MOBY LANE 
 
 A-NEIL LYONS
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT 
 
 From the Library of 
 
 Henry Goldman, Ph.D. 
 
 1886-1972
 
 MOBY LANE
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 KITCHENER CHAPS 
 ARTHUR'S 
 CLARA 
 
 SIXPENNY PIECES 
 COTTAGE PIE 
 SIMPLE SIMON 
 
 THE BODLEY HEAD
 
 
 
 
 MOBY LANE 
 
 AND THEREABOUTS 
 
 BY A. NEIL LYONS 
 
 
 
 
 LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 
 NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXVI 

 
 WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLBS, ENGLAND
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I. THE MOBIES 9 
 
 II. YOUNG CRISPIN ...... 16 
 
 III. A SHORT STORY . 25 
 
 IV. THE SQUIRE 28 
 
 V. THE OLD BROWN LADY 35 
 
 VI. THE BED o' PATTIKEWS 44 
 
 VII. THE MERRY WAIT 60 
 
 VIII. "OUTSIDE" 72 
 
 IX. SWEET PEAS 79 
 
 X. "VIADUCT VIEW" 90 
 
 XI. COURTSHIP 102 
 
 XII. THE LAST OF THE GENTRY . . . .no 
 
 XIII. BENNY DODD'S ADVENTURE . . . .118 
 
 XIV. THE HORSE-DEALER 124 
 
 XV. BARCLAY'S SHOP 137 
 
 XVI. BEFRIENDING HER LADYSHIP . . .144 
 
 XVII. IT! 162 
 
 XVIII. SPRING SCANDAL 169 
 
 XIX. MR. BLURR AND THE BLOOD-OAF . . .175 
 
 V
 
 Contents 
 
 MM 
 
 XX. THE OLD MAN OF ALFRISTON. . . 186 
 
 XXI. PUCKLEFIELD MANOR . . . . IQ2 
 
 XXII. A TOY TRAGEDY 206 
 
 XXIII. SUETRY 217 
 
 XXIV. UNCLE ALF 226 
 
 XXV. THE CRAMMING SHED . . . .232 
 
 XXVI. MILDRED'S SON 239 
 
 XXVII. ONE o' THE BOYS 247 
 
 XXVIII. THE SIDNAPPERS 256 
 
 XXIX. His EMMY CERT 270 
 
 XXX. THE WIDOW OF WADHURST . . .278 
 
 XXXI. TUPPER 287 
 
 XXXII. BILL POTTER EXPLAINS . . . .293 
 
 XXXIII. THE STOCKINGS 303 
 
 XXXIV. BERT 31 
 
 XXXV. MRS. PYE'S COMFORTER . . . . 3 '9 
 
 XXXVI. SWEEP OH! .... ^ . 324 
 
 XXXVII. THE "RETREAT" 33 1 
 
 XXXVIII. GOD LOVE us ALL 338
 
 MOBY LANE
 
 I 
 
 THE MOBIES 
 
 SPRING has many ushers, and is heralded by 
 divers signs. Some people look for these signs 
 among the hedgerows ; others seek them in 
 the sky, or listen for them in the night, whilst 
 other people neither look nor listen, but go 
 smelling about, or stand on hill-tops, tasting. 
 
 For my own part, I do not fatigue myself 
 in this matter. I go about my lawful 
 occasions with cold feet, smoking tobacco, 
 avoiding clergymen, eating sausages, emitting 
 letterpress. And sooner or later the Mobies 
 come, wheeling in the spring ; wheeling it to 
 my very door on an old perambulator. I 
 then know for certain that spring has arrived. 
 I then know for certain that there are black- 
 birds in the thicket, and tits among the gorse, 
 and that cowslips, lady-smock, and the lyrical 
 manner are in season. 
 
 If anything happened to the Mobies and 
 their old perambulator, I should have to fall 
 back on my Daily Mail. 
 
 But thank God ! the perambulator is yet 
 
 9
 
 io Moby Lane 
 
 sound and stable. It was made in those 
 agreeable, far-off days, when perambulators 
 were perambulators, and Coventry was 
 Coventry, and works of fiction did not always 
 smell of iodine. When I look at that old 
 perambulator, and muse upon the changes 
 which Time, and the portable baby carriage, 
 and Sir Jesse Boot have wrought in the civic 
 economy of my happy country, I but let us 
 pursue the Mobies. Let us cultivate the 
 lyrical manner. 
 
 The Mobies have lifted the latch of my 
 heart, and spring has entered in. 
 
 If you want to know who or what the 
 Mobies are, they are a man and wife, properly 
 authenticated, under nuptial law, with a 
 seven-and-sixpenny licence, and with power 
 to add to their number. They add to it 
 yearly ; for ground game is cheap, and bracken 
 is everywhere, and your Mobilette is a hardy 
 infant. All that he asks of God is rabbit 
 stew, stout hedges, and a little pair of breeches. 
 
