by Forrest Reid
Undecided, he descended from the loft and came round again to the front of the house, where he found Daddy seated patiently in the car, waiting to drive Mother into town. Tom stood by the door, and as soon as she appeared asked if he might come too, though he already knew she had an appointment with the hairdresser and after that was going to have tea at the McFerrans’, where Daddy was to call for her a little before six to bring her home. But his request was merely formal, and having watched them depart, he fetched the croquet-balls and a mallet from the hall and began a solitary game, blue and black against red and yellow.
Now of all games, croquet is the least amusing when played alone. Tom began this one with every intention of finishing it, but “whether skill prevailed” (which was seldom) “or happy blunder triumphed” (infrequent also) it was equally dull, and after ten minutes or so he gave it up and returned to the house to get his yacht.
Between the cloak-room door and the grandfather’s clock, stood a big oak chest in which the croquet and tennis things, with a few of his more personal belongings, were kept. Here was his yacht, and he lifted it out, gazed at it, and put it back again, taking a much smaller boat instead—one he could easily carry tucked under his arm. Then he set off for the river, visiting on his way the raspberry canes to see if any raspberries were ripe. He found only two or three rather dubious specimens, but he ate them, before taking the path through the shrubbery, at the end of which was a green postern door where two walls of the garden joined. Passing through this door, he was immediately above the glen, on the top of a high steep bank thickly carpeted with dark glossy bluebell-leaves. In spring, this bank was a feast of brilliant colour, but there were no flowers now, except here and there the small white flowers of a few wild strawberries. A narrow path bordered by nettles ran along the top of the bank, but Tom clambered down to the stream and followed that.
The slender trees were nearly all either larch or birch or hazel, and the sun, glinting between them, was the colour of old silver. He now began to realize how hot it was—actually hotter down here in the shade than it had been up above in the open sunshine, for the air was heavier, almost stagnant. The birds were silent; a low droning murmur, which accompanied and mingled with the splash of water, proceeded from smaller winged creatures.
Gradually the banks of the glen widened out as Tom neared its entrance, and presently he emerged into a flat meadow-land. Here the stream was broader and shallower, flowing between beds of flowering rushes. In winter, after a rainy spell, this land became a swamp; and even now, though dry enough, it was soft as velvet beneath his feet. The whole meadow was flooded with brilliant sunlight, but in the distance everything melted into a bluish-silver haze, composed of air and cloud and sky.
A solitary tree grew in the meadow—an oak. It must once have been a giant, for though now its branches were sadly dwindled, the girth of the trunk was immense. Tom knew it well, because Edward, the squirrel, lived here. It was quite hollow, and many of the branches had broken off and fallen, though those remaining still put forth leaves and, at the right time of the year, a crop of acorns. The boughs were so brittle that it was a dangerous tree to climb, but James-Arthur had climbed it, and said the trunk was quite hollow and looked just like a huge chimney; so that if you were to slip and fall down inside you would never be heard of again, but would gradually starve to death, unless somebody passing by happened to hear your cries. . . .
Leaving his boat by the stream, Tom ran over to the oak and whistled, but apparently Edward was not at home. He knew Tom’s whistle quite well, and if he had been there he certainly would have peeped out on the chance that a few nuts had been brought to him. Tom had in fact brought him some biscuits, only there was no use leaving these, as, what with mice and other creatures, it was most unlikely they would still be there when Edward came back. . . .
Half-way up the trunk, a bat hung motionless and asleep, with his dark wings neatly folded. Tom had never before seen one sleeping right out in the open, and he wondered whether he ought to awaken him or not. He must be a very young and inexperienced bat, or he would have known that the cats from Denny’s were always prowling about, and might easily come as far as this on the chance of picking up a baby rabbit. On the other hand, he couldn’t be reached except by throwing a stick or a stone, and he was sure bats were very easily hurt. He returned to the stream therefore, and picking up the boat, continued on his way. . . .
