“Well, that’s what I said, ain’t it?” Rat answered in a surly tone. “I thought I’d settled all that once for all.”
Kay could not think of anything more to say; he was silent.
“Ah,” Rat said, “it’s a cruel life is being a cellarman. If I’d my time again, I’d be, I don’t know what I’d be, but rather than be a cellarman again, I’d have the cat after me, and I’d have the dog after me, and I’d have . . . I don’t know what I wouldn’t have after me.”
“Is it as bad as that?” Kay said.
“Ah, that’s what,” Rat said.
“Look here, Mr. Rat,” Kay said, “will you have a lump of sugar? It’s a bit grubby, but I haven’t sucked any of it.”
“Now there’s talking,” Rat said. “A lot of persons talks, and what good does it do? I ask you, what, and echo answers where. I eats your very good health, Master Kay, and as good a bit of sugar (he called it shugger) as ever I grit my teeth on. That’s Mr. Spiceman’s sugar, that is . . . you won’t tell me that that came from that old cove in the Jewry. He’s a mean one, he is; he traps his basement . . . gah. He sick a terrier-dog on me once; he’s a regular mean one. I suppose, Mr. Kay, you haven’t got such a thing as a seedless raisin about you?”
“Yes, I have,” Kay said, “in my waistcoat pocket. Here you are. I’m afraid they’re a bit stuck together.”
“That don’t matter, not for that,” the Rat said, taking the raisins. “It’s wonderful how a bit of squash brings out the plumminess. It’s a real treat to one what lives in a cellar to taste a bit of plumminess. It takes him at once right out into the vineyards and that; like what I saw once when I went marine cellarman. But it don’t do, not being a marine cellarman, because they light a stuff what smokes, and the smoke it goes creepy and creepy. You don’t want to breathe none of it, neither, for it lays you dead; ah, many and many a fine marine cellarman has it cut short afore he’d gnawed through the flour barrel.”
“What a shame,” Kay said.
“Ah,” the Rat said, “that’s what.”
There was a pause after this while the Rat smeared his mouth with the back of his paw. “I suppose,” he said at last, “you don’t carry no bit of bacon-rind upon you?”
“No,” Kay said, “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Ah,” the Rat said. “A bit of bacon-rind, what has been hung in the sun so as to take the crisp off, it’s, why I don’t rightly know what it’s, but it’s pretty picking of a morning, ah, and of a evening.”
“I could get you some tomorrow, perhaps,” Kay said.
“That’s a fine day, tomorrow,” the Rat said. “I never did hold with no tomorrow, but as for ‘tomorrow perhaps,’ that’s when it’s going to rain soup and the grass is going to grow spoons.”
“Here’s a bit more sugar,” Kay said, “it’s a bit lead-pencilly, I’m afraid, from being in my pocket.”
“I’ll chanst the lead,” the Rat said, taking the sugar, “and I thank you kindly. But what I come here to see you about wasn’t nothing to do with no sugar, what you’re so fond of, nor about no raisins, what’s plummy or not plummy, nor about no bacon-rind, what you’ve got mountains of and grudges a little bit; yes, even so much as a smell of. No; it wasn’t about any of these things, as well I would have let you know, but for all my words being so snapped off short in a way as makes my blood boil. No; it was about our friend as I come to see you about . . . our friend as we needn’t name the name of. There’s been dark doings, that’s what’s what, and if you was to follow me, instead of talking quite such a lot, it would be thatter and whatter.”
He turned to go, still smearing his mouth with the back of his paw. Kay followed him out of the bedroom into the deserted corridor, and then down the stairs to the hall. Kay did not know what time it was; he thought that it could not be very late, because the governess was still at her music in the library. The Rat opened the hall cupboard door. “It’s in here, Master,” he said in a low voice.
When they were both inside the cupboard, the Rat closed the door upon them. He produced a piece of phosphorescent wood, which gave a faint light. “It’s in here, Master,” he said again. The panel at the back of the cupboard came out; behind it there was a gap in the wainscoting from which one could step onto the cellar stairs.
“They’ve got him down here,” the Rat said. “Chronic, I call it, padlocked up in that old dog kennel.”
“Old Blinky?” Kay asked. “Is it Old Blinky?”