 The Mobies have been coming every year 
 for seven years to the house which I inhabit. 
 First of all, there were four Mobies : Mr. 
 Moby, Mrs. Moby, the perambulator, and the 
 sucking Moby. Now, there are seven Mobies, 
 not counting the perambulator.
 
 The Mobies 1 1 
 
 Mrs. Moby wears a dress of faded tartan 
 and an old, brown bowler hat. Mr. Moby 
 wears trousers (lately the property of an 
 author), a blue jersey, and a coat containing 
 fourteen pockets. The little Mobies wear 
 shirts and little breeches all excepting 
 Gertrude Moby, who only wears a shirt. 
 
 Gertrude Moby came to my door this 
 morning. She uttered the usual speech, 
 beginning, " Please, kind gentleman ! " 
 
 I ruthlessly amputated the extremities of 
 this oration. 
 
 ' You can wash out all that," I said. 
 ' What is it this morning, Gertrude ? " 
 
 " Please, kind gentleman, can you spare me 
 a little bit o' cotton ? " responded Gertrude. 
 u Me bruvver's tored 'is trousers. He can't 
 jump about or nuthin'." 
 
 We supplied the necessary material for 
 reconstructing Gertrude's brother on a sound 
 progressive basis. 
 
 " And muvver says," continued Gertrude 
 Moby, " I was to see if you was the same 
 gentleman as usual, and if you was then it's all 
 right, and you can come across and speak to 
 us. But I don't remember if you was the 
 same gentleman or not. There was a gentle- 
 man gimme some bull's-eye suckers at this
 
 12 Moby Lane 
 
 'ouse last year. But I can't remember the 
 gentleman not to look at. But I remember 
 the suckers. They was they yaller uns." 
 
 I accepted Mrs. Moby's agreeable invitation, 
 and walked across the road to a hawthorn 
 bush, beneath which all the Mobies were 
 assembled, in company with their per- 
 ambulator, some discarded footwear, and a 
 number of rabbit-skins. 
 
 Mr. Moby sat on the perambulator among 
 the rabbit-skins, blinking at nothing in par- 
 ticular and picking away at his teeth. Mrs. 
 Moby knelt on the earth, stewing tea-leaves 
 over a little fire which was sheltered by the 
 family chariot. All the little Mobies, in their 
 ragged little breeches, pattered about among 
 the flints in mid-lane, blowing hard at fool's 
 parsley whistles, which were graduated in 
 length and shrillness acording to the varying 
 stature of the musicians. I observed that 
 the family perambulator had been freshly 
 painted, and that its ulterior panel was now 
 adorned with letterpress, as thus : 
 
 Wm. Moby : Gen'l Dealer. 
 Rabbit Skins, bottles, Rags, 
 Bones, &cetra. 
 
 Licensed Pedlar.
 
 The Mobies 13 
 
 Mr. Moby, deferring his experiments in 
 dentistry, sat up on the perambulator and 
 waved a hand at me. 
 
 "Good mornin', me gentleman," said Mr. 
 Moby. "We're 'ere again, ya see. Fetch 
 out ya're bottles, fetch out ya're rabbit-skins. 
 Mar, bring out the baby. There's another 
 Moby, mister." 
 
 Mrs. Moby, in obedience to the command 
 of her captain, produced from the adjacent 
 undergrowth a bundle containing squirm. 
 This package she carefully and deliberately 
 unwound, exhibiting incipient Moby, mascu- 
 line, plump, and rubicund. 
 
 " I did 'ope," said Mrs. Moby, " as Walter 
 yere would be born beneath a roof. But ' e be 
 cradled in a dick, the same as all the others." 
 
 " She's a discontented woman, Mrs. Moby 
 is," said Mr. Moby. 
 
 "No, Will, no!" protested Mrs. Moby. 
 " Not discontented. On'y proud, like. Ya 
 see, sir, I weer born inside a 'ouse meself. 
 And I got a sister as is married to a man what 
 work on the railway. All 'er children was 
 born inside a 'ouse. I don't complain. I 
 ain't discontented. But I must say I would 
 like to rare 'em under cover them what's 
 yet to come."
 
 14 Moby Lane 
 
 "Rare 'em under cover!" repeated Mr. 
 Moby, with derision. ' That's a woman to 
 the life, that is ! Look at them nippers there, 
 sir. Did ever you see a 'ealthier set o' 
 nippers ? There ain't a moper in the bunch. 
 There ain't a kid among 'em as isn't ditch- 
 reared. Damn an' blast ya're 'ouses. Let 'em 
 lie 'earthly in the fuzz, same as their father and 
 ' is father done. Look at our Benny there 
 that y aller-' aired boy did ever you see a better 
 collared one ? 'E've never lived in no 'ouse. 
 Five year old 'e is, and e'll snare a grey-bird 
 or stone a rabbit wi' the best o' them." 
 
