“And now for the Roaring Donkey,” he said at last.
The mist had been lifted and driven away by a light easterly wind that was shivering the willow leaves and rustling the tall reeds, to Bill’s great relief, for he had been afraid they would have to row all the way home. “Didn’t I say I had it in my pockut?” said Joe.
“Ain’t you going to do no more fishing?” asked Pete.
“Never get another fish like that,” said the fisherman. “No. We must get him weighed at the Donkey, and then, if we’re quick about it, I’ll go down through Yarmouth. That fish is too big to post, and I’ll have to take him up to Norwich to have him stuffed. I’ll give you a tow as far as Thurne Mouth and you’ll blow home all right if this wind keeps up.”
He disappeared into the Cachalot’s fo’c’sle and came back with a long plank taken from the fo’c’sle floor. “How’s this for a stretcher?” he said.
Bill and Joe laid the plank on the path beside the Cachalot. The fisherman brought the big fish ashore and laid it on the plank.
“Better cover him up,” he said. “I don’t want anybody to see him at the Donkey till I’ve had a word with the landlord.” He went back into the Cachalot and brought ashore a couple of empty coke sacks, with which he reverently draped the corpse.
Joe took one end of the plank. Bill and Pete, one each side, took the other.
“Ready?” said the fisherman.
“Right,” said Joe.
“On with the funeral,” said the fisherman, and the procession set out along the path beside the river until they turned off to the right along the narrow dyke that led to the Roaring Donkey.
The little inn did not look prosperous. The dyke that led to it from the river was only big enough for rowing boats, so most of the yachts and cruisers passed it by. Even at the height of summer there were seldom more than one or two odd visitors sitting on the benches outside its latticed windows. Today there was nobody. The roof looked as if it badly needed some new thatching. The flagstaff from which hung a tattered green flag with the letters “ALL ARE WELCOME” was needing new paint, and so was the signboard where a white donkey stood roaring its heart out on a field the green of which had blistered away in patches.
FUNERAL PROCESSION
“He’ll be crowded out,” said the fisherman, “when he has that fish on his mantelshelf.”
“Doctor Dudgeon’s got one,” said Pete, “in the room where he look at my tongue. But that ain’t nowheres near as big as this ’un.”
“People will be coming from all over the place to see it. A fish that size and caught only a few yards from the house.”
“Seems more’n that,” said Joe, who was finding it awkward walking while holding the end of the stretcher.
“When he’s got that fish in his parlour, they’ll be coming all the season through to try to catch another like him.”
“There’s one in the Swan,” said Joe.
“This is bigger,” said the fisherman. “Now look here, you three. Licensed premises. Can’t take you in. Round you go into the yard and wait there. Don’t let anybody see what you’ve got.” He waved a cheerful hand towards the big gate into the yard behind the inn and himself went in at the low doorway, stooping so as not to bump his head.
The stretcher-bearers went round into the yard.
“Best go under the shed,” said Joe. “Don’t want anybody coming out and asking questions.”
They went into an open shed at one side of the yard and rested the bier between a pile of faggots and a chopping block. Pete lifted a sack to have another look at the corpse.
“Wouldn’t like to have my hand in his mouth,” said Bill. “He’s got teeth in him big as a harrow’s.”
“Someone coming,” said Joe, and Pete let the sacking fall back. A girl came out of the back door of the inn, crossed the yard with a bucket, filled it at a pump and went away again, never knowing that three watchers were wondering what to say to her if she should happen to ask what they were doing.
Something moved in a box at the back of the shed. A pale, long, arched body stirred in some straw and put up a clawed foot against the wire netting that covered the front of the box.
“Ferrets,” said Joe.
They went nearer to have a look.
“Now then, Pete, you keep your fingers out of that wire,” said Bill. “Remember the old keeper that time he show his. Old bitch ferret he had and four young ones. ‘Don’t be afeard of ’em’, he say. ‘They’ll never touch you if you show ’em the back of your hand’, and he shove his hand in, close fist, and the next minute he were yelling blue murder with all them ferrets fanging his knuckles and the blood spawling out.”
