The man of journeys nodded.
“Did she mend your clothes and things — and love to care for you?” Judy wished to know.
He shook his tangled head. “She visited the poor,” he told them, “and had no time for the likes of me. And one day I fell out of a big hole in my second suit and took to tramping.” He rubbed his hands vigorously together in the air. “And here I am.”
“Yes,” said Maria kindly. “I’m glad.”
Meanwhile, Judy having decided to go and help her brother with the tea-things, the others set to work and made a fire. Maria helped with her eyes, picking up an occasional stick as well, but it was the Tramp who really did the difficult part. Only the way he did it made it appear quite easy somehow. He began with the tiniest fire in the world, and the next minute it seemed ready for the kettle, with a cross-bar arranged adroitly over it and a supply of fresh wood in a pile beside it.
“What do you think about it?” asked Tim of his sister, as they struggled back with the laden basket. Apparently a deep question of some kind asked for explanation in his mind.
“It’s awful that he has no one to care about him,” was the girl’s reply. “I think he’s a very nice man. He looks magnificent and awfully brown.”
“That’s dirt,” said her brother.
“It’s travel,” she replied indignantly.
The Tramp, when they got back, looked tidier somehow, as though the effect of refined society had already done him good. His appearance was less uncouth, his hair and beard a shade less hay-fieldy. It was possible to imagine what he looked like when he was young — sure sign of being tidy; just as to be very untidy gives an odd hint of what old age will do eventually to face and figure. The Tramp looked younger.
They all made friends in the simple, unaffected way of birds and animals, for at the End of the World there was no such thing as empty formality. The children, supported by the presence of their important uncle, asked questions, this being their natural prerogative; it came to them as instinctively as tapping the lawn for worms comes to birds, or scratching the earth for holes is a sign of health with rabbits. At first shyly — then in a ceaseless, yet not too inquisitive torrent. Questions are the sincerest form of flattery, and the Tramp, accustomed probably to severer questions from people in uniform, was quite delighted. He smiled quietly behind the scenery of his curious great face, but he answered all: where he lived, how he travelled, what friends he had, where he spent Christmas, what barns and ditches and haystacks felt like, anything and everything, even where he meant to be buried when he died. “‘ere, where I’ve lived so ‘appily,” and he made a wide gesture with one tattered arm to include the earth and sky. He had no secrets apparently; he was glad they should know all. The children had never known such a delightful creature in their lives before.
“And you eat anything?” inquired Tim, “anything you can, I mean?”
“Anything you can get, he means,” corrected Judy softly.
He gave an unexpected answer. “I swallow sunsets, and I bite the moon;
I nibble stars. I never need a spoon.”
He said it as naturally as a duchess describing her latest diet at a smart dinner-party, with an air, too, as of some great personage disguised on purpose so that he might enjoy the simple life.
“That rhymes,” stated Maria.
“So does this,” he replied; “I live on open hair and bits of bread; the sunlight clothes me, and I lay me ‘ead—”
The hissing of the kettle interrupted him. “Water’s boiling,” cried Uncle Felix; “hand round the cups and cut the loaf.” A cup was given to each. The tea was made.
“Do you take sugar, please?” asked Judy of the guest. The quietness of her voice made it almost tender. Such a man, moreover, might despise sweet things. But he said he did.
“Two lumps?” she asked, “or one?”
“Five, please,” he said.
She was far too polite to show surprise at this, nor at the fact that he stirred his tea with a little bit of stick instead of with a spoon. She remembered his remark that he had no use for spoons. Tim, saying nothing, imitated all he did as naturally as though he had never done otherwise in his life before. They enjoyed their picnic tea immensely in this way, seated in a row upon the comfortable elm tree, gobbling, munching, drinking, chattering. The Tramp, for all his outward roughness, had the manners of a king. He said what he thought, but without offence; he knew what he wanted, yet without greed or selfishness. He had that politeness which is due to alert perception of every one near him, their rights and claims, their likes and dislikes; for true politeness is practically an expansion of consciousness which involves seeing the point of view of every one else — at once. A tramp, accustomed to long journeys, big spaces, obliged ever to consider the demands of impetuous little winds, the tastes of flowers, the habits and natural preferences of animals, birds, and insects, develops this bigger sense of politeness that crowds in streets and drawing-rooms cannot learn. Unless a tramp takes note of all, he remains out of touch with all, and therefore is uncomfortable.
