third turn, they came suddenly upon Drinkwater standing in the shade of a drooping birch, gazing intently down upon the mill.
The boys were close upon him before he heard their steps, and then, starting violently, he wrenched himself round, leaped actively upon a heap of stones at his side, seized one of the hanging boughs, dragged himself up, and dived at once into the dense undergrowth, disappearing with a loud rustling amongst the bracken.
“All right, old chap!” said Will, cavalierly, “just as you like! But you are fifty, and I wouldn’t behave like a sulky boy.”
“Oh, take no notice,” said Josh. “Father says that he is sure to come round.”
“Not going to,” said Will. “Come along.”
Ten minutes later they reached the cottage gate, to find Drinkwater’s sad-looking, patient-faced wife looking anxiously over the hedge.
“How are you, Mrs Waters?” cried Will, cheerily. “We haven’t come for tea this time. We are going to catch some trout—a good creelful—for you to cook.”
“I hope you will, my dears,” said the woman, gently. “Mr Manners was sadly disappointed the other night. He said he thought that you had played him another trick.”
“There, what did I say?” cried Will. “Is he in his room?”
“No, my dears; he’s painting down by the birches, below the cave.”
“All right,” cried Will. “Look here; I’ll take his rod and basket.”
The creel was hanging from a nail beneath the cottage porch, and the rod stood up like a tall reed with its spear stuck in one of the garden beds; and, quite at home, Will took them from their resting-places, swung the creel strap across his back, laid the rod alongside his own over his shoulder, and then walked sharply on along familiar paths, with a booming noise growing louder and louder as they progressed, till at one of the turns of the stream they came full in sight of the great fall where the water was thundering down into the rocky hollow it had carved, and a faint mist of spray rose to moisten the overhanging ferns.
“Big mushroom, Josh!” cried Will, pointing to the great, open umbrella. “What shall we do? Say we are coming with a stone?”
“No, no,” said Josh; “no larks now.”
“Well, I could hit it like a shot,” said Will, picking up a rounded pebble.
“Why, so could I, if you come to that,” said Josh.
“Not you! Come, let’s try.”
“No, no; I don’t want to tease him. Let’s get him on to fish.”
“You couldn’t hit it,” said Will.
“All right; think so if you like,” said Josh, and Will sent his stone flying with a tremendous jerk right away into the trees beyond the stream.
“Coo-ee!” he shouted. “Mr RA! Ahoy!”
“Don’t!” cried Josh.
“Why?”
“He won’t like it. Father says that he told him once that he was sadly disappointed that he had not had more success with the pictures he sent to town.”
“Poor old chap!” said Will. “Well, I suppose they were not very good.”
“That’s what father thinks,” said Josh.
“How does he know?” said Will.
“Oh, he says that if they were good they wouldn’t all come back.”
“Well, RA goes on painting them all the same,” said Will. “Coo-ee! Mr Manners, ahoy!”
This time the artist looked up, rose from his seat, stretched himself, and waved his palette in the air.
“Hollo, young ’uns,” he said, as they came up; “off fishing again?”
“Yes,” said Will, “and I’ve brought your rod.”
“Very much obliged to you,” said the artist, sarcastically. “But not this time, thank you; I would rather paint.”
“Oh—oh!” cried Will. “Do come! I’ve brought your basket too.”
“To put nothing in, eh? No, not this time, thanks.”
“But it’s a good evening, Mr Manners, and the fish are rising splendidly.”
“Honour?” cried the artist, with a searching look.
“Bright!” cried Josh, earnestly.
“All right, then. Here, I want to put in that little bit of sunlight, and then I’ll come. How do you think it looks?” he said, resuming his seat and beginning to paint once more.
The boys were silent for a few moments, as they examined the picture critically.
“Lovely,” said Will, at last.
“Yes,” said Josh; “I like it better than that last you did.”
“Mean it, boys?”
“Why, of course!” said the lads together.