The back door of the inn opened again, and they heard the fisherman’s voice.
“A shilling a pound for any fish over twenty pounds, you said?”
“That’s right, Jemmy, we hear you say it,” laughed someone else.
“That’s all right. If he’s a real big ’un he’s well worth it. But, see here, Mister, this isn’t the first of April.” The landlord, a stout, red-faced man in corduroy breeches, was looking rather as if he thought that someone was playing a trick on him. Two or three labourers came out behind him to see if it was indeed true that the fisherman had caught a monster and the landlord had lost his bet.
“The corpse is somewhere here,” said the fisherman. “I told the bearers to carry it into the yard. Hi, you! Oh, there you are.”
Pete, Bill and Joe lifted the bier and carried it out of the shed.
“What do you think of that?” said the fisherman, whisking the sacks off, and showing the great pike with the tackle still hanging from the corner of his jaw.
The men stared at the fish.
“Biggest I’ve seen in twenty year,” said one.
“Fork out, Jemmy,” said another.
“He’s a big ’un all right,” said the landlord, pressing his thumb against the firm, shiny body. “He’s put away some fish in his time.”
“Water-fowl too,” said one of the men, whom the boys knew as a reed-cutter. “A fish like that make nothing of a young coot or a duckling.”
The landlord went into the shed, took a steelyard from the wall and hung it from a beam.
“Put it at twenty-four pounds to begin with,” said the fisherman. “We know he weighs that.” He had lifted the pike from the stretcher and brought it into the shed.
With the help of one of the men he hung it from the hook at one end of the steelyard and held it up to keep its tail from the dust and chaff on the floor while the landlord put a stone weight and half a stone and a four-pound weight into the scale. The tail of the fish dropped nearly to the ground.
“Twenty-five pound,” said the landlord and added another pound. It seemed to make no difference.
“Twenty-six pound,” said someone in a tone full of awe.
The landlord added another pound. Then he took off all the smaller weights and added another stone weight to the first.
“Twenty-eight,” he murmured, and added a pound.
“Twenty-nine.”
He added another pound and the fish rose slowly and dipped again.
“He’ll go more than thirty pounds,” said the fisherman.
Another pound put the balance on the wrong side. The landlord took it off and slid a smaller weight along the steelyard. The fish on one side and the weights on the other swayed slightly up and down, and came to rest.
“Thirty pound and a half,” said the landlord, almost as if he were in church. “Thirty pound and a half …” and then he slapped his knee. “Pay!” he almost shouted. “I’ll pay and welcome. And it’ll cost me the best part of a fiver to have him set up and I’ll pay that too. Mary! Come out here. If that fish don’t make the fortune of the Roaring Donkey I’ll give up innkeeping and take to poultry farming. Come on out, Mary, and have a look at this.”
The landlord’s wife came running.
“Make our fortunes, that fish will,” said the landlord. “
With that in a glass case we’ll have all the fishermen we can do with. Once they know about that they’ll be coming from London and Manchester, and where not. We’ll have the spare beds full from June to March.”
“Maybe you’ll be wanting a bigger inn,” laughed his wife.
“You never know,” said the landlord.
“I don’t care what you do to it,” said the fisherman, “so long as you don’t call it an hotel.”
The landlord chuckled. “It’s got a good enough name,” he said. “Custom’s what it wants … and when we can show a fish like that…. Come on, chaps. Drinks on the house…. And see here, Mary…. Pop for the young ’uns.”
They had only just finished an enormous dinner aboard the Cachalot, but when the landlord’s wife came out with three glasses of ginger beer and three hunks of fruit cake, they found a little more room and filled it. They had hardly done when they saw the landlord and the fisherman coming out again into the yard.
“All the same to you,” the fisherman was saying, “if you let me have two ten shilling notes for this pound?”
The landlord pulled out his wallet, put away the pound note and gave the fisherman two ten shilling notes in exchange.