“Ah,” said the Rat, “that’s what.”
He led the way down the cellar steps into the darkness of the cellar, which was only lit by a ray of moonlight from a grating and by a sort of dimness about two other gratings higher up. Kay could see the faint bulges of a line of barrels against the wall and smelled the stale beer in the saucer underneath the spiggot of the cask in use. It was a creepy place even in daylight.
“There’s dark doings goes on down here,” the Rat said. “Those cats comes down here and they makes a night of it, as they call it. An honest cellarman can’t get a wink at night sometimes, though they leaves pickings, too. This is where they put your friend.”
He led the way past the wine cellar to a corner, where, as Kay knew, an old dog kennel had been stored.
“There’s a place to put a fellow,” the Rat said. “It gives one the thought of mange even to see. They’ve clapped a padlock on him, too. Trying to make him tell what he’s got to tell.”
Kay heard the moaning of poor Old Blinky inside the kennel.
“I say, Blinky,” he said, “I’m most awfully sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“Never you mind about me, Kay,” Blinky said. “But you’d better know the truth about the treasure. I got the message and then the Pouncer and Abner and another of them came down upon me. It was Blackmalkin who betrayed us.”
“I thought it was,” Kay said.
“They’re trying to get me to say what I know,” Blinky went on, “but they never will. Now, you bring your ear close to this hole in the kennel, and I’ll tell you just the story that was brought to me.”
Kay did as he was bid and Old Blinky began his tale.
“You were quite right about it being buried by an earthquake,” he said. “The red mud-bank was toppled right over it and the river changed its course. It was under the ground for years and then somebody found it.”
“Was it Sir Piney Trigger who found it?” Kay asked.
“No, it was a farmer called Old Man John who found it. Old Man John found it while he was digging his cellar in the house he built right over where it lay. He didn’t call it treasure though; he called it ‘Sin-and-heathen idols,’ and left it all propped up against the cellar-wall; it stood there for years.
“Then some people, two men and a little boy, all with the same name . . .”
“Abner Brown,” Kay said.
“That was the name . . . they came to the district to look for it; they dug for it for years without coming anywhere very near.”
“Yes,” Kay said, quoting the old lady, “yon Abner was theer, digging for t’brass and finding nowt.”
“Then after a good many years there came that man whose name you just mentioned; please don’t mention it again, for it is one of those gunny names which I can’t abide . . . well, he, that gunny man, he found out where the treasure was, and oh, my goodness . . .”
“I say, how you made me jump,” Kay said. “Whatever was the matter?”
“Kay,” Blinky asked, “what was that footstep over there?”
“It was Rat, moving away, wasn’t it? Is that you, Rat?” There was no answer. “What sort of a footstep was it, Blinky?”
“A sort of a stealthy footstep,” Blinky said, “I shouldn’t be surprised if that Blackmalkin had crept up in the dark and heard all that I was saying. Oh, if I could only get out and make sure.”
At this, he beat against the sides and roof of the kennel. Kay, who was peering into the darkness, heard someone hurry up the steps.
�
��Stop, you beast,” he cried; but the thing, whatever it was, had now gone.
“Kay,” Blinky said, “we’ve been overheard. They’ll kill me now that they know my story. Can you move the roof of this kennel? It seemed to give when I bumped against it.”
Kay thrust at the roof. “Why, it lifts off,” he said. “I believe I can shove it sideways. Mind, while I shove.” He gave a great heaving shove; the roof slid off and crashed upon the floor.
“Thank you, Kay,” Old Blinky said, “I can leave the cellar through the gratings which the cats use.” As he spoke, he floated down the cellar on his wings, and drifted through the grating into the night.
“And he hasn’t told me half the story now,” Kay said. “He stopped just where it was beginning to be thrilling. Well, he’s safe, that’s one good thing. I’d better get back to bed.”
He groped his way to the stairs, wishing that Nibbins might come to guide him; he stumbled over a cask stave, which surely had not been there when he came in with Rat; then he bumped into an empty barrel and sent it slowly rolling into the middle of the cellar. “I’m making a fearful row,” he thought. “And she hasn’t gone to bed; she’ll hear me.”
