by B. B.
They found Big John in the kitchen with two large cardboard boxes filled with sugar, salt, tea, flour and potatoes – new ones, Rumbold’s pride – which he had found in the scullery.
It was a good weight to carry, but between them they managed it. Robin went first into the cellar, showing the way by the light of matches.
At the far end was a coal chute which gave access to the shrubberies. This chute had been discovered by the boys long before when hunting for a tame rabbit which had escaped.
There was just enough room for a boy to crawl up it. They replaced the iron grating which covered it – luckily it was not a permanent fixture – and in a short while they were across the paddock and heading for High Wood.
As has already been said, this extensive cover was only two miles from the Dower House. It would make a fine harbour for the fugitives. They had only to wait for night and then they would have comfortable time to reach the Chase.
Their way lay by the Willow Pool and as they passed it they heard a big fish jump among the weeds and a startled moorhen ‘cruiked’ in alarm.
The first birds were beginning to sing when they reached High Wood. They had not seen a soul. By the time they had found a deep thicket of privet, under which they crawled, the dawn was coming rapidly, and with its growing light Harold saw his brothers clearly for the first time. They were as brown as true Red Indians – his own poor pasty face seemed like a ghost’s by comparison – and Big John was wearing a strange garment on his nether limbs which looked like a fur skirt. He explained that his grey flannel bags had been ripped to bits by briars and he had had to make himself this strange garment out of rabbit skins. He had nobly endeavoured to construct some trousers but it had proved too much for him. He was not a great hand with a wire needle. As Robin said, ‘This is where a fayre ladye would have come in useful.’ Big John had waxed quite sentimental over this and had even run over in his mind all his girl friends. Unfortunately, he could not imagine any filling the bill. The only likely candidate would be Angela. Angela was the daughter of a doctor in Yoho, a dark-haired damsel who had taken Big John’s fancy at a party last summer. Big John was sure Angela would play; she was eminently a sporting child and hunted regularly.
It rained that day and it was rather a miserable business lying up in the thicket. The outlaws filled the weary hours by telling Harold all the news and the latter told them in return how things had been going at the Dower House, how the police were after them and how Bunting had sworn to track them down.
‘I’ll bet the Dower House is buzzin’ like a wasp’s nest now,’ said Robin gleefully as he sucked a leaf stem. ‘Aunt Ellen is probably in a padded cell an’ Bunting is talkin’ of bloodhounds.’
My word, bloodhounds! That was an idea; it had never occurred to them before.
‘Sure, they’ll use bloodhounds,’ said Robin. ‘We’ll very likely hear them bayin’ soon.’
‘What shall we do then?’
‘Put pepper on our spoor, that’s the right thing to do. The dogs snuff the pepper an’ it makes ’em sneeze an’ they don’t like it.’
‘What a lark! I hope they try it!’
Once, during the afternoon, they heard voices and sounds of people walking through the bushes. And once they thought they heard a terrier yapping somewhere. But nobody came near their retreat. The hours dragged on. Towards evening the rain stopped and all the bushes were ticking with falling drops.
After a while the blackbirds began to ‘chink’, sure sign that night was near, and stiff and cramped, the boys at last emerged from their lair.
There was still light in the sky. The west was ablaze with red and gold for the low rain clouds still hung about the setting sun. They scouted through High Wood until they came to the little lane which ran all along its western edge. In the distance was the tower of Cherry Walden church and a few scattered lights were beginning to star out; the wet foliage smelt delicious after the rain.
The lane seemed clear; nobody appeared to be about. Robin, who was the advance scout, judged all was safe. Once over the lane they would keep to the fields until they reached the Chase.
They heard the 10.40 express roaring along in the valley and saw the speeding jewels of the carriage lights.
‘Come on,’ whispered Robin, ‘all’s clear.’ They dropped into the road. It was then that Robin’s sharp eyes caught sight of something in the opposite ditch, something which gleamed dully in the dusk. It was a bicycle bell, and the bell was attached to a bicycle! He stopped dead in his tracks and put out a warning hand. And simultaneously there burst from the bushes twenty yards away the blue clad form of Sergeant Bunting!
