‘Then you’ll have fatigue-drill on Monday,’ said Corkran. ‘’Come to think of it, I’ve got two black marks aussi. Hm! This is serious. This is hefty serious.’
‘I told you,’ said Beetle, with vindictive triumph. ‘An’ we want to go out after that hawk’s nest on Monday. We shall be swottin’ dumb-bells,* though. All your fault. If we’d bunked with De Vitré at first—’
Corkran paused between the hedgerows. ‘Hold on a shake an’ don’t burble. Keep your eye on Uncle. Do you know, I believe some one’s shut up in that barn. I think we ought to go and see.’
‘Don’t be a giddy idiot. Come on up to Coll.’ But Corkran took no notice of Beetle.
He retraced his steps to the head of the lane, and, lifting up his voice, cried as in bewilderment, ‘Hullo? Who’s there? What’s that row about? Who are you?’
‘Oh, Peter!’ said Beetle, skipping, and forgetting his anguish in this new development.
‘Hoi! Hoi! ’Ere! Let us out!’ The answers came muffled and hollow from the black bulk of the barn, with renewed thunders on the door.
‘Now play up,’ said Corkran. ‘Turkey, you keep the cows busy. ’Member that we’ve just discovered ’em. We don’t know anything. Be polite, Beetle.’
They picked their way over the muck and held speech through a crack by the door-hinge. Three more genuinely surprised boys the steady rain never fell upon. And they were so difficult to enlighten. They had to be told again and again by the captives within.
‘We’ve been ’ere for hours an’ hours.’ That was Toowey. ‘An’ the cows to milk, an’ all.’ That was Vidley. ‘The door she blewed against us an’ jammed himself.’ That was Abraham.
‘Yes, we can see that. It’s jammed on this side,’ said Corkran. ‘How careless you chaps are!’
‘Oppen un. Oppen un. Bash her oppen with a rock, young gen’elmen! The cows are milk-heated an’ ragin’. Haven’t you boys no sense?’
Seeing that M‘Turk from time to time tweaked the cattle into renewed caperings, it was quite possible that the boys had some knowledge of a sort. But Mr. Vidley was rude. They told him so through the door, professing only now to recognize his voice.
‘Humour un if’e can. I paid seven-an’-six for the padlock,’ said Toowey. ‘Niver mind him. ’Tes only old Vidley.’
‘Be yeou gwaine to stay a prisoneer an’ captive for the sake of a lock, Toowey? I’m shaamed of’ee. Rowt un oppen, young gen’elmen! ’Twas a God’s own mercy yeou heard us. Toowey, yeou’m a borned miser.’
‘It’ll be a long job,’ said Corkran. ‘Look here. It’s near our call-over. If we stay to help you we’ll miss it. We’ve come miles out of our way already—after you.’
‘Tell yeour master, then, what keeped ’ee—an arrand o’ mercy, laike. I’ll tai un tu when I bring the milk to-morrow,’ said Toowey.
‘That’s no good,’ said Corkran; ‘we may be licked twice over by then. You’ll have to give us a letter.’ M‘Turk, backed against the barn-wall, was firing steadily and accurately into the brown of the herd.
‘Yiss, yiss. Come down to my house. My missus shall write ’ee a beauty, young gen’elmen. She makes out the bills. I’ll give ’ee just such a letter o’ racommendation as I’d give to my own son, if only yeou can humour the lock!’
‘Niver mind the lock,’ Vidley wailed. ‘Let me get to me pore cows, ’fore they’m dead.’
They went to work with ostentatious rattlings and wrenchings, and a good deal of the by-play that Corkran always loved. At last—the noise of unlocking was covered by some fancy hammering with a young boulder—the door swung open and the captives marched out.
‘Hurry up, Mister Toowey,’ said Corkran; ‘we ought to be getting back. Will you give us that note, please?’
‘Some of yeou young gentlemen was drivin’ my cattle off the Burrowses,’ said Vidley. ‘I give ’ee fair warnin’, I’ll tell yeour masters. I know yeou!’ He glared at Corkran with malignant recognition.
M‘Turk looked him over from head to foot. ‘Oh, it’s only old Vidley. Drunk again, I suppose. Well, we can’t help that. Come on, Mister Toowey. We’ll go to your house.’
‘Drunk, am I? I’ll drunk ’ee! How do I know yeou bain’t the same lot? Abram, did ’ee take their names an’ numbers?’