“Come on now, you stretcher-bearers,” said the fisherman. “We’ve got to hurry. Pick him up and away. I want to get down through Yarmouth as quick as I can.” He turned to the landlord. “All right. I’ll give him full instructions and you shall have the fish as soon as he’s ready.”
They carried the great fish, laid out once more on the plank, back along the dyke and down the river bank to the Cachalot, while the fisherman was telling them what the man in Norwich would be doing, taking a mould of the fish, skinning him, letting the skin dry on the mould, varnishing and painting and setting him up with sand on the bottom of the glass case and a blue back to it and weeds arranged here and there so that the great pike would look as if he were resting in the water ready any moment to dart out at a passing roach.
“Are you all ready to start?” he asked, as he went aboard the Cachalot and took the fish from them.
“Have to lower the mast,” said Joe. “That don’t take a minute.”
“Skip along then as fast as you can. I’ll be coming down right away, and I’ll give you a tow if you’re ready for it…. And now…. Just half a minute….” He pulled three ten shilling notes from his pocket. “Thirty and a half pounds your fish weighed and the landlord paid up like an honest man. Thirty shillings and sixpence. That’s ten and twopence apiece. No need to go telling everybody you’ve got it, or you’ll be snowed under with begging letters. And don’t go putting it in the savings bank. There it is. Money to spend and well earned.”
They stared.
“For us?” said Pete.
“Ten bob,” said Joe. “Ten blessed blooming bob!”
“And twopence,” said the fisherman.
“There’s not a boy in Horning as rich as that,” said Joe.
“There’s not a boy in Horning who’s caught such a fish,” said the fisherman. “And there’ll never be another. It’s quite all right. Your fish. Your money….”
“But it were your rod,” said Joe, “and your bait, and you put the bait out and the old pike hook himself. We didn’t do nothing, only hang on till you come and pull him out.”
“I saw what you did,” said the fisherman. “He’d be in the river yet, but for you, and I’d have lost line and tackle and maybe my best rod as well. Why, no matter who had the rod, no one could have caught him if Pete hadn’t gone into the water after him like a spaniel, chasing him out of the reeds. Go on. Put the money in your pockets and keep your mouths shut till the fish comes back from Norwich. Then we’ll all go over to the Roaring Donkey and everybody’ll get a bit of a surprise. And now, skip along and be ready before I come.”
He went into the cabin, leaving the Death and Glories staring at each other and at the notes in their hands.
“Come on,” said Bill, and they set off at a run to get back to the Death and Glory.
“Ten bob apiece…. Gee whizz!” said Joe as they ran. “New ropes…. A proper iron chimney….”
“And stock up,” panted Bill. “We can go cruising for a month….”
“Gee whillikins!” said Pete. “That’s something to tell Tom Dudgeon.”
“Can’t tell him yet,” said Bill. “How long do it take to stuff a fish the way he said? Gosh! I’d like Tom to see when we go to the Roaring Donkey to look at that old pike in a glass case.”
They climbed aboard the Death and Glory and had her mast down just as they heard a quiet rumble from up the river. The Cachalot was coming down.
“Put the forrard anchor aboard Bill,” shouted Joe. “Pete and I’ll hang on to the stern warp and let her swing round. We’ll have her heading the right way…. That’s right…. Push her head out…. Round she go.”
There was a short toot from the horn they had blown so furiously during the fight with the pike. A moment later, the Cachalot was in sight. Her skipper put his engine into reverse and stopped her. She drifted slowly past them. A coiled rope flew to Bill. He caught it and took a turn round the bollard on the foredeck.
“Get aboard, Pete,” cried Joe, hurriedly coiling the stern warp, putting it aboard with its anchor and clambering aboard to take the tiller as the tow-rope began to tauten.
“All clear,” he shouted.
The fisherman threw up his hand to show that he had understood. In another moment there was a flurry of water round the bows of the Death and Glory, and they were off.