‘Hi,’ he bellowed, ‘Hoi! Come ’ere, you boys!’
‘Into the wood,’ shouted Robin at the top of his voice. ‘They’re after us.’
Sergeant Bunting came running down the road, dignity flung to the winds. Other figures sprang out of the trees; everybody was shouting. The sergeant roared, ‘Don’t let ’em get away!’ But already the boys were plunging back into the dark recesses of High Wood. Terrified pheasants burst out of the trees, owls hooted insanely, the shouting and cracking of sticks died behind them.
Sergeant Bunting was like a baffled bull caught by its horns in a thicket. He drew his whistle and blew it loudly, his face crimson. His helmet had come off. It had rolled into the bushes and he could not find it. He had lost his torch, his hands and face were scratched and torn.
After a while panting figures came crashing towards him. ‘They’ve given us the slip, the young devils, we ’adn’t a ’ope in the dark.’ It was Sir William Bary’s head keeper.
Other men came up, puffing and blowing, grooms and gardeners, farm hands and even the postman from Cherry Walden. All were mopping their heated brows as they gathered round the towering figure of the perspiring Bunting.
‘Don’t worry, men,’ he said, ‘we’ll get ’em in the morning. We’ll picket the wood. They can’t get away in daylight.’
‘Allus said they’d be found ’ere,’ said the postman, grinning. ‘Wot’s the time, Sergeant?’ Sergeant Bunting peered at his watch. ‘Half past ten.’
‘Too late for a drink,’ said the postman gloomily, ‘I could put one back, I can tell ye, arter all that runnin’.’
‘All three on them were there,’ said an undergroom, ‘the younger one an’ all that got away last night.’
‘Ah,’ said Bunting, ‘we’ll get ’em come tomorrow.’
Meanwhile the three outlaws, still in possession of their precious supplies, had gone right through High Wood and out the other side like scalded cats.
High Wood, in the grey dawn of the morning after the boys had been so dramatically spotted by Sergeant Bunting, was a hive of activity. Figures were to be seen making their way towards the gloomy covert from every quarter of the compass. Sir William Bary, Bt, MFH, was there soon after it was light; he meant to be in at the kill.
‘I’ll chop these cubs,’ he said. ‘Gad, sir! I’ll give them a taste of me huntin’ crop.’ These remarks were addressed to none other than the Whiting, who, strange to relate, was quite enjoying himself and had even foregone his late breakfast so as to be in at ‘the death’.
‘I’ve told every man on the estate to turn out,’ said the Baronet. ‘We’ll have those rascals by the heels at last. It’s a good sound beating they want and it’s just what they haven’t had. If their father was here things would have been different, I’ll be bound … the – the young cubs,’ he gulped as a pheasant, startled at the noise of the gathering multitude, flew cocking out of the wood. ‘Shan’t have a bird, not a bird this season with all this tramplin’ through my covers.’
As the blear-eyed dawn grew, more and more people gathered. There were several newspaper reporters – including the man from the Morning Star – the postman was there and the village schoolmaster, keepers and grooms, undergrooms and gardeners, gardener’s boys, farm labourers and shepherds; indeed, every able-bodied man in the parish had turned out.
; Before they ‘drew’ the wood the squire addressed the men. ‘A pound for the man who collars the first rascal,’ he shouted. ‘If I blow my horn, you know I’ve spotted them.’
‘Old Squire be fair upset,’ said Bill Bobman, who had had many a pheasant from High Wood and might even have another before the day was out. ‘I pities them boys if he cotches ’em.’
‘Ah, that I do,’ replied an undergroom. ‘He’ll warm their tails I’ll warrant.’
Some wit remarked to Sir William that it was a fine morning for cubbing and the squire turned away in wrath. ‘All the riff-raff of the village is here,’ he muttered to the Whiting, ‘To think that three undisciplined kids could set the whole village by the ears like this!’
The Whiting said nothing but chuckled to himself.
What a day for Cherry Walden, what a day. Would it ever forget it? Sergeant Bunting was there and with him three more policemen. The sergeant looked sulky, for the head keeper had been put in charge of the drive because he knew the wood.