At the end of the meadow was a deep ditch, with thickets of brambles on one side and a steep bank surmounted by a hedge on the other. In the hedge were more brambles, and a tangle of wild roses now in full bloom and stretching wide their pink and white petals to drink in the heat. But the ditch was dry, so in spite of the thorns that caught at his jacket and tried to hold him, Tom was able to wriggle his way through, emerging on to the tow-path between two bends of the river, whose winding course could be traced by the trees on the farther bank.
Kneeling at the water’s edge, he fixed the rudder of his boat to steer a slanting course to the opposite shore. When it was nearing land he would cross over himself by the lock gate, which, though out of sight, was not more than fifty yards beyond the nearer bend. But it was a bad day for sailing boats. A languid puff of air caught the sails for a moment or two, and this, with the push he had given it, carried the boat out towards midstream, where it began to drift slowly with the current. Tom followed it along the bank till it reached a clump of water-lilies; yet, though it only brushed them, in the lack of wind this was sufficient, and there it remained—“as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean”.
He searched for a stone to throw at it, because it was not even entangled, and beyond this one snag had a perfectly clear passage. But there were no stones big enough to be of any use, so he sat down on the bank, since there was nothing else to do.
The broad shining lily-leaves cast black shadows on the water. The yellow flowers were as usual half closed, and a dragon-fly was dreaming on one of them, his blue enamelled body glittering in the sun. In a very few minutes Tom was dreaming himself. He didn’t really care whether the boat worked loose or not, for toys had never interested him much. When he got a present of one he would play with it for a shorter or longer period, but that first experiment over, he would put it away and very seldom think of it again. The model yacht, for instance, had been a present from Granny on his last birthday, and after a single trial had rarely been removed from the chest in the hall. If Granny had given him a monkey, now—as he had himself suggested or indeed anything alive—but a model yacht! He was glad, at all events, that he had left it at home to-day, for it didn’t matter a straw whether this other old boat were lost or not. . . .
Suddenly he heard a faint splash on the opposite side of the river, and instantly boats were forgotten. He knew what that was, and next moment fancied he could see the very small head, and certainly could see the ripple in the water behind it. Daddy had told him there were no real water-rats in Ireland, but there were at least plenty of rats who lived near the river and appeared to be more or less amphibious. This one was swimming straight across to him. Perhaps he had not seen him, and would change his direction when he did; yet on he came, nearer and nearer, and soon it was quite clear that he was making directly for Tom, for his black little beads of eyes were inspecting him very sharply indeed. In another minute he had scrambled out of the water and up the bank, where he sat down and proceeded to comb his whiskers.
Tom had an impulse to dry him with his pocket handkerchief, only he thought the rat perhaps liked being wet, and at any rate, with his short fur, the sun would dry him in no time. Then he remembered something much better—the biscuits he had brought for Edward—most attractive-looking biscuits, with pink and white sugar on the top. He put his hand in his pocket and fumbled; but alas! when he fished the biscuits out, they were in a sadly broken condition and all mixed up with sand. That, of course, must have happened when he was getting through the hedge, squirming his way through on his stomach.
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bsp; Luckily the rat did not seem to mind. One by one he took each piece of biscuit in his tiny hands and nibbled it quite nicely. Not that this surprised Tom, for he knew rats, like squirrels, had better table-manners than most animals It was really because they had hands, he supposed; since without hands, table-manners must be rather a problem.
“I was glad to see you had no dogs with you to-day,” the rat said presently, and Tom noticed that he was careful not to speak with his mouth full “So I thought I’d seize the opportunity, for it’s not often you’re without them.”
“No,” Tom replied.
“Which is a pity,” the rat went on, “because it must greatly narrow the circle of your friends.”
This hadn’t occurred to Tom before, yet when the rat mentioned it he felt that very likely he was associated with dogs in the minds of other animals. “You see,” he hastened to explain, “I’m very fond of them: we’re old friends.”
“Lovers, I should call it,” the rat answered unsympathetically. “At least so far as the one with the brush is concerned.”
“The brush?” Tom repeated, momentarily puzzled. “Oh, you mean his tail. . . . But it’s not a brush: it’s far more like a big feather.”
