Another Part of the Wood

by Denis Mackail

  “I’ll tell you what you mean,” said Fitzgibbon. “We’ll go for a little walk first.”

  When he was in this sort of ordering-about mood, he really was the most difficult man to explain things to. On the other hand there was a terrible temptation to postpone the interview with Mr. Vaughan as long as it could be postponed. Also, Fitzgibbon had started walking away—and it was rude as well as impossible not to go with him—without waiting for his plan to be discussed.

  But one could clear up one point.

  “I wonder,” said Noodles, “if you could tell me the time?”

  “Eh?” Fitzgibbon stopped, and pulled out his gold watch, and looked at it, and lied with quite unnecessary skill.

  “Barely twenty past,” he said, and instantly re-pocketed the watch. “We’ll go round by the front, what? It won’t take more than ten minutes or so, and I’ll see we’re not late. Come on, Noodles.”

  So Noodles came on. Already her heel was beginning to hurt her again, but unless she explained everything … Well, that was out of the question. Far better to limp along with Fitzgibbon than to start telling him things. Because if he wanted to help—and of course he would—then it would only make it all far worse than ever. She must try and give him the slip, somehow, when they actually got to the Pavilion Chalet.

  Though that wasn’t going to be very easy, either …

  Fortunately, in one way, and less fortunately in another, Fitzgibbon’s idea of walking was to dawdle along, and to keep stopping and looking into shop windows. He kept offering to purchase their contents in the most princely and sickening fashion, and Noodles had to keep on thanking him and repulsing his generosity. Then he seemed to forget all about their destination, and wanted to take her on the pier. And when she had reminded him, he forgot again, and wanted to take her for a drive.

  “But I must go to the pierrots,” she said. “I told you I must.”

  “There’s something in this,” said Fitzgibbon. “What’s the idea?”

  “Well, I’ve got to.”

  “You’ve said that. But who is he?”

  “Who’s who?”

  “Aha!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ll see,” said Fitzgibbon, archly. But to her mental, though not to her physical, relief, he suddenly increased his pace.

  “This way,” he said. And a little later: “Why, what’s the matter with your foot?”

  “My shoe hurts,” said Noodles.

  “Poor dear,” said Fitzgibbon. “Take my arm.”

  “Oh, no, thanks. Really it’s all right.”

  They were almost there now.

  “Why won’t you take my arm?” asked Fitzgibbon. “I say, don’t you like me?”

  “Oh, please!”

  “Oh, please!” said Fitzgibbon. “What does that mean? I say, Noodles, I believe you’ve got a down on me.”

  “Oh, no, really I haven’t.”

  “You like me, then? Eh?”

  “Oh, please——”

  “There you go,” said Fitzgibbon. “‘Oh, please!’ all the time. ’S that the way to treat a pal? Here!”

  “What?”

  “Here!”

  He caught hold of her arm. He was suddenly far more awful even than he had been at Pippingfold. He was terrifying. His face was larger, and redder, and more like the worst sort of animal. And he was hurting her. And she knew that people were beginning to stare at them.

  “Oh, do please let go. Mr. Fitzgibbon—please!”

  But he didn’t let go. He made a sort of thick, growling noise in his throat. And—oh, dear!—it must be far later than he’d said, because there was quite a crowd going in at the front of the Pavilion Chalet, and of course Mr. Vaughan would be furious that she hadn’t turned up, and that would make it more difficult than ever.

  “Oh, please——”

  “Arrh—you little——”

  “Hi! Stop that!”

  Whose was this chivalrous and embarrassing voice? Noodles turned her head quickly—just as Fitzgibbon dived at it with his coarse lips, and the next moment he was jerked backwards, and she had very nearly fallen on top of him. But he let go just in time, and she staggered to her feet. As in a dream she saw her brother standing and gaping at her, and Snubs Tipton—yes, of course it was Snubs—gripping Fitzgibbon by the scruff and striking him simultaneously on the nose.

  “Oh, Snubs!” she cried. “Don’t hurt him!”

  Thud! went Snubs’s fist again.