As soon as it was fully light Sir William blew a long note on his hunting horn and the beat began. Then the squire hurried down to the far end of the wood to act as a ‘stop’. As each pheasant broke cover over his head he let out a new oath. He strode up and down, slapping his riding boots with his whip. Several of his men were mounted but Sir William had been forbidden by his doctor to ride since the early spring as he had taken a bad toss – on the last run of the season too – and he would not be able to ride for six months at least. This fact did not help to keep him in the best of tempers. ‘If I had my horse I’d ride ’em down; Gad, sir, I’d ride ’em down,’ he swore. Another bird broke cover and from the thickets came the terrified ‘cheep cheep’ of young pheasants.
‘Here, Vicar,’ bawled the squire to the Whiting who appeared from behind a bush, ‘you go down the far end of the ride to see if the rascals break that way. Remember, if you hear me blow my horn you will know I’ve seen the boys.’ At that moment a pheasant, which had been crouching, terrified, under the bracken, burst forth with a great bustle of wings and loud crowing directly overhead and it so happened that as it passed it misbehaved itself right on top of Sir William’s cap. The spectacle was too much for the Whiting; he turned away, almost choking, his face quite crimson, to take up the position indicated. On looking back he saw the unhappy baronet trying to clean his cap on a bunch of grass.
The minutes passed. Sounds of approaching beaters came nearer and the sun, which up till now had been hidden by cloud, burst forth with full undimmed splendour. And as if by magic, butterflies began to appear in the ridings. Several pearl-bordered fritillaries flew by, looking like bright gold leaves as they danced along, dragonflies soared overhead, bees and wasps buzzed about between the trees. The Whiting took off his cap and mopped his forehead, then he produced a packet of sandwiches which his thoughtful ‘old body’ had put in his pocket at the last moment and began to munch with evident enjoyment. He had not had such a day out for years. As for the unhappy baronet, there were no sandwiches for him and he was very hungry. Not one of his many minions had thought to provide the master with any sustenance whatever. So he sat hunched on his shooting stick glowering at the rotund figure of the Whiting who, forty yards distant, was apparently taking no interest in what was going on but was devouring a thick ham sandwich. Blast the fellow, he hadn’t even offered him one. ‘Keep your eyes skinned, Vicar!’ he shouted irritably, unable to bear the sight any longer. Then he resettled himself on his shooting stick and kept his gaze averted.
All at once a slight sound made him turn. He saw the Whiting hurl away his sandwich with a loud inarticulate shout and dive into the bushes, waving his cap about his head. He must have seen the boys! Sir William was a man of action. In a trice he whipped the hunting horn from his coat and blew a blast loud and long. Down the ride he had glimpses of the vicar dodging in and out among the bushes; he must be close on the fugitives’ heels!
The notes of the horn had barely died away when two grooms came running round the corner of a ride and stood looking about them.
‘This way, Perkins,’ their master said briskly, ‘this way, Shoebottom; the vicar’s sighted ’em. After them! A pound for the first man to collar a boy!’ Despite his hunting injury the squire hurried along the ride after the running men. Other beaters burst from the bushes and went pounding past him, urged on by more wild notes from the hunting horn.
He walked rapidly after the rest of the ‘field’ which, by now, had gone a considerable distance down the ride. Soon he saw a knot of men all together; they were crowding round the Whiting who was quite invisible, and all were looking at something he held on the ground. ‘Old Whiting’s caught one of them by Gad!’ said the squire to himself. ‘Dem it, I’ll ask him to dinner tonight and give him some of my best Cockburn!’ But when he came up to the group it seemed to melt mysteriously. Grooms and horseboys seemed to spirit themselves away into the bushes and only the Whiting remained, doing something with a small box inside his cap.
‘Where have they gone?’ roared the squire. ‘What’s happened?’
The Whiting looked up and saw the crimson face of his questioner. ‘Too bad, too bad, Sir William, I’m afraid I raised your hopes.’
‘What do you mean, sir, raised my hopes? Were you playing a joke on me, sir?’ Sir William’s eyes were glittering dangerously.