“Well, a feather-brush,” the rat said.
“That’s Roger,” Tom told him; “and you’d like him. At least if you could once make friends with him you would: and I’m sure you could if I was there.”
“The little one’s the worst,” the rat went on dispassionately.
“Pincher?”
“Yes, I dare say he’d be called that. . . . The old lazy one’s the best.”
“Barker?”
The rat seemed amused. “Ridiculous names, all of them,” he sniggered, “but then they’re ridiculous creatures. What, if I may ask, is your own name? Squeaker, perhaps?”
“Squeaker’s much more like yourself,” Tom retorted indignantly, for whatever his table-manners might be, the rat’s politeness appeared to end there. “I don’t squeak.”
“You’re squeaking now,” the rat said. “And anyhow, don’t lose your temper.”
“I haven’t lost my temper; but I think you might be a little more civil—especially after gobbling up all the biscuits.”
To his surprise, the rat took this quite well. “I enjoyed the biscuits,” he admitted, looking rather ashamed. “Didn’t I thank you for them? At any rate I enjoyed them very much indeed. One often hears of such things, but seldom sees them. You may be surprised to learn that I’d never tasted a biscuit before in my life. . . . And please don’t misunderstand me,” he continued, delicately removing a crumb from his whiskers. “It’s universally granted that you’re a most agreeable little boy—much above the average. Indeed, I may say that you’re regarded as practically unique. We all think that. Your actual name, however, has caused a good deal of dispute and conjecture. You’re usually referred to as the Child, or the Boy, or Freckles, or Snub Nose, or——”
“You needn’t go on with the list,” Tom interrupted him. “My name is Tom.”
“And a very good name too,” the rat declared encouragingly. “The best names, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, are always in one syllable—like Rat, Mouse, Frog, Bat, Horse, Pig, Cow—and now we can add Tom.”
“And Dog, and Cat, and Owl,” Tom was continuing, but the rat looked displeased. “I don’t think we need include those,” he said coldly. “There are exceptions to every rule.”
“There are a jolly lot to yours,” Tom agreed. “What about Squirrel? You can’t possibly object to him. And Badger, and Otter, and——” But whether Rat would have objected or not he was never to learn, for at that moment they both heard the tramp of approaching footsteps, and in a flash Tom was alone.
The tramp, tramp, tramp, was made by heavy boots, and in time to a martial tune, which in spite of elaborate variations Tom recognized as “Onward Christian Soldiers”. Next moment the Christian Soldier himself appeared round the bend of the river, waving his banner, a towel.
“Where are you going?” Tom demanded, for it was only James-Arthur from the farm.
“Goin’ for a dip,” James-Arthur replied. “Oul’ Denny let me off.” Then he saw the boat. “You’ve got her well stuck there! Sure, what was the use of tryin’ to sail her a day like that? She’ll be there now till night unless you go in for her.”
“I can’t go in for her,” Tom answered, “and you know I can’t.”
James-Arthur reflected, for he did know it.
“You can swim,” Tom said. “You’re a good swimmer.”
“Not so bad,” James-Arthur confessed modestly. “An’ if you like to come along with me, I’m just goin’ down below the weir.”
“If you bathed here you could get the boat,” Tom said pointedly.
But James-Arthur only scratched a flaxen poll and shuffled his feet. He was, however, a most good-natured boy, and presently he murmured doubtfully; “I wouldn’t like, Master Tom.”
“Why?” Tom asked. He knew, of course, that the water below the weir, where the current was strong, was much cleaner and fresher, but he didn’t see why James-Arthur couldn’t go in here first.
James-Arthur, nevertheless, continued to look worried. “Well—someone might come along,” he explained. “It’d be all right for a wee lad like you; but if I was to take off me on the bank here someone might come along.”
“You said that before,” Tom told him. “What matter if they do come along? You’re only a boy yourself.”
James-Arthur shook his head, though clearly wavering. “Ah now,” he mumbled, “sure you know it wouldn’t be the same at all. They might be making a complaint. I’m sixteen, and bigger’n you—about twiced—an’ it might be a woman too.”