  “What—” said Fitzgibbon, looking extremely puzzled and surprised.

  Thud!

  “Oh, stop, Snubs! That’s enough!”

  Snubs looked round, grinned encouragingly, shook Fitzgibbon in the most energetic and delightful manner, pushed him forward so that he was more or less balanced on his own feet again, further assisted his equilibrium by kicking him violently on the hindquarters, and then turned his back on him as though such ideas as revenge or retaliation had never been invented. But it seemed that he was right, for though Noodles drew in her breath to scream a warning, Fitzgibbon was already stumbling away as fast as he could go. The whole episode had taken little more than ten seconds, and to judge by the look of blank calm with which Mr. Tipton favoured the few eye-witnesses, had never taken place at all.

  “There,” he said, brushing his hands together. “Now, come along, Noodles. We’re taking you out of this.”

  “Oh, Snubs!”

  “What?”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Oh, buck up,” said Beaky, whose self-conscious nervousness was almost convincing the eye-witnesses that there had been a fight after all. “Don’t stop and ask questions. We’ve found you, and you’ve got to come.”

  “What? Where?”

  “In Snubs’s car. There it is. Hurry up.”

  “But——”

  “Come on, Noodles.”

  She could have resisted her brother’s twittering orders, but Snubs’s quiet voice had got to be obeyed. If Snubs said “Come on” like that, then the Diamond Dominoes no longer existed. With another grateful yet anxious look she moved towards Gertie, and Snubs, running ahead of her, actually succeeded in opening the near-side door.

  “Hop in,” he said.

  She got in, and he ran round and climbed over the other door and sat down beside her. A creaking of springs and a rattling of hardware showed that Beaky was clambering into the dickey and trying to make room for his legs.

  “All right?” said Snubs, over his shoulder. “Right.”

  Once again Gertie’s self-starter whirred, and her engine roared. Perhaps they wouldn’t have been so obliging if she had had a little more warning, but as a hasty improvisation she could still play a very old and irritating card.

  “Dash!” said Snubs, as he heaved and tugged at the gear-lever. At each effort the most appallingly destructive rumpus came from the cogs in the gear-box, but it seemed that no set could be prevailed on to do anything but fight angrily with the others. He kept stamping on the clutch, accelerating, throttling down, and trying again. The vibration was terrific. The noise indescribable.

  So the couple on the front seat neither saw nor heard Mr. Brett rise suddenly to his full height, and wave his arms, and bleat an anguished appeal.

  “Sylvia!” he was shouting. “Sylvia! I say——Sylvia!”

  The great Carter sped past and slowed down. But Sylvia had seen, or heard. She was waving out of the window.

  “Wait!” yelled Beaky, gesticulating more urgently and excitedly than ever. He had forgotten all about the impossibility of saying anything to the adored one if he met her, because he had met her—or practically—and there was no room for anything in his soul but a wild happiness and relief, or in his body for anything but his soaring, bursting heart.

  He stepped on to the seat of the dickey. He planted one foot on the back wing as he prepared to jump to the ground. He waved again.

  At this moment the battered teeth of Gertie’s first speed suddenly met and engaged. She
leapt forward like a greyhound. Beaky turned almost a complete somersault in the air, and struck the road with the back of his neck.

  He kicked twice, and lay absolutely still.

  “My gosh!” thought Snubs, as he settled himself more comfortably and roared away towards the tramlines. “I’ve never known her pull better with three on board.”

  But Sylvia was kneeling beside the unconscious Beaky, with a face even whiter than his own. And as the great Carter came rushing forward to help, he distinctly heard her calling the young gentleman “Darling.”

  Chapter XI

  Adventures with Gertie—And the Nobility of Snubs.

  1

  Snubs said:

  “We got your letter, you see. We were a bit worried. But it’s all right now?”

  Noodles nodded.

  “That fellow’d been drinking, you know,” said Snubs. “You ought to have known that.”

  “Ought I?”

  “Well, I’m glad we turned up. Was he the one?”

  “Which one, Snubs?”

  “The pierrot, I mean.”

  “Oh, no. That was—I mean, the pierrot was quite a different one.”