However, he reached the stairs, climbed up them, and paused inside the hall cupboard. All was silent in the hall. Someone had left the kitchen door open so that he could hear the cricket chirping to the silent house. “She’s gone to bed,” he thought. “I do believe she’s gone to bed.”
He very cautiously peered out. All the lights were out, that was a sure sign that she had gone to bed. The moonlight was streaming into the hall through the windows. None of the midnight people was there; all was still. He crept out of the cupboard and up the stairs to his room.
He noticed that a light was burning in his room, but this did not surprise him, because for these last few nights a marvellous light had always burned there. He looked out carefully for Blackmalkin or a witch: neither seemed to be about. At last he plucked up his courage, made a dash for his room, and rushed straight into the governess who was standing there, waiting for him, just within.
“You’ve been in the cellar, you naughty little boy,” she said. “You know as well as I do that that’s forbidden. Haven’t I told you, I don’t know how many times, that I won’t have you in the cellar? And look at your pyjamas, sir, all cobwebbed and whitewashed. Now you’ll have to put on a clean suit. What were you doing in the cellar, sir, to begin with?”
Kay did not quite know what to begin with, he was upset by being caught thus; luckily she did not give him any time; she went on:
“What did you do to the owl? Don’t you dare to say you let him go.”
“I did let him go.”
“You what?”
“I let him go.”
“You . . . let . . . him . . . go?”
“Yes, he was down there in a dirty old dog kennel that Joe’s going to burn, and he was frightfully unhappy, so I let him go.”
“And how did you know he was there in the first place? You could only have learned that he was there by listening and prying. You’ve been at the keyholes, sir, don’t tell me, instead of going to bed.”
“I haven’t been at the keyholes.”
“Yes, you have been at the keyholes, sir, don’t contradict me. You listened and you pried, and then you crept down to thwart us. I suppose you know what owl it was?”
“Yes, it was Lady Crowmarsh’s; I was talking to her about it after tea.”
“Yes, it was Lady Crowmarsh’s. And I suppose you know that Lady Crowmarsh would have given hundreds of pounds for that owl. We took it this evening out of the claws of the cat, and put it in the cellar because I knew that it would prefer the dark, intending to take it over to Lady Crowmarsh after breakfast. Now that you have let it go it will fly away and never come back, now that it has been frightened here. I shall tell Lady Crowmarsh whose fault it is that her pet is lost. Nicely you’ve repaid all her kindness to you, letting her pet go!”
“It was a wild owl; it wasn’t a pet.”
“Yes it was a pet. It was her pet owl that she had had for years.”
“It was a wild owl,” Kay said.
“If you go contradicting me,” the governess said, “I shall write a letter to the schoolmaster and ask him to bring his cane. Now here are your clean pyjamas: take off those you’re wearing; and get into bed: but don’t think for one moment that you’ve heard the last of this from me, because you haven’t. You and I tomorrow will go through our accounts together, and if I find you’ve caught your death, going down to that cold cellar, woe betide you.”
The light had long since dwindled into the light of the governess’s candle. She now flounced out of the room with it, leaving Kay to change his pyjamas and get into bed in the dark.
“How on earth did she know that I was in the cellar?” he wondered. “If she heard me, why didn’t she come down to stop me? Those steps that we heard must have been Blackmalkin on the sneak again; he ran up and sneaked, that was it. But if she’s in with Blackmalkin, she’s in with the witches, too, that’s certain. Listen!”
Down in the hall Blackmalkin was wailing under a spanking. “Hark,” Kay said again, “I believe she’s spanking the little sneak; that’s his voice anyhow!”
The governess paused for breath in her spanking. “Another time,” she said, “when I send you down to listen” (Kay had now opened the door, so as to hear), “when I send you to listen, you’ll wait till the end of the story, and not come away with the best of it not told. You shall have no milk for a week.”
After Blackmalkin had gone away, whimpering and growling, saying, “I’ll be even with you before long, you’ll see if I’m not,” Kay tried to sleep, but could not, because he felt sure that somebody was weeping just outside, in the garden. It was not Blackmalkin; it was somebody saying, “Oh woe, woe, woe; I can’t make anybody hear.”