“Is everything all right?” asked Uncle Felix presently, anxious to see that he was well provided for.
“Everything, thank you,” the wanderer replied, “and, if you don’t mind, I’ll ‘ave my supper here later too. I’ve brought it with me.” And out of one capacious pocket he produced — a bird. “It’s a chickin,” he informed them, as they stared with wide-opened eyes. Maria was the first to go on eating her slice of bread and jam. Unordinary things seemed to disturb her less than ordinary ones. Somehow it seemed quite natural that he should go about with a bird for supper in his pocket.
“However did you get it — in there?” asked Tim, modifying his sentence just in time to avoid inquisitive rudeness.
“It gave itself to me,” he replied. “That kind of things ‘appens sometimes when you’re tramping. They know,” he added significantly. “You see, it’s my birthday to-day, and something like this always ‘appens on my birthday. Last time it was a fish. I fell into the stream and went right under. When I got out on to the bank again I found a trout in my pocket. The time before I slept beside a haystack, and when I awoke at sunrise I felt something warm and soft against my face like feathers. It was feathers. There was a ‘en’s nest two inches from my nose, and six nice eggs in it all ready for my birthday breakfast. I only ate four of them. You should never take all the heggs out of a nest.” He looked round at the group and smiled. “But I think the chickin’s best of all,” he told them, “and next year I expect a turkey, or a bit of bacon maybe.”
“You never, never grow old, do you?” Judy asked. Her admiration was no longer concealed. It seemed she saw him differently a little from the others.
“Oh, jest a nice age,” he said.
“You seem to know so much,” she explained her question, “everything.”
He laughed behind his tea-cup as he fingered the chicken on his lap.
“As to that,” he murmured, “there’s only a few things worth knowing. If you can just forget the rest, you’re all right.”
“I see,” she replied beneath her breath. “But — but it’s got to be plucked and cleaned and cooked first, hasn’t it?”
“The chickin?” he laughed. “Oh, dear me, no! Cooked, yes, but not plucked or cleaned in the sense you mean. That’s what they do in ‘ouses. Out here we have a better way. We just wrap it up in clay and dig a ‘ole and light a fire on top, and in a ‘arf hour it’s ready to eat, tender, juicy, and sweet as a bit of ‘oneycomb. Break open the ball of clay, and the feathers all come away wiv it.” And then he produced from another pocket a fat, thick roll of yellow butter, freshly made apparently, for it was wrapped in a clean white cloth.
They stared at that for a long time without a word.
“They go together,” he explained, and the explanation seemed sufficient as well as final. “And they come together too,” he added with a smile.
“Did the butter give itself to you as well as
the chicken?” inquired Judy. The Tramp nodded in the affirmative as he placed it beside him on the trunk ready for use later. And everybody felt in the middle of a delightful mystery. All were the same age together. Bird and butter, sun and wind, flowers and children, tramp and animals — all seemed merged in a jolly company that shared one another’s wants and could supply them. The wallflowers wagged their orange-bonneted heads, the wind slipped sighing with delicious perfumes from the trees, the bees were going home in single file, and the sun was sinking level with the paling top — when suddenly there came a disturbing element into the scene that made their hearts beat faster with one accord. It was a sound.
A muffled, ominous beat was audible far away, but slowly coming nearer. As it approached it changed its character. It became sharper and more distinct. Something about the measured intervals between its tapping repetitions brought a threatening message of alarm. Every one felt the little warning and looked up. There was anxiety. The sound jarred unpleasantly upon the peace of the happy company. They listened. It was footsteps on the road outside.