“Hum! Hum! Yes, it isn’t so bad as usual,” said the artist, sadly. “I may say it is pretty. But that’s all. I have tried very hard, but there is nothing great in my stuff. I suppose I haven’t got the right touch in me. But never mind; painting has given me many a happy day amongst the most beautiful scenes in creation, and I suppose that I oughtn’t to grumble if it gives me honest pleasure instead of coin. Why, it has made me friends, too, with a pair of as reckless young ruffians as ever gloried in playing a trick. My word, Josh, I must be a good man! If I hadn’t a better temper than your friend Drinkwater, Master Will, I should have loosened both your skins with a good licking more than once.”
“Well, don’t do it now,” said Will, grinning. “Mine feels quite loose enough, and I want you to come and fish.”
“Brought my rod, then, have you? But what am I to do with my traps?”
“Fold up the umbrum,” said Will, “and I’ll climb up here and stuff them into the cave. Then they’ll be out of the wet when the rain comes.”
“Ah, to be sure,” said the artist. “Capital! But it isn’t going to rain.”
“It is,” said Will, decisively. “Look yonder: the old Tor’s got his nightcap on.”
“So he has,” cried the artist, eagerly, as he looked up at the mountainous top, miles away, nearly hidden by a faint white mist. “Here, hold hard a minute; I must dash that in my picture.”
“No, no,” cried the boys, in a breath. “You can do that any time. Come on.”
“Well, it seems a pity,” said the artist, “but somehow you two always make me feel quite a boy again and ready to take holiday and play. There, put away my traps.”
A few minutes later, umbrella, easel, and colour-box were safely stowed away in a narrow opening in the face of the limestone rock, and the three were trudging on upwards to a mighty bend. There a great rift opened out into a wide amphitheatre, where, shallow and bright with flashing stickle, the stream danced among the stones, to calm down directly after in deep pool after pool, which looked like so many silvery mirrors netted by the rings formed by the rising fish.
“Now, Mr Manners,” cried Josh, “what do you say to that? Are there any trout in Willows’ waters?”
“Yes, splendid! We ought to get some fish to-night. Here, where are your creels?”
“Haven’t brought them,” said Will. “We are going to help fill yours.”
And they did, for the fish rose to nearly every cast, quarters and half-pounders, the artist to his great delight landing two both well over a pound, for it was one of those evenings when, as if warned by their natural instinct of a fast to come, the trout rose at every fly, taking in their heedless haste the artificial as well as the true, and only finding their mistake when gasping out their brief life upon the bracken laid at the bottom of the artist’s creel.
The trio fished on till the creel was nearly full, so intent upon their sport that they paid no heed to the gathering clouds, Nature’s harbingers of the storm about to break among the hills, till a bright flash of light darted down the vale, followed almost instantaneously by a mighty crash, which went roaring and rumbling on in echoes, to die distantly away.
“Hold on!” shouted Will. “Look sharp; we shall have to run. It’ll be wet jackets as it is. I say, Mr M, lucky I put away your traps! Wasn’t I right?”
“Right you were, young ’un,” cried the artist, making a whizzing noise as he wound up his multiplying winch. “But I’m not going to bark my shins running amongst these stones. Now then, boys. ’Tention! Shoulder rods! Right face! March!” And he led off at a rapid rate down by the side of the stream. “Here, lads, that’s heavy,” he cried at the end of a few minutes, just as the rain began to make chess pawns upon the surface of the pools. “I’ll carry it now.”
“No, no,” cried Will. “But let’s shelter here for a few minutes. It’s only going to be a shower now.”
He ran into where a great mass of slatey-looking rock stood out from the perpendicular side of the gorge, heedless of the fact that it necessitated splashing in through the shallow water, which nearly covered his boots.
“Nice dry spot this,” said the artist, laughing, as they stood in the ample shelter.
“Oh, it is only wetting one’s feet,” said Will. “We are quite dry upstairs.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said the artist. “My word! It is coming down. How it hisses! But you are right: it won’t last long.”
In less than half an hour the sky was nearly clear again, but water enough had fallen to make the stream which rushed by their feet rise full five inches, bringing forth the remark from Josh that they were getting it warmly higher up in the hills.
Possibly he alluded to the lightning, for flash after flash divided the heavens in zig-zag lines, though none seemed to come near them, and they were soon after tramping on, wet-footed only, back towards Vicarage, cottage, and mill.