Just above the railway bridge they passed an old man sitting on a chair on the bank, watching a pike float a few yards below him. The Cachalot’s skipper put his engine out of gear to slip by quietly. The old man lifted a hand by way of saying thank you, and called out, “Nothing doing today. Not a touch since breakfast.”
“We’ve had one,” said the Cachalot’s skipper.
“Any size?”
“Not bad.”
He put on speed again.
“Like to know what he’d call good,” said Joe.
“If you keep looking at that note you’ll lose it,” said Bill.
Pete pushed his note deep into his pocket.
They passed under the railway bridge. They shot the stone bridge with care, but there was plenty of room though, as before, there was a moment when they felt sure they were going to touch. They were already well below the bridge when they saw a small boy run out on the staithe.
“There’s young Bob,” said Bill. “What’s up with him?”
The small boy was waving wildly.
“Something he want to tell us,” said Pete.
“Well, he can’t,” said Joe shortly, busy with his steering as the Cachalot swerved to the right to avoid a yacht that was being towed up to the staithe by a couple of men in a dinghy.
Bill and Pete waved cheerfully to the small outpost of the Coot Club, who was still signalling when a bend of the river below the staithe shut him out of sight behind a bungalow.
“Semaphore,” said Pete. “That stuff Dick and Dorothea show us at Easter.”
“Did you read it?”
“Couldn’t,” said Pete. “I’ve forgot it. But that’s what he were doing.”
“Probably he want to come too,” said Joe. “But the Cachalot’s in a hurry and we can’t make him stop.”
“Course we can’t,” said Bill. “We’re in a hurry same as he is. Wonder if that Dick and Dorothea get to Horning yet.” He pulled his ten shilling note from his pocket to make sure it was there. He caught Pete’s eye and pushed it back again.
“Thirty bob,” he said. “There’s almost nothing we couldn’t do.”
They left the bungalows behind and the hum of the Cachalot’s engine changed its note. It was higher, more urgent.
“Moving now,” said Pete, looking at the banks flying by. It seemed almost no time before the entrance to Womack was in sight and Thurne Dyke beyond it.
“Gosh!” said Joe. “We
got that mast to get up. You take her, Pete.”
Pete steered. Joe and Bill got the mast up, and made all ready for hoisting sail. They were nearing the mouth of the Thurne. The fisherman aboard the Cachalot slackened speed, and waved to the right.
“All ready,” shouted Joe from the foredeck of the Death and Glory.
The Cachalot swung out into the wide meeting place of the Bure and the Thurne. She swung for a moment up the Bure, so that the Death and Glory was heading for home.
“Now then, Bill,” said Joe.
“Up she go,” said Bill.
The little lugsail on its yard staggered up the mast, steadied and filled. Bill joined Pete in the cockpit.
“Ready to cast off?” shouted the fisherman.
“Ready.”
“Cast off!” shouted the fisherman and, as Joe let the tow-rope slip, they saw him hauling it in hand over hand and coiling it at his feet. Already the Death and Glory was sailing. The Cachalot circled round her. The fisherman lifted the huge pike. The Death and Glories gave a cheer.
“See you again,” shouted the fisherman. “And keep your mouths shut.” He headed away down river. Just before he went out of sight at the corner they saw him turn and face them, standing in his cockpit, and stretching out his arms as wide as he possibly could.
CHAPTER IX
MONEY TO BURN
JOE’S easterly wind filled the sail of the Death and Glory and drove her fast up the river, with a pleasant bubbling of water under her bows. The three took turns in steering. Pete had brought out the big telescope, but hardly looked through it. Joe, when not steering, sat in the cockpit with his back to the cabin and played his mouth organ. All three knew they were later than they had meant to be, but nothing seemed to matter beside the money in their pockets. It was not always in their pockets. They kept fingering it and turning it over so often that anybody might have thought they were seeing the new moon for the first time every other minute. From being ordinary hard-up boys, they had become capitalists overnight. Ten shillings and twopence each, as well as the half-crown Pete had earned by catching baits.
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