CHAPTER X. FACT AND WONDER — CLASH
Uncle Felix paused over his last bit of bread and jam, Tim and Judy cocked their ears up. Maria’s eyes stood still a moment in the heavens, and the Tramp stopped eating. He picked up the butter and replaced it carefully in his pocket.
“I know those steps,” he murmured half to himself and half to the others. “They’re all over the world. They follow me wherever I go. I hear ’em even in me sleep.” He sighed, and the tone of his voice was weary and ill at ease.
“How horrid for you,” said Judy very softly.
“It keeps me moving,” he muttered, trying to conceal all signs of face behind hair and beard, which he pulled over him like a veil. “It’s the Perliceman.”
“The Policeman!” they echoed, staring.
“But he can’t find you here!”
“He’ll never see you!”
“You’re quite safe inside the fence with us, for this is the End of the
World, you know.”
“He’s not afraid — never!” exclaimed Judy proudly.
“He goes everywhere and sees everything,” whispered the Tramp. “He’s been following me since time began. So far he has not caught me up, but his boots are so much bigger than my own — the biggest, strongest boots in the world — that in the hend he is bound to get me.”
“But you’ve done nothing,” said Judy.
The wanderer smiled. “That’s why,” he said, holding up a warning finger. “It’s because I do nothing. ‘ush!” he whispered. The steps came nearer, and he lowered his voice so that the end of the sentence was not audible.
“‘ide me,” he said in a whisper. And he waved his arms imploringly, like the branches of some wind-hunted tree.
There was a tarpaulin near the rubbish-heap, and some sacking used for keeping the vegetables warm at night. “That’ll do,” he said, pointing. “Quick! — Good-bye!” In a moment he was beneath the spread black covering, the children were sitting on its edges, quietly eating more bread and jam, and looking as innocent as stars. Uncle Felix poked the fire busily, a grave and anxious look upon his face.
The steps came nearer, paused, came on again then finally stopped outside the gate. The flowing road that bore them ceased running past in its accustomed way. The evening stopped still too. The silence could be heard. The setting sun looked on. Upon the crumbling wall the orange flowers shook their little warning banners.
And there came a tapping on the wooden gate.
No one moved.
The tapping was repeated. There was a sound of drums about it. The round brass handle turned. The door pushed open, and in the empty space appeared — the Policeman.
“Good evening,” he said in a heavy, uncompromising way. He looked enormous, framed there by the open gate, the white road behind him like a sheet. He looked very blue — a great towering shadow against the sunlight. It was very clear that he knew he was a policeman and could think of nothing else. He was dressed up for the part, and received many shillings a week from a radculgovunment to look like that. It would have been a dereliction of duty to forget it. He was stuffed with duty. His brass buttons shone.
“Good evening,” he repeated, as no one spoke.
“Good evening,” replied Uncle Felix calmly. The Policeman accentuated the word “evening,” but Uncle Felix emphasised the adjective “good.” From the very beginning the two men disagreed. “This is private property, very private indeed. We are having tea, in fact, privately, upon our own land.”
“No property is private,” returned the Policeman, “and to the Law no thing nor person either.”
For a moment the children felt afraid. It seemed incredible that Uncle
Felix could be arrested, and yet things had an appearance of it.
“Kindly close the gate so that we cannot be overheard,” he said firmly, “and then be good enough to state your business here.” He did not offer him a seat; he did not suggest a cup of tea; he spoke like a brave man who expected danger but was prepared to meet it.
The Policeman stepped back and closed the gate. He then stepped forward again a little nearer than before. From a pocket, hitherto invisible inside his belt, he drew forth a crumpled notebook and a stub of pencil. He was very dignified and very grave. He took a deep breath, held the paper and pencil ready to use, expanded his chest till it resembled a toy balloon in the Park, and said:
“I am looking for a man.” He paused, then added: “Have you seen a man about?”