“I say, hark at the fall!” cried Will, as they neared the spot where they had picked up their friend.
“Yes, it is coming down,” said Josh. “Well, your father wanted it.”
“Yes,” said Will; “the dam was getting low. I say, Mr Manners, I told old Mother Waters to get her frying-pan ready, for there’d be some fish.”
“Yes, and you were right this time,” said the artist; “but I’m not going to take in all these. Here, Will, pick out four brace of the best.”
“Shan’t!” said Will, shortly. “We get quite as many as we want. Take them all in yourself. One moment—send Mr Carlile up some instead. Here, come on; it’s going to rain again. My! Isn’t the fall thundering down!”
Will was right. Another heavy shower was coming over from the hills; but it did not overtake the party before they had all reached home, and then Nature made up for a long dry time by opening all her reservoirs, to fill pool, gully, and lynn, the waters roaring for hours down the echoing vale, till the next morning the placid stream was one foaming torrent that seemed to threaten to bear away every projecting rock that stood in its way, while every sluice was opened at the mill to relieve the pressure of the overburdened dam.
Chapter Eleven.A Night Gossip.As has been pointed out, the artist was a quiet man, and the tranquil life of the little village was exactly to his taste. Mrs Drinkwater looked well after his few wants, and until the disturbance at the mill, when Drinkwater had been turned off, there had been nothing to trouble him. Since that occurrence, however, he had frequently come across his landlady with traces of tears in her eyes, and that evening when after parting with the two lads he reached the pretty cottage, she came out to meet him at the gate.“Oh, Mr Manners, sir,” she said, “I’m afraid I’m afraid—”“Afraid what of, Mrs Drinkwater?”“I’m afraid that something’s happened to my man. He has not been home to-day.”The artist led the poor woman into the kitchen.“Sit down, Mrs Drinkwater,” he said, kindly. “Now just listen to me. I, too, am deeply concerned about Drinkwater. Can’t you reason with him—make him see how wrong all this behaviour is, and convince him that he has only one sensible thing to do, namely, go and ask pardon of Mr Willows?”“Oh, I do wish I could, sir; but Jem won’t listen to me. He might listen to you, sir.”“Ah, but you see this is not my business, Mrs Drinkwater.”“No, sir, but he respects you, and he might perhaps pay attention to what you said.”“Maybe,” said the artist, thoughtfully. “Well, I will see what I can do.”“Thank you, sir—thank you!”“When did you see him last?”“It’s two days ago now, sir.”“Well, Mrs Drinkwater, we must hope for the best. I have always found your husband willing and obliging up to quite recently. It seems to me that if matters are put to him in a quiet common-sense way he will listen. Hang it all, he will have to listen! We can’t have you crying your eyes out because he chooses to behave like a brute to you.”“Oh, my Jem really means well, sir,” said the woman; “I know he does. He has always been a good husband to me.”Late that evening the artist thought over affairs. It was a pleasant soft summer night, and when he was alone he quietly opened the cottage door, and lighting his pipe, sat down on the little rustic seat which was just outside. There was hardly a sound—nothing but the night wind sweeping through the valley, the far-off plash of water, the purring noise of a big moth as it flew past and then hovered a second, attracted by the gleam of the artist’s pipe.There was a step, loud and heavy, and Manners started to his feet as a burly figure suddenly appeared just in front of him.“Hallo, Drinkwater!” he cried. “You, my man?”“Me it is, Mr Manners.”“Oh, that’s all right. I was wanting to see you.”“Wanting to see me? What for?” said the man, gruffly.“Oh, for several reasons. I don’t like my landlord to go off for days together, nobody knows where.”“Not wanted now,” said the man, sourly—“Nobody wants me now.”“That’s not a fact, Drinkwater,” said the artist, firmly. “Not a bit true. To begin with, I want you.”“Pictures to see too?”“No, not pictures. I just want to talk to you; that’s all. Have you got your pipe? Oh, I see you have. Here’s my pouch. Come, fill and light up, and sit down here. It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?”“Humph!” grunted the man, as he obeyed and began to smoke.