 "Mr. Moby," stated Mrs. Moby, "'e talk 
 a bit impatient, sometimes. " I areunt got 
 naarthun to say agin the dick ; on'y that 
 would please me, that would, for to rare 'em 
 under cover, just a dab-chick or two, if it's 
 on'y to git upsides o' that sister o' mine 'er 
 what's married the railwayman. I " 
 
 " All right, mother ! " cried Mr. Moby. 
 " We've heerd all that before. Don't over- 
 come the gentleman. Tie up number seven, 
 now. Put the little Moby in the fuzz. And 
 give the gentleman a cup o' tea. And all you 
 little Mobies, there ; stop blowin' on they 
 whistles. There's a chap in that halder bush 
 as can whistle better nor you."
 
 The Mobies 15 
 
 All the little Mobies put their pipes away. 
 All the little Mobies cocked their ears, standing 
 barefoot on the flint. The artist on the 
 alder bough put up his throat, and sang. He 
 sang that little old thing of his in F : " Did 
 he do it ? Did he do it ? " 
 
 " Yes, he did ! " cried all the little Mobies 
 in reply : " Yes, he did ! Yes he did ! " 
 
 Oh, they lifted the latch of my heart !
 
 II 
 
 YOUNG CRISPIN 
 
 THIS is a story for boys, and particularly for 
 errand boys, and more particularly still for 
 those red-faced, whistling, importunate errand 
 boys who grace the elevated chariots of one's 
 family butcher, and hold the reins of get- 
 along, get-along, get-along ponies. 
 
 Now, Archibald Crispin was an errand-boy 
 of this sort. But before he became an errand- 
 boy, he was his mother's boy and a prize boy, 
 having secured an award for " manliness" at 
 the village school. 
 
 Archie Crispin's certificated character early 
 attracted the notice and secured the regard of 
 young women in this village ; so that when 
 he took his walks abroad, even during the 
 period when he was still a private citizen, 
 admiring whispers, joking epithets and sly 
 looks frequently attended his progress up 
 the village street. 
 
 But so soon as Archibald entered upon the 
 professional stage of his career, the attention 
 
 16
 
 Young Crispin 17 
 
 bestowed upon him by women became more 
 formal. Archie Crispin, the manly boy, was 
 considered fair sport for manly girls ; but 
 Young Crispin, of Bates' s, in nut-brown 
 leggings and a striped apron, deserved and 
 won the homage of a more discriminating 
 public. 
 
 Minnie Cook, the builder's daughter, was not 
 too proud to be seen in company with young 
 Crispin, of Bates' s. I should just hope not ! 
 rArchie Crispin was a perfect butcher's boy. 
 I have been collecting butchers' boys for 
 years, being, as it were, a collector of 
 favourable British types. When I praise a 
 butcher's boy, I know what I am doing. And 
 I say, employing the cant of this vulgar 
 age, that young Crispin was some butcher- 
 boy ! 
 
 Judged by the severest standards of his 
 cult, he was a perfectly done specimen. From 
 his nut-brown leggings and striped apron, to 
 his wide, good-humoured mouth, his freckled 
 nose and the large curl on his forehead, he 
 was wholly and completely "done" a 
 finished butcher's boy. 
 
 I loved to watch him wallop his pony up 
 and down hill on bright June mornings, and 
 then pull the animal up with that sudden, 
 
 B
 
 1 8 Moby Lane 
 
 unpremeditated jerk of the curbed bit which 
 is sustained so cheerfully within reason by 
 butchers' boys' ponies. Having surprised his 
 pony and caused it, literally, to sit up, Young 
 Crispin would light off smartly from his little, 
 high, hard seat and spring to the back of the 
 cart. I then loved to watch him slap open 
 the back board of that equipage and bring 
 forth his Dead ; which, having festooned 
 with white and blue tickets, he then slapped 
 into a wooden trough, which he then slapped 
 on to his shoulder and carried into some 
 garden, crying sharply "Butcher!" He 
 would soon emerge from the garden, carrying 
 the trough, now empty, beneath his arm, 
 throw it deftly, with one quick jerk, into the 
 now depleted tumbril, slap-to his tail-board, 
 spring up to his perch, beat his pony, and so 
 away right away, right away, right away, 
 right away. A gay life. 
 
 It was the gaiety of the life which proved 
 Young Crispin's undoing ; that and his pride. 
 I had often observed in young Crispin that 
 look of manliness upon which a department 
 of State had set its seal ; and I seemed also 
 to perceive, beyond this properly authorised 
 characteristic, a further characteristic, one for 
 which prizes are not awarded, although it is
 
 Yotmg Crispin 19 
 
 most often to be found in those whom the 
 prize givers have delighted to honour. I 
 refer to a certain sort of stuck-up look. 
 
 Young Crispin had not only the air of a 
 young person in whom manliness dwelt ; he 
 had, further, the air of one who was con- 
 scious of affording accommodation to this 
 admirable quality. He looked not merely 
 like a manly young person, but like a young 
 person who had cultivated manliness, as 
 older persons cultivate the turnip, and