“It was the only thing to do. Anybody could have seen that.”
“Hadn’t we better bunk, too, now?” said McTurk uneasily.
“Why? We’re all right. We haven’t done anything. I want to hear what old Vidley will say. Stop tweakin’, Turkey. Let ‘em cool’ off. Golly! how that heifer danced! I swear I didn’t know cows could be so lively. We’re only just in time.”
“My Hat! Here’s Vidley — and Toowey,” said Beetle, as the two farmers strode into the yard.
“Gloats! oh, gloats! Fids! oh, fids! Hefty fids and gloats to us!” said Corkran.
These words, in their vocabulary, expressed the supreme of delight. “Gloats “implied more or less of personal triumph, “fids “was felicity in the abstract, and the boys were tasting both that day. Last joy of all, they had had the pleasure of Mr. Vidley’s acquaintance, albeit he did not love them. Toowey was more of a stranger; his orchards lying over-near to the public road.
Tom and Abraham together told a tale of stolen cattle maddened by overdriving; of cows sure to die in calving, and of milk that would never return; that made Mr. Vidley swear for three consecutive minutes in the speech of north Devon.
“‘Tes tu bad. ‘Tes tu bad,” said Toowey, consolingly; “let’s ‘ope they ‘aven’t took no great ‘arm. They be wonderful wild, though.”
“‘Tes all well for yeou, Toowey, that sells them dom Collegers seventy quart a week.”
“Eighty,” Toowey replied, with the meek triumph of one who has underbidden his neighbour on public tender; “but that’s no odds to me. Yeou’m free to leather ‘em saame as if they was yeour own sons. On my barn-floor shall ‘ee leather ‘em.”
“Generous old swine!” said Beetle. “De Vitré ought to have stayed for this.”
“They’m all safe an’ to rights,” said the officious Abraham, producing the key. “Rackon us’ll come in an’ hold ‘em for yeou. Hey! The cows are fair ragin’ still. Us’ll have to run for it.”
The barn being next to the shed, the boys could not see that stately entry. But they heard. “Gone an’ hided in the hay. Aie! They’m proper afraid,” cried Abraham.
“Rout un out! Rout un out!” roared Vidley, rattling a stick impatiently on the root-cutter.
“Oh, my Aunt!” said Corkran, standing on one foot.
“Shut the door. Shut the door, I tal ‘ee. Rackon us can find un in the dark. Us don’t want un boltin’ like rabbits under our elbows.” The big barn door closed with a clang.
“My Gum!” said Corkran, which was always his War oath in time of action. He dropped down and was gone for perhaps twenty seconds.
“And that’s all right,” he said, returning at a gentle saunter.
“Hwatt?” McTurk almost shrieked, for Corkran, in the shed below, waved a large key.
“Stalks! Frabjous Stalks! Bottled ‘em! all four!” was the reply, and Beetle fell on his bosom. “Yiss. They’m so’s to say, like, locked up. If you’re goin’ to laugh, Beetle, I shall have to kick you again.”
“But I must!” Beetle was blackening with suppressed mirth.
“You won’t do it. here, then.” He thrust the already limp. Beetle through the cart shed window. It sobered him; one cannot laugh on a bed of nettles. Then Corkran stepped on his prostrate carcass, and McTurk followed, just as Beetle would have risen; so he was upset, and the nettles painted on his cheek a likeness of hideous eruptions.
“‘Thought that ‘ud cure you,” said Corkran, with a sniff.
Beetle rubbed his face desperately with dockleaves, and said nothing. All desire to laugh had gone from him. They entered the lane.
Then a clamour broke from the barn — a compound noise of horse-like kicks, shaking of doorpanels, and various yells.
“They’ve found it out,” said Corkran. “How strange!” He sniffed again.
“Let ‘em,” said Beetle. “No one can hear ‘em. Come on up to Coll.”
“What a brute you are, Beetle! You only think of your beastly self. Those cows want milkin’. Poor dears! Hear ‘em low,” said McTurk.
“Go back and milk ‘em yourself, then.” Beetle danced with pain. “We shall miss Callover, hangin’ about like this; an’ I’ve got two black marks this week already.”
“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’ dum-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 herself.” 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 milkheated an’ ragin’. Haven’t you boys no sense?”
Seeing that McTurk 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 tal un to 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.” McTurk, backed against the barnwall, 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, pleas
e?”
“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.
McTurk 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 McTurk. “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 housemaster, 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 McTurk; “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 McTurk, 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 housemaster 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! Tell 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 McTurk. “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 McTurk. “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 McTurk, 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 mantelpiece — ”is a Great Man!”
“Hear, hear,” said Beetle and McTurk, 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!
1. Ithuriel was that Archangel whose spear had the magic property of showing every one exactly and truthful
ly what he was.
The Last Lap
HOW do we know, by the bank-high river,
Where the mired and sulky oxen wait,
And it looks as though we might wait for ever,
How do we know that the floods abate?
There is no change in the current’s brawling —
Louder and harsher the freshet scolds;
Yet we can feel she is falling, falling,
And the more she threatens the less she holds.
Down to the drift, with no word spoken,
The wheel-chained wagons slither and slue.
Steady! The back of the worst is broken.
And — lash your leaders! — we’re through — we’re through!
How do we know, when the port-fog holds us
Moored and helpless, a mile from the pier,
And the week-long summer smother enfolds us —
How do we know it is going to clear?
There is no break in the blindfold weather,
But, one and another, around the bay,
The unseen capstans clink together,
Getting ready to up and away.
A pennon whimpers — the breeze has found us —
A headsail jumps through the thinning haze.
The whole hull follows, till — broad around us —
The clean-swept ocean says: “Go your ways!”
How do we know, when the long fight rages,
On the old, stale front that we cannot shake,
And it looks as though we were locked for ages,
How do we know they are going to break?
There is no lull in the level firing,
Nothing has shifted except the sun.
Yet we can feel they are tiring, tiring,
Yet we can tell they are ripe to run.
Something wavers, and, while we wonder
Their centre trenches are emptying out,
And, before their useless flanks go under,
Our guns have pounded retreat to rout!
The Parable of Boy Jones
THE LONG shed of the Village Rifle Club reeked with the oniony smell of smokeless powder, machine-oil, and creosote from the stop-butt, as man after man laid himself down and fired at the miniature target sixty feet away. The Instructor’s voice echoed under the corrugated iron roof.
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 516