  “Good Lord!” said Snubs. “Then who was the fellow you were with?”

  “Well, he was the one that got me sent back to school. I—I don’t know whether you heard. But, Snubs, it was all a mistake. Really it was.”

  “Of course,” said Snubs. “He turned up again, then?”

  How understanding he was.

  “Yes. And it’s so difficult to be rude, Snubs.”

  “Oh, I know. Not for me, though. I’d have been ruder still, if I’d known.”

  “Oh, Snubs!”

  “Well, I would. I’d have kicked him twice. But, I say—what happened to the pierrot?”

  “Oh, Snubs—it’s awful. I forgot all about him, and he was expecting me. Do you think we ought to go back?”

  “No,” said Snubs, and Gertie went a little faster.

  “I was going to leave them, anyhow,” said Noodles, “and I’m sure they didn’t want me. But—— Oh, and there’s something else. I never paid the bill at my lodgings. And I’ve no idea how much it is. And then there was the money I borrowed. Oh, dear!”

  “That’s all right.”

  “But it isn’t. I must pay them.”

  “Of course. But you can easily send it.”

  “But you don’t understand, Snubs. I haven’t got it. I haven’t got anything at all. Not even a penny.”

  “What do you mean? Of course Mr. Cottenham will give it you.”

  “Lend it me, do you mean? But I couldn’t pay him back, either.”

  “Lend? What are you talking about? Don’t you have an allowance?”

  “Well, I did. A little one, I mean. But Mr. Cottenham told—told some one that I hadn’t really got any money at all. And if that’s true——”

  “Rubbish. Of course it isn’t true, Noodles. We’ll ask Beaky.”

  Without removing his eyes from the road in front of him, he raised his voice.

  “Beaky!” he shouted.

  There was no answer.

  “Beaky! I say!”

  Still no answer. Noodles looked over her shoulder.

  “Oh, Snubs! Oh, stop at once!”

  “What?”

  “He’s not there!”

  “What!”

  They slowed down, and the driver wrenched his head round. They stopped, and he twisted the whole upper portion of his body, bracing his extended legs against the pedals.

  “Well, I’m dashed,” he said, and collapsed on the seat again. “What made him do that?”

  Even as he put this question, the answer came to him. He knew that Beaky had got in, and it was absurd to suppose that he had fallen out. Therefore he had got out. And he had got out because the quest was over, and the quickest way back to Wykeham Street—and the day’s postal deliveries—was by train. Proceeding further, and at incredible speed, on this line of reasoning, he saw that his old friend had solved the difficulty of explaining this course of action to his sister by not explaining it at all. He had just skipped and bolted for the station, knowing that Snubs both could and would do the rest. Yet if this confidence were faintly flattering, it was also confoundedly embarrassing.

  “What is it, Snubs? Have you remembered something?

  “Yes,” said Snubs. “I mean, no. But Beaky’s all right. He—he’d got something rather important on, and I—I suppose he couldn’t wait.”

  “You’re not making that up?”

  “Oh, no. Oh, Lord, no.”

  “What is it, Snubs? Do tell me!”

  “Oh, well,” said Snubs; “’S a matter of fact, he was expecting a letter.”

  “Where? Who from?”

  “In London. I’m not quite——”

  But the attempted prevarication never reached the Recording Angel’s tablets, to be entered either as a loyal lie or as something less creditable.

  “In London?” cried Noodles. “But, Snubs—aren’t we going to London?”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t that where you’re taking me?”

  “Good Lord, no. I’m taking you back to Pippingfold.”

  And of course he was taking her back to Pippingfold, where of course the old boy would have to receive her whether he wanted to or not, and whether he were staying there or going abroad. But Noodles had clutched his left arm, and was staring at him with a look of misery and terror; and, worse still, of reproach.

  “Oh, Snubs,” she said. “I can’t go there. Oh, Snubs, you don’t know what it was like. And it would be worse than ever, after this. Oh, Snubs darling, please mayn’t I go back and stay with you and Beaky? Oh, please mayn’t I?”