‘What is he ravin’ about?’ said Beetle. ‘Can’t you see that if we’d taken your beastly cattle we shouldn’t be hanging round your beastly barn. Pon my Sam,* you Burrows guv’nors haven’t any sense——’
‘Let alone gratitude,’ said Corkran. ‘I suppose he was drunk, Mister Toowey; an’ you locked him in the barn to get sober. Shockin’! Oh, shockin’!’
Vidley denied the charge in language that the boys’ mothers would have wept to hear.
‘Well, go and look after your cows, then,’ said M‘Turk. ‘Don’t stand there cursin’ us because we’ve been kind enough to help you out of a scrape. Why on earth weren’t your cows milked before? You’re no farmer. It’s long past milkin’. No wonder they’re half crazy. ’Disreputable old bog-trotter, you are. Brush your hair, sir. … I beg your pardon, Mister Toowey. ’Hope we’re not keeping you.’
They left Vidley dancing on the muck—heap, amid the cows, and devoted themselves to propitiating Mr. Toowey on their way to his house. Exercise had made them hungry; hunger is the mother of good manners; and they won golden opinions from Mrs. Toowey.
* * * * *
‘Three-quarters of an hour late for call-over, and fifteen minutes late for Lock-up,’ said Foxy, the school Sergeant, crisply. He was waiting for them at the head of the corridor. ‘Report to your House-master, please—an’ a nice mess you’re in, young gentlemen.’
‘Quite right, Foxy. Strict attention to dooty does it,’ said Corkran. ‘Now where, if we asked you, would you say that his honour Mister Prout might, at this moment of time, be found prouting—eh?’
‘In ’is study—as usual, Mister Corkran. He took call-over.’
‘Hurrah! Luck’s with us all the way. Don’t blub, Foxy. I’m afraid you don’t catch us this time.’
* * * * *
‘We went up to change, sir, before comin’ to you. That made us a little late, sir. We weren’t really very late. We were detained—by a——’
‘An errand of mercy,’ said Beetle, and they laid Mrs. Toowey’s laboriously written note before him. ‘We thought you’d prefer a letter, sir. Toowey got himself locked into a barn, and we heard him shouting—it’s Toowey who brings the Coll, milk, sir—and we went to let him out.’
‘There were ever so many cows waiting to be milked,’ said M‘Turk; ‘and of course, he couldn’t get at them, sir. They said the door had jammed. There’s his note, sir.’
Mr. Prout read it over thrice. It was perfectly unimpeachable; but it said nothing of a large tea supplied by Mrs. Toowey.
‘Well, I don’t like your getting mixed up with farmers and potwallopers. Of course you will not pay any more—er—visits to the Tooweys,’ said he.
‘Of course not, sir. It was really on account of the cows, sir,’ replied M‘Turk, glowing with philanthropy.
‘And you came straight back?’
‘We ran nearly all the way from the Cattle-gate,’ said Corkran, carefully developing the unessential. ‘That’s one mile, sir. Of course, we had to get the note from Toowey first.’
‘But it was because we went to change—we were rather wet, sir—that we were really late. After we’d reported ourselves to the Sergeant, sir, and he knew we were in Coll., we didn’t like to come to your study all dirty.’ Sweeter than honey* was the voice of Beetle.
‘Very good. Don’t let it happen again.’ Their House—master learned to know them better in later years.
They entered—not to say swaggered—into Number Nine form-room, where De Vitré, Orrin, Parsons, and Howlett, before the fire, were still telling their adventures to admiring associates. The four rose as one boy.
‘What happened to you? We just saved call-over. Did you stay on? Tell us! Te
ll us!’
The three smiled pensively. They were not distinguished for telling more than was necessary.
‘Oh, we stayed on a bit and then we came away,’ said M‘Turk. ‘That’s all.’
‘You scab! You might tell a chap anyhow.’
‘’Think so? Well, that’s awfully good of you, De Vitré. ’Pon my sainted Sam, that’s awfully good of you,’ said Corkran, shouldering into the centre of the warmth and toasting one slippered foot before the blaze. ‘So you really think we might tell you?’
They stared at the coals and shook with deep, delicious chuckles.
‘My Hat! We were stalky,’ said M‘Turk. ‘I swear we were about as stalky as they make ’em. Weren’t we.’
‘It was a frabjous Stalk,’ said Beetle. ‘’Much too good to tell you brutes, though.’
The form wriggled under the insult, but made no motion to avenge it. After all, on De Vitré’s showing, the three had saved the raiders from at least a public licking.