“Now,” said the artist, cheerily, after a few minutes’ silence, “what’s wrong with you? At least, I need not ask that. You have quarrelled with your old friend and employer, for no reason, and it’s no end of a pity, I can assure you. You will not mind my speaking out plainly like this, as man to man, for I have known you a long time now; and besides, I’m under a debt to you for helping me that night.”“Humph!” said the man again.“Now,” said the artist, “has all this sulking done you any good?”“Good!” growled the man. “Good! No. There has been no good in my life. I have slaved it all away for a thankless taskmaster.”“Bah!” said the artist, with a laugh. “Mr Willows a taskmaster! Why, it’s too absurd! He’s one of the very best men that ever lived; and in your heart of hearts you know it, Drinkwater. You know it quite well.”“I want revenge,” said the man.“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the artist. “Revenge! Why, Drinkwater, it’s really funny. Revenge! What are you going to do? Blow up the mill?”“Eh?” said the man, shifting uneasily in his seat and turning to stare at his companion. “Blow up the mill? What, me?”“There, there,” said Manners, “I didn’t mean it. It was only a joke. Think it over, Drinkwater. Think it over,” he continued, as the man rose; and the artist held out his hand, but whether it was the darkness which prevented his seeing the gesture, or for some other reason, the hand was not taken, and a moment later the man had entered the cottage, while the artist got up to follow him, for it was very late and he was tired.“What has he got in his head?” he mused. “I don’t like his manner at all.”
As has been pointed out, the artist was a quiet man, and the tranquil life of the little village was exactly to his taste. Mrs Drinkwater looked well after his few wants, and until the disturbance at the mill, when Drinkwater had been turned off, there had been nothing to trouble him. Since that occurrence, however, he had frequently come across his landlady with traces of tears in her eyes, and that evening when after parting with the two lads he reached the pretty cottage, she came out to meet him at the gate.
“Oh, Mr Manners, sir,” she said, “I’m afraid I’m afraid—”
“Afraid what of, Mrs Drinkwater?”
“I’m afraid that something’s happened to my man. He has not been home to-day.”
The artist led the poor woman into the kitchen.
“Sit down, Mrs Drinkwater,” he said, kindly. “Now just listen to me. I, too, am deeply concerned about Drinkwater. Can’t you reason with him—make him see how wrong all this behaviour is, and convince him that he has only one sensible thing to do, namely, go and ask pardon of Mr Willows?”
“Oh, I do wish I could, sir; but Jem won’t listen to me. He might listen to you, sir.”
“Ah, but you see this is not my business, Mrs Drinkwater.”
“No, sir, but he respects you, and he might perhaps pay attention to what you said.”
“Maybe,” said the artist, thoughtfully. “Well, I will see what I can do.”
“Thank you, sir—thank you!”
“When did you see him last?”
“It’s two days ago now, sir.”
“Well, Mrs Drinkwater, we must hope for the best. I have always found your husband willing and obliging up to quite recently. It seems to me that if matters are put to him in a quiet common-sense way he will listen. Hang it all, he will have to listen! We can’t have you crying your eyes out because he chooses to behave like a brute to you.”
“Oh, my Jem really means well, sir,” said the woman; “I know he does. He has always been a good husband to me.”
Late that evening the artist thought over affairs. It was a pleasant soft summer night, and when he was alone he quietly opened the cottage door, and lighting his pipe, sat down on the little rustic seat which was just outside. There was hardly a sound—nothing but the night wind sweeping through the valley, the far-off plash of water, the purring noise of a big moth as it flew past and then hovered a second, attracted by the gleam of the artist’s pipe.
There was a step, loud and heavy, and Manners started to his feet as a burly figure suddenly appeared just in front of him.
“Hallo, Drinkwater!” he cried. “You, my man?”
“Me it is, Mr Manners.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I was wanting to see you.”
“Wanting to see me? What for?” said the man, gruffly.
“Oh, for several reasons. I don’t like my landlord to go off for days together, nobody knows where.”
“Not wanted now,” said the man, sourly—“Nobody wants me now.”
“That’s not a fact, Drinkwater,” said the artist, firmly. “Not a bit true. To begin with, I want you.”
“Pictures to see too?”