  Snubs stared back at her, tingling all over with unidentifiable emotions.

  “To Wyke—Wykeham Street?” he burbled. “But——”

  “But I thought that was what you meant. Oh, Snubs, I’d hardly eat anything, and I’d sleep anywhere, and I’d do anything you told me, and I’d go to an office if they’d have me—but I can’t go on living at Pippingfold. You know I can’t.”

  “But it’s your home,” said Snubs, feebly.

  “It’s not. It’s never been my home. I hate it. At least, I don’t hate it, but Mr. Cottenham won’t ever—— Oh, can’t you understand how awful it is? And he’ll be furious at all the things I’ve done, and he’ll try and send me back to school again, and I know they won’t have me. Oh, Snubs—please …”

  Snubs’s mouth twitched. But what would happen if he brought Noodles back to Wykeham Street in the middle of the night, and if—as was quite possible—Beaky weren’t there? Even if he went and slept somewhere else, how could he possibly defend his conduct when Pippingfold was so much nearer and more obvious? Of course he couldn’t. And of course the Burgesses would make a fuss. And of course he would have achieved nothing but an infinitely worse problem to be dealt with to-morrow morning.

  “I can’t, Noodles,” he muttered. “I must take you back to your guardian.”

  “Oh, Snubs …”

  “For to-night, anyhow.”

  “But that’ll be far the worst night,” said Noodles.

  “I know. But I’ll—I’ll do something. I don’t quite know what. But I’ll get hold of Beaky, and if you really can’t stand it—— Noodles! What’s the matter?”

  “Don’t look,” said Noodles, turning her head away.

  “But——”

  “Don’t look! I’ll kill you if you look at me. Go on at once! Take me back quickly, and leave me. I quite understand. Nobody wants me, and nobody ever will. But I don’t mind that, if only you’ll——”

  She smote the steering-wheel, unable to get another word past the tears that were choking her, but indicating her desperate wish to resume the journey. And as Snubs could think of nothing else to do or say, he resumed it. It was getting darker now, and he leant forward to switch on the lights. But his detached, mechanical satisfaction in their steady beam was ch
ecked almost at once by something else that they revealed as well as the undulating road to Friar’s Holt. And this was a couple—no, three—no, a dozen large drops of water on the wind-screen.

  He looked up at the inky sky, and was greeted by a further flurry of warm, stinging pellets.

  “Look here, Noodles,” he said, “you’d better have my coat. I don’t think it’s going to be much, but——”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You’ve got to have it.”

  “I’m not cold, thank you.”

  “I dare say; but it’s raining.”

  He stopped Gertie again, and took off his coat.

  “Here you are,” he said.

  “I don’t want it, thank you.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I don’t.”

  Snubs draped the coat over her shoulders, and left it there. She never moved nor spoke. The rain steadily increased.

  “Lean forward a bit,” said Snubs. “I’m going to put the hood up.”

  This time she obeyed, but when he climbed back into his seat—after the successful conclusion of a very violent struggle—the coat had slipped off again.

  “Now, look here, Noodles,” he said; “you’ve got to wear that coat. Do you hear me?”

  “What?”

  As she hadn’t, apparently, heard him, he lifted the coat once more and once more hung it over her. And this time he managed to do up one of the buttons.

  “It’s not going to help,” he said, “if you get wet through.”

  No answer.

  He tried to look at her, but he could see nothing. The best thing to do seemed to be to start moving again; but he could no longer keep up his former speed. The arm of the screen-wiper having snapped off several weeks ago, it was necessary to keep leaning over the side to see where they were going, and each time the rain beat more fiercely in his face, while his right arm was rapidly becoming saturated. It is possible that the big, dark cloud had merely meant to have a little private practice before its grand assault on the holiday crowds, but having once begun it was clearly losing all control. It didn’t care now whether it exhausted its resources or not—even though to-morrow and Monday should be as fine as to-day. All it wanted was to see how quickly it could turn the roads into rivers, and the fields into bogs, and the whole night into one hissing, streaming, penetrating wetness. And so far as these objects were concerned, it was certainly doing wonders.