‘It wasn’t half bad,’ said Corkran. ‘Stalky is the word.’
‘ You were the really stalky one,’ said M‘Turk, one contemptuous shoulder turned to a listening world. ‘By Gum! you were stalky.’
Corkran accepted the compliment and the name together. ‘Yes,’ said he; ‘keep your eye on your Uncle Stalky an’ he’ll pull you through.’
‘Well, you needn’t gloat so,’ said De Vitré, viciously; ‘you look like a stuffed cat.’
Corkran, henceforth known as Stalky, took not the slightest notice, but smiled dreamily.
‘My Hat! Yes. Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Your Uncle Stalky—a doocid good name. Your Uncle Stalky is no end of a stalker. He’s a Great Man. I swear he is. De Vitré, you’re an ass—a putrid ass.’
De Vitré would have denied this but for the assenting murmurs from Parsons and Orrin.
‘You needn’t rub it in, then.’
‘But I do. I does. You are such a woppin’ ass. D’you know it? Think over it a bit at prep. Think it up in bed. Oblige me by thinkin’ of it every half hour till further notice. Gummy! What an ass you are! But your Uncle Stalky’—he picked up the form—room poker and beat it against the mantlepiece—‘is a Great Man!’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Beetle and M‘Turk, who had fought under that general.
‘Isn’t your Uncle Stalky a great man, De Vitré? Speak the truth, you fat-headed old impostor.’
‘Yes,’ said De Vitré, deserted by all his band. ‘I—I suppose he is.’
‘’Mustn’t suppose. Is he?’
‘Well, he is.’
‘A Great Man?’
‘A Great Man. Now won’t you tell us?’ said De Vitré pleadingly.
‘Not by a heap,’ said ‘Stalky’ Corkran.
Therefore the tale has stayed untold till to-day.
The Hour of the Angel
Sooner or late—in earnest or in jest—
(But the stakes are no jest) Ithuriel’s Hour
Will spring on us, for the first time, the test
Of our sole unbacked competence and power
Up to the limit of our years and dower
Of judgment—or beyond. But here we have
Prepared long since our garland or our grave.
For, at that hour, the sum of all our past,
Act, habit, thought, and passion, shall be cast
In one addition, be it more or less,
And as that reading runs so shall we do;
Meeting, astounded, victory at the last,
Or, first and last, our own unworthiness.
And none can change us though they die to save!
‘In Ambush’
Rudyard Kipling
In summer all right-minded boys built huts in the furze-hill behind the College—little lairs whittled out of the heart of the prickly bushes, full of stumps, odd root-ends, and spikes, but, since they were strictly forbidden, palaces of delight. And for the fifth summer in succession, Stalky, M‘Turk, and Beetle (this was before they reached the dignity of a study) had built, like beavers, a place of retreat and meditation, where they smoked.
Now there was nothing in their characters, as known to Mr. Prout, their House-master, at all commanding respect; nor did Foxy, the subtle red-haired school Sergeant, trust them. His business was to wear tennis-shoes, carry binoculars, and swoop hawk-like upon evil boys. Had he taken the field alone, that hut would have been raided, for Foxy knew the manners of his quarry; but Providence moved Mr. Prout, whose school-name, derived from the size of his feet, was Hoofer, to investigate on his own account; and it was the cautious Stalky who found the track of his pugs* on the very floor of their lair one peaceful afternoon when Stalky would fain have forgotten Prout and his works in a volume of Surtees and a new briarwood pipe. Crusoe, at sight of the foot-print, did not act more swiftly than Stalky. He removed the pipes, swept up all loose match-ends, and departed to warn Beetle and M‘Turk.
But it was characteristic of the boy that he did not approach his allies till he had met and conferred with little Hartopp, President of the Natural History Society, an institution which Stalky held in contempt. Hartopp was more than surprised when the boy meekly, as he knew how, begged to propose himself, Beetle, and M‘Turk as candidates; confessed to a long-smothered interest in first-flowerings, early butterflies, and new arrivals, and volunteered, if Mr. Hartopp saw fit, to enter on the new life at once. Being a master, Hartopp was suspicious; but he was also an enthusiast, and his gentle little soul had been galled by chance-heard remarks from the three, and specially Beetle. So he was gracious to that repentant sinner, and entered the three names in his book.
Then, and not till then, did Stalky seek Beetle and M‘Turk in their House form-room. They were stowing away books for a quiet afternoon in the furze, which they called the ‘wuzzy.’