‘No … No, Sir William … I … I’ve caught the first wood white I’ve ever seen in High Wood. Look at it, a perfect specimen, a perfect specimen.’ The Whiting proffered the little white box, like a pill box, with a glass top. Sir William did not even glance at it.
There was an awful pause, then the tornado burst.
‘You’re a disgrace to the cloth, sir, a disgrace to the cloth I tell you. A man of your age chasing after butterflies like a … like a … two-year-old. You did it on purpose … I … I …’
‘But, Sir William,’ put in the Whiting mildly, ‘I assure you I …’
‘Enough,’ roared the squire. ‘You and your … butterflies. Pah!’ With an angry gesture he turned on his heel and strode away up the ride, almost choking with wrath.
By midday the whole wood had been beaten through without result. I may say in passing that Bill Bobman had left early with his pockets bulging.
The unfortunate contretemps of the wood white became the principal joke of the day, and later the Woodman’s Arms rocked with the gusty laughter of tired but jovial company.
But the fact remained – somehow the boys had got clear away; had they slipped like little silver fishes between the mesh of the net?
In actual fact, they had never been in High Wood at all during the ‘drive’. After Bunting had spotted them they had gone slap through the cover and made straight for the Chase. At the moment that poor Sir William was vigorously blowing the horn with hope high in his heart, the prey had gone to ground in a very distant earth, namely, the old oak tree in the middle of a forest clearing in Brendon Chase, a point over eight miles away.
8. The Honey Buzzard’s Nest
The decision which had led to the raid on the Dower House for fresh supplies had been wisely taken. Big John and Robin had felt more and more the craving for sweet things; even such homely provender as bread and potatoes seemed food for the Gods. Furthermore, Robin, especially, lacked books to read. For a boy he was a great reader. Even though their life in the Chase was a busy one, now that their commissariat department showed signs of such great improvement and the necessity to hunt daily was not so pressing, there would be more time to read.
Robin had brought back with him from the Dower House his beloved Thoreau’s Life in the Woods, The Amateur Poacher by Richard Jefferies and Bevis, the Story of a Boy by the same author. Big John had chosen Huckleberry Finn and Little John, Tom Sawyer.
From this list it is easy to see in what direction their tastes in literature lay and to understand that perhaps it was not only petticoat government which first suggested to them the possibility of an outlaw’s life in t
he woods.
Food for the mind and food for the body, these wants seemed now to be satisfied, and the boys embarked on their fourth week of liberty with renewed zest. In addition, the affair at High Wood had laid a false trail and for the moment the Chase was theirs in which to roam at will.
Even the smoke from their camp fire had not so far attracted attention and nobody had any suspicions that they were in the Chase. In any case smoke ascending from the Chase was not an uncommon spectacle, for the charcoal burner frequently burnt rubbish by his shack and his kilns, when newly lit, gave off a certain amount of smoke.
It was surprising how Harold took to the new life. The flight from High Wood had taxed his strength sorely and for a couple of days afterwards he found he had to take things very easily. But with an abundance of good food he soon recovered and was able to take his share in the daily work about the camp. The weather, which had been showery with overcast skies, took up and a settled spell was indicated.
In actual fact, the whole of Brendon Chase was not Crown property. A considerable portion of it, many hundreds of acres, belonged to the Duke of Brendon and it was in this portion of the Chase that the boys were hiding. There the trees were older and finer but the underwood had been neglected, and since the old Duke had died nobody bothered very much about it. Had it been Crown property it would have been doubtful whether the boys could have escaped detection for as long as they did.
When, on that eventful morning after the High Wood episode, they returned to camp, they found all in order. For safety’s sake the rifle and ammunition had been hidden up inside the hollow oak and the smoked pig had been likewise concealed. They had carefully covered up the marks of their fire with dead bracken and turf and it would have taken sharp eyes to see that anyone had been there at all, still less living in the clearing for three whole weeks.
These were wise precautions. Had anyone chanced that way – it was very unlikely – and suspicious signs had been seen, it might have reached the ears of those in authority and the wonderful adventure would have come to a speedy end.