“About what?” asked Uncle Felix innocently.
“About fifty or thereabouts,” replied the other. “Disguised in rags and a wig of hair and a false beard.”
“What has he done?” It was like a game of chess, both opponents well matched. Uncle Felix was too big to be caught napping by clever questions that hid traps. The children felt the danger in the air, and watched their uncle with quivering admiration. Only their uncle stood alone, whereas behind the Policeman stretched a line of other policemen that reached to London and was in touch with the Government itself.
“What has he done?” repeated their champion.
“He’s disappeared,” came the deep-voiced answer.
“There’s no crime in that,” was the comment, given flatly.
“But he’s disappeared with” — the Policeman consulted his notebook a moment— “a chicken and a roll of butter what don’t belong to him—”
“Roll and butter, did you say?”
“No, sir, roll of butter was what I said.” He spoke respectfully, but was grave and terrible. “He is a thief.”
“A thief!”
“He lives nowhere and has no home. You see, sir, duty is duty, and we’re expected to run in people who live nowhere and have no homes.”
“Which road did he take?” Uncle Felix clearly was pretending in order to gain time.
The man of law looked puzzled. “It was a roll of butter and a bird, sir,” he said, consulting his book again, “and my duty is to run him in—”
“The moment you run into him.”
“Precisely,” replied the blue giant. “And, having seen him come in here some time ago, I now ask you formally whether you have seen him too, and I call upon you to show me where he’s hiding.” He thrust one huge foot forward and held his notebook open with the pencil ready. “Anything you say will be used against you later, remember. You must all be witnesses.”
“If you find him,” put in Uncle Felix dryly.
“When I find him,” said the other. And his eye wandered over to the tarpaulin that was spread out beside the rubbish-heap. For it had suddenly moved.
Everybody had seen that movement. There was no disguising it. Feeling uncomfortable the Tramp had shifted his position. He probably wanted air.
“I saw it move,” the Policeman growled, moving a step towards the rubbish-heap. “He’s under there all right enough, and the sooner he comes out the better for him. That’s a
ll I’ve got to say.”
It was a most disagreeable and awkward moment. No one knew quite what was best to do. Maria turned her eyes as innocently upon the tarpaulin as she could manage, but it was obvious what she was really looking at. Her brother held his breath and stared, expecting a pistol might appear and some one be shot dead with a marvellous aim, struck absolutely in the mathematical centre of the heart. Uncle Felix, upon whom fell the burden of rescue or defence, sat there with a curious look upon his face. For a moment it seemed he knew not what to do.
The Policeman, approaching still nearer to the tarpaulin, glared at him.
“You’re an accessory,” he said sternly, “both before and after the fact.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t there.”
“You didn’t say he was,” was the severe retort. It was unanswerable.
“He’ll hang by the neck till he’s dead,” thought Tim, “and afterwards they’ll bury the body in a lime-kiln so that even his family can’t visit the grave.” He looked wildly about him, thinking of possible ways of escape he had read or heard about, and his eye fell upon his sister Judy.
Now Judy was a queer, original maid. She believed everything in the world. She believed not only what was told her but also what she thought. And among other things she believed herself to be very beautiful, though in reality she was the ugly duckling of the brood. “All God has made is beautiful,” Aunt Emily had once reproved her, and, since God had made everything, everything must be beautiful. It was. God had made her too, therefore she was simply lovely. She enjoyed numerous romances; one romance after another flamed into her puzzled life, each leaving her more lovely than it found her. She was also invariably good. To be asked if she was good was a blundering question to which the astonished answer was only an indignant “Of course.” And, similarly, all she loved herself was beautiful. Her romances had included gardeners and postmen, stable-boys and curates, age of no particular consequence provided they stimulated her creative imagination. And the latest was — the Tramp.
Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood Page 268