‘All up!’ said Stalky serenely. ‘I spotted Heffy’s fairy feet round our hut after dinner. ’Blessing they’re so big.’
‘Con-found! Did you hide our pipes?’ said Beetle.
‘Oh no. Left ’em in the middle of the hut, of course. What a blind ass you are, Beetle! D’you think nobody thinks but yourself? Well, we can’t use the hut any more. Hoofer will be watchin’ it.’
‘ “Bother! Likewise blow!”*’ said M‘Turk thoughtfully, unpacking the volumes with which his chest was cased. The boys carried their libraries between their belt and their collar. ‘Nice job! This means we’re under suspicion for the rest of the term.’
‘Why? All that Heffy has found is a hut. He and Foxy will watch it. It’s nothing to do with us; only we mustn’t be seen that way for a bit.’
‘Yes, and where else are we to go?’ said Beetle. ‘You chose that place, too—an’—an’ I wanted to read this afternoon.’
Stalky sat on a desk drumming his heels on the form.
‘You’re a despondin’ brute, Beetle. Sometimes I think I shall have to drop you altogether. Did you ever know your Uncle Stalky forget you yet? His rebus infectis*—after I’d seen Heffy’s man-tracks marchin’ round our hut, I found little Hartopp—destricto ense*—wavin’ a butterfly-net. I conciliated Hartopp. ’Told him that you’d read papers to the Bug-hunters if he’d let you join, Beetle. ’Told him you liked butterflies, Turkey. Anyhow, I soothed the Hartoffles, and we’re Bug-hunters now.’
‘What’s the good of that?’ said Beetle.
‘Oh, Turkey, kick him!’
In the interests of science, bounds were largely relaxed for the members of the Natural History Society. They could wander, if they kept clear of all houses, practically where they chose; Mr. Hartopp holding himself responsible for their good conduct.
Beetle began to see this as M‘Turk began the kicking.
‘I’m an ass, Stalky!’ he said, guarding the afflicted part. ‘Pax,* Turkey! I’m an ass.’
‘Don’t stop, Turkey. Isn’t your Uncle Stalky a great man?’
‘Great man,’ said Beetle.
‘All the same, bug-huntin’s a filthy business,’ said M�
��Turk. ‘How the deuce does one begin?’
‘This way,’ said Stalky, turning to some fags’ lockers behind him. ‘Fags are dabs at Natural History. Here’s young Bray-brooke’s botany-case.’ He flung out a tangle of decayed roots and adjusted the slide. ‘’Gives one no end of a professional air, I think. Here’s Clay Minor’s geological hammer. Beetle can carry that. Turkey, you’d better covet a butterfly-net from somewhere.’
‘I’m blowed if I do!’ said M‘Turk simply, with immense feeling. ‘Beetle, give me the hammer.’
‘All right. I’m not proud. Chuck us down that net on top of the lockers, Stalky.’
‘That’s all right. It’s a collapsible jamboree, too. Beastly luxurious dogs these fags* are. Built like a fishin’-rod. ’Pon my sainted Sam, but we look the complete Bug-hunters! Now, listen to your Uncle Stalky! We’re goin’ along the cliffs after butterflies. Very few chaps come there. We’re goin’ to leg it, too. You’d better leave your book behind.’
‘Not much!’ said Beetle firmly. ‘I’m not goin’ to be done out of my fun for a lot of filthy butterflies.’
‘Then you’ll sweat horrid. You’d better carry my Jorrocks.* ’Twon’t make you any hotter.’
They all sweated; for Stalky led them at a smart trot west away along the cliffs under the furze-hills, crossing combe after gorsy combe. They took no heed to flying rabbits or fluttering fritillaries, and all that Turkey said of geology was utterly unquotable.
‘Are we going to Clovelly?’ he puffed at last, and they flung themselves down on the short, springy turf between the drone of the sea below and the light summer wind among the inland trees. They were looking into a combe half full of old, high furze in gay bloom that ran up to a fringe of brambles and a dense wood of mixed timber and hollies. It was as though one-half the combe were filled with golden fire to the cliff’s edge. The side nearest to them was open grass, and fairly bristled with notice-boards.
‘Fee-rocious old cove, this,’ said Stalky, reading the nearest. ‘ “Prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the Law. G. M. Dabney, Col., J.P.,” an’ all the rest of it. ’Don’t seem to me that any chap in his senses would trespass here, does it?’
The Complete Stalky & Co Page 6