“It won’t be anybody,” Tom returned impatiently; for this bashfulness seemed to him extremely silly. He himself, like most small boys, was perfectly indifferent to nakedness. “I’ve been here for hours,” he went on, “and there hasn’t been a soul, except a rat—not even a barge. . . . Anyhow,” he wound up persuasively, “I’ll promise to keep watch; and I’ll shout the moment I see anyone, and you can stay in the water till they’ve gone by.”
Yet even with this assurance James-Arthur did not look too happy. In his mind there was evidently a conflict going on between a sense of propriety and his liking for Tom. In the end, but with obvious reluctance, he gave in; and sat down on the bank to remove his boots and socks. The rest did not take him long, for it consisted only of a dirty ragged old pair of flannel trousers and a grey flannel shirt.
James-Arthur was as fond of the water as Barker, and now, while he stood up on the bank in the sunlight, he slapped his sturdy thighs in pleased anticipation. Even at this early date of summer his body was sunburnt, and in Tom’s eyes he somehow did not look naked. He had simply emerged from his soiled and much-patched clothing like a butterfly from a chrysalis, and the contrast between his fair hair and the golden brown of his body and limbs appeared to the smaller boy as attractive as anything could be. In fact James-Arthur, merely by divesting himself of his clothes, had instantly become part of the natural scene, like the grass and the trees and the river and the sky, and the dragon-fly asleep upon his water-lily. Tom told him how nice he looked, and, while James-Arthur only smiled and said he was a queer wee lad, it was easy to see that secretly he was not displeased.
Anyhow, he plunged in, rescued the boat (which was the main thing), and then swam quietly about for a bit, very much in Barker’s manner.
Watching him, Tom felt more and more tempted to go in too. “Is it cold?” he shouted.
“Naw; it’s not cold:—how would it be cold, and the sun on it all these days?”
Tom, nevertheless, felt pretty certain that he would find it cold. Yet James-Arthur appeared to be enjoying himself so much that he made up his mind and hurriedly undressed.
“Wait now,” James-Arthur called out. “Don’t be comin’ in without me. There’s deep holes—plenty of them—would take you over your head in a minute.”
He swam to the bank, and gingerly Tom stepped into the water. At the edge it rose hardly above his knees, but a single pace forward and he was floundering in one of those very holes, from which James-Arthur rescued him, spluttering and gasping.
James-Arthur laughed, but Tom, as he tried to spit out the far from crystalline water he had swallowed, saw nothing to laugh at. “Lie flat on your belly, Master Tom. Don’t be afeared: I’ll keep your head up.”
Having complete confidence in his instructor, Tom obeyed; but as he had suspected it was cold, except on the surface.
“Easy on, now,” James-Arthur encouraged him. “Take your time, an’ go slow. You’ve watched the frogs many’s a time: try an’ kick your arms and legs out what they do. . . . That’s fine now: you’ll be the great swimmer yet.”
And when they came out he made Tom take the towel, while to dry himself he used only his flannel trousers. “How did you like it?” he asked, with a broad grin.
“It was very nice,” Tom temporized. “At least, I think perhaps I’d get to like it.”
“Course you would,” James-Arthur said.
“Only,” Tom added, wrinkling up his nose, “I’ve got a smell, and it’s pretty strong—the smell of the water.”
“Ah, sure that’s nothin’. A bit nifty maybe till you get used to it, but it’ll pass off in the course of the evening.”
“I hope so,” Tom said, for he didn’t think James-Arthur realized the full potency of the “niftiness”. “I saw your mother this morning,” he went on. “She let me go up the tower.”
“Ay, she was tellin’ me so; an’ that you were wantin’ the keys off her. . . . But I’ll have to leave you now, Master Tom. Oul’ Denny only give me half an hour an’ it’s more like an hour I’ve bin.”
He caught up his towel, gave Tom an amicable slap on the shoulder, and departed—once more to the strains of “Onward Christian Soldiers”.