Then he distinctly heard the voice of Miss Susan Pricker Trigger say, “Drat my wig, my sweet Pa, that boy is in his bed there. Sing out to the horrid little toad, I mean the darling cherub, to buck his stumps and come and open the door. Wait, I’ll do it for you. Boy, if you don’t want to be skinned alive; I mean my pretty little love, if you want to be thought a little angel, will you jolly well, I mean most obligingly, open the door to my sweet and no longer livery Pa, and to me the pretty lady who loves little boys?”
Kay looked out of the window. It was very odd, but there were Miss Susan Pricker Trigger and a cloaked man. “I believe it’s Sir Piney,” Kay thought. “If they go on making this noise the governess will hear them.”
“No, she won’t then, my smart young sir,” Miss Piney said, as though she had read his thoughts, “she will not hear, being at this moment elsewhere engaged. But bang my cannon, boy, don’t keep a lady waiting.”
“All right,” Kay said, “I’ll come down and let you in.” So he did; he showed them into the drawing-room, and asked them to be seated. The room was brightly lit, though the clock said a quarter past one.
“My Pa and I have taken the liberty,” Miss Trigger said, “so that you may know. The very first time my Pa and I have promenaded we come to see Mr. Harker; isn’t that so, my pa-kin?”
“It is, ma poppet,” Sir Piney answered. “Mr. Harker, tha is beset with Abners and evils. Mr. Harker, ah did my best to restore it; only ah coom too late.”
“Did you find the treasure then?” Kay asked.
“Why, as to that,” Sir Piney said, in his North Country speech, “why as to that, it wasna so mooch me as t’other fellow. T’first thing ah see when ah coom there, was where t’Old Man John had doog oop t’earth. And t’first thing ah see was t’gunwale of t’yacht, with ma initials coot, wheer ah’d coot them when ah was droonk.
“So ah thinks, no need to look further. Old Man John has doog up t’boat, he’ll have t’brass in his cellar.
“Old Man John was a foonny chap. So ah oop to him. ‘You’ve got t’brass,’ ah says.
“‘’Tisn’t brass,’ he says, �
�it’s sin-and-heathen idols.’
“‘’Tisn’t yours,’ ah says, ‘it’s Captain Harker’s.’
“‘’Tisn’t Captain Anyone’s,’ he says, ‘except Captain Belial’s or my Colonel Mammon’s.’
“‘Old Captain Harker is dying for this,’ ah says. ‘Let the poor old man have it.’
“‘Many die for the likes of this,’ he says, ‘so here it will stop, out of all harm’s way.’
“Ah hadna coom all that long way to be talkt to like yon, but, tha see, ah had to be coonning; ah did what foxy does to goosey. ‘That’s talking,’ ah says. ‘Tha’s got soom sense, lad, oonder tha cap,’ ah says, ‘as well as soom religion.’
“But ah had to think quick. Tha see, yon old farmer was daft; he might take up t’brass any day and doomp it in t’sea. Then ah’d have been fair scooppered.
“Then yon papgoose Abner was in the land. He might find oot aboot t’brass any day. He might shoot t’old farmer and take all t’brass to hissen. Then ah’d ha’ been fair scooppered.
“Ah was vara weaselly. Ah wasna going home without yon stooff for Captain Harker. Vara coonning ah was.
“So when ah was all ready, with ma bonny wee dukey all ready for sea, ah call ma Indians. ‘Coom on,’ ah says, ‘ma lads, ’tis to glory we steer.’ So off we all go to t’Old Man John. Ah wasna going to hurt him, tha oonderstand, nobbut joost a bang and a bag.
“So when we coom oop to t’Old Man John, he says, ‘Art going to yon revival meeting?’ he says. So ah walks roand him, to get t’soon into his eyes. ‘That’s reet,’ ah says. ‘The revival meeting.’ Then ah oop with bang and ma wee bonny Indians they oop with bag.”
“Now, my Pa,” Miss Trigger said, “the first time we take a sweet evening walk, I am quite sure we ought not to remember unpleasantness. It’s very nice to see this little cheraph, but I’m sure he wants to hear where the treasure is now, not what you may have done when provoked. It’s the pepper in you again; when you feel inclined to give way to pepper you must fight it down. You must sing one of your nice songs now, about” (here she sang):
“As I was a-walking in the green month of May,
The Midnight Folk Page 14