“No, not pictures. I just want to talk to you; that’s all. Have you got your pipe? Oh, I see you have. Here’s my pouch. Come, fill and light up, and sit down here. It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?”
“Humph!” grunted the man, as he obeyed and began to smoke.
“Now,” said the artist, cheerily, after a few minutes’ silence, “what’s wrong with you? At least, I need not ask that. You have quarrelled with your old friend and employer, for no reason, and it’s no end of a pity, I can assure you. You will not mind my speaking out plainly like this, as man to man, for I have known you a long time now; and besides, I’m under a debt to you for helping me that night.”
“Humph!” said the man again.
“Now,” said the artist, “has all this sulking done you any good?”
“Good!” growled the man. “Good! No. There has been no good in my life. I have slaved it all away for a thankless taskmaster.”
“Bah!” said the artist, with a laugh. “Mr Willows a taskmaster! Why, it’s too absurd! He’s one of the very best men that ever lived; and in your heart of hearts you know it, Drinkwater. You know it quite well.”
“I want revenge,” said the man.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the artist. “Revenge! Why, Drinkwater, it’s really funny. Revenge! What are you going to do? Blow up the mill?”
“Eh?” said the man, shifting uneasily in his seat and turning to stare at his companion. “Blow up the mill? What, me?”
“There, there,” said Manners, “I didn’t mean it. It was only a joke. Think it over, Drinkwater. Think it over,” he continued, as the man rose; and the artist held out his hand, but whether it was the darkness which prevented his seeing the gesture, or for some other reason, the hand was not taken, and a moment later the man had entered the cottage, while the artist got up to follow him, for it was very late and he was tired.
“What has he got in his head?” he mused. “I don’t like his manner at all.”
Chapter Twelve.On the Watch.Josh and the Vicar were down at the mill in good time the next morning, to find Will and his father in the bright sunshine under a cloudless sky, on the bank overlooking the wide pool, and, just as they reached them, with a hearty “Good-morning!” Manners came up.Overhead, all was bright and clear, and, from Nature’s newly washed face, a fresh, sweet scent rose into the air; but the lower part of the valley seemed quite transformed. Sluices and waterfalls were gushing down everywhere, making for the main stream, which added to the general roar of water as it rushed along, racing for the overcharged river far away.Every moment some fresh sign of the mischief which had been done by the flood glided by. The stream was no longer crystal-like and clear, but turgid with the soil swept from high up the banks; leaves, twigs, broken branches, and even trees, mostly root upwards, went bobbing by, every now and then to become anchored for a few moments amongst the stones, and forming some little dam which kept the water back till there was weight enough to overcome the obstacle and send it onwards with a rush.“Well,” cried Manners, in his bluff way, “how is it, Mr Willows? I woke up this morning, looked out of the window, and then dressed in a flurry, to hurry down, half expecting that the mill had been swept away.”“I, too,” said the Vicar, “felt a bit nervous; the storm was awful, and I wondered whether such a weight of waters might not have made an opening somewhere in your dam.”“Well, to be candid,” said Mr Willows, “I woke long before daybreak and came out with Will here to see how we stood. But we are all right. My ancestors were simple men, but what they did they did with all their hearts. It must have been very slow work year by year, the quarrying and bringing down all these stones; but they planted them well, the lime they burned was of the best, and it is harder now than the stone itself. The dam has stood two hundred years, and it is so solid that it looks as if it would stand two hundred more.”“Then we are all right,” cried Manners, heartily.“Yes, we are all right,” said Mr Willows, smiling and holding out his hand; “and this is nice and neighbourly of you, a stranger, Mr Manners, to speak like this.”“Neighbourly?” said Manners, colouring through his well-tanned skin. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Only, you see, coming down year after year, and seeing so much of the boys, one seems to know you all so well.”“Exactly,” said the Vicar, smiling; “Willows is quite right; it is neighbourly, or we will say brotherly, if you like.”“No, no, no!” cried the artist. “Here, I’ll tell you what to say—nothing. But I am heartily glad there is no serious mischief done.”“None at all,” said Willows. “Rather good. The big pool was getting very low. Now we shall be all right for months. The water’s falling fast, and in half an hour I shall have the waste water-sluices closed, and by mid-day the stream will be running much as usual.”“That’s right,” cried Manners. “I say, boys; lucky we had our fishing last night. Why, every trout will have been washed down-stream and out to sea.”“Not one,” cried Will. “Will they, father?”“No, my boy; I don’t suppose they will; they’ll have got into the eddies and backwaters, driven down a good deal here and there; but their natural habit is to make their way higher and higher up to the shallows in search of food. There, Mr Manners, I don’t think that you’ll miss any of your sport. My experience is that places which swarm with trout one day are empty the next, and vacant spots where you have thrown a fly in vain will another time give you a fish at nearly every cast.”“Well,” said Manners, “as I have had my fright for nothing, my nature’s beginning to assert itself, and the main question now with me is breakfast. Now, boys, will you come and join me? I can’t smell them, but I can almost venture to say for certain that Mrs Drinkwater is frying trout. What do you say?”“No, thank you, Mr Manners,” replied Will; “my father will want me, perhaps, to give orders to the men; but Josh has got to pass the cottage.”“Of course,” cried Manners; “and you might honour me too, Mr Carlile.”“Thanks, no,” said the Vicar. “Josh can stay, and he will be glad. I’ll go on, for they would be waiting breakfast at home.”The artist gave a tug at a thick chain, and dragged out a heavy, old-fashioned, gold watch.“Five o’clock,” he cried. “We should be done by six. Why, you’d be quite ready for a second breakfast, sir, by eight or nine.”“Do come, father.”“Very well,” said the Vicar, smiling; and the artist carried them off, leaving Willows with his son to walk slowly on to the broad dam where the foam-covered water brimmed the stones, as if only wanting the impulse of a puff of wind to sweep over the top.They stopped about the middle, to stand looking up the vale.“I say, father, do you feel that?” cried Will.“What?—the quivering sensation, my boy?”“Yes; it is just as if the water was shaking the stones all loose.”“Yes, but it is only the vibration caused by the water rushing through the open sluices on either side; they are open as wide as they will go, and have just been large enough to do their work well and keep the flood down. I fully expected to find it foaming over the top. What are you looking at?”“Don’t take any notice, father. I’m going to look away. Just turn your eyes quietly up to the old stone bench on the top there by the lookout.”There was a pause of a moment or two, during which the mill-owner stooped to pick up a piece of sodden, dead wood, to throw it outward into the current tearing through one of the open sluices. Then turning right away, he said, quietly—“Yes, there’s someone’s face looking over from the back. Who can it be?”“Can’t you see, father?”“No; unless it’s James.”“It is, father; I saw his face just now quite clear. What does he want there? Does he want to speak to you about coming back?”“Hardly so soon as this, my boy,” said Will’s father, rather sadly. “Brought here by curiosity, I suppose, like our other friends—a good sign, Will. He takes an interest in the old mill, after all.”
Josh and the Vicar were down at the mill in good time the next morning, to find Will and his father in the bright sunshine under a cloudless sky, on the bank overlooking the wide pool, and, just as they reached them, with a hearty “Good-morning!” Manners came up.
Overhead, all was bright and clear, and, from Nature’s newly washed face, a fresh, sweet scent rose into the air; but the lower part of the valley seemed quite transformed. Sluices and waterfalls were gushing down everywhere, making for the main stream, which added to the general roar of water as it rushed along, racing for the overcharged river far away.
Every moment some fresh sign of the mischief which had been done by the flood glided by. The stream was no longer crystal-like and clear, but turgid with the soil swept from high up the banks; leaves, twigs, broken branches, and even trees, mostly root upwards, went bobbing by, every now and then to become anchored for a few moments amongst the stones, and forming some little dam which kept the water back till there was weight enough to overcome the obstacle and send it onwards with a rush.
“Well,” cried Manners, in his bluff way, “how is it, Mr Willows? I woke up this morning, looked out of the window, and then dressed in a flurry, to hurry down, half expecting that the mill had been swept away.”
“I, too,” said the Vicar, “felt a bit nervous; the storm was awful, and I wondered whether such a weight of waters might not have made an opening somewhere in your dam.”
“Well, to be candid,” said Mr Willows, “I woke long before daybreak and came out with Will here to see how we stood. But we are all right. My ancestors were simple men, but what they did they did with all their hearts. It must have been very slow work year by year, the quarrying and bringing down all these stones; but they planted them well, the lime they burned was of the best, and it is harder now than the stone itself. The dam has stood two hundred years, and it is so solid that it looks as if it would stand two hundred more.”
“Then we are all right,” cried Manners, heartily.
“Yes, we are all right,” said Mr Willows, smiling and holding out his hand; “and this is nice and neighbourly of you, a stranger, Mr Manners, to speak like this.”
“Neighbourly?” said Manners, colouring through his well-tanned skin. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Only, you see, coming down year after year, and seeing so much of the boys, one seems to know you all so well.”
“Exactly,” said the Vicar, smiling; “Willows is quite right; it is neighbourly, or we will say brotherly, if you like.”
“No, no, no!” cried the artist. “Here, I’ll tell you what to say—nothing. But I am heartily glad there is no serious mischief done.”
“None at all,” said Willows. “Rather good. The big pool was getting very low. Now we shall be all right for months. The water’s falling fast, and in half an hour I shall have the waste water-sluices closed, and by mid-day the stream will be running much as usual.”
“That’s right,” cried Manners. “I say, boys; lucky we had our fishing last night. Why, every trout will have been washed down-stream and out to sea.”
“Not one,” cried Will. “Will they, father?”
“No, my boy; I don’t suppose they will; they’ll have got into the eddies and backwaters, driven down a good deal here and there; but their natural habit is to make their way higher and higher up to the shallows in search of food. There, Mr Manners, I don’t think that you’ll miss any of your sport. My experience is that places which swarm with trout one day are empty the next, and vacant spots where you have thrown a fly in vain will another time give you a fish at nearly every cast.”
“Well,” said Manners, “as I have had my fright for nothing, my nature’s beginning to assert itself, and the main question now with me is breakfast. Now, boys, will you come and join me? I can’t smell them, but I can almost venture to say for certain that Mrs Drinkwater is frying trout. What do you say?”
“No, thank you, Mr Manners,” replied Will; “my father will want me, perhaps, to give orders to the men; but Josh has got to pass the cottage.”
“Of course,” cried Manners; “and you might honour me too, Mr Carlile.”
“Thanks, no,” said the Vicar. “Josh can stay, and he will be glad. I’ll go on, for they would be waiting breakfast at home.”
The artist gave a tug at a thick chain, and dragged out a heavy, old-fashioned, gold watch.
“Five o’clock,” he cried. “We should be done by six. Why, you’d be quite ready for a second breakfast, sir, by eight or nine.”
“Do come, father.”
“Very well,” said the Vicar, smiling; and the artist carried them off, leaving Willows with his son to walk slowly on to the broad dam where the foam-covered water brimmed the stones, as if only wanting the impulse of a puff of wind to sweep over the top.
They stopped about the middle, to stand looking up the vale.
“I say, father, do you feel that?” cried Will.
“What?—the quivering sensation, my boy?”
“Yes; it is just as if the water was shaking the stones all loose.”
“Yes, but it is only the vibration caused by the water rushing through the open sluices on either side; they are open as wide as they will go, and have just been large enough to do their work well and keep the flood down. I fully expected to find it foaming over the top. What are you looking at?”
“Don’t take any notice, father. I’m going to look away. Just turn your eyes quietly up to the old stone bench on the top there by the lookout.”
There was a pause of a moment or two, during which the mill-owner stooped to pick up a piece of sodden, dead wood, to throw it outward into the current tearing through one of the open sluices. Then turning right away, he said, quietly—
“Yes, there’s someone’s face looking over from the back. Who can it be?”
“Can’t you see, father?”
“No; unless it’s James.”
“It is, father; I saw his face just now quite clear. What does he want there? Does he want to speak to you about coming back?”
“Hardly so soon as this, my boy,” said Will’s father, rather sadly. “Brought here by curiosity, I suppose, like our other friends—a good sign, Will. He takes an interest in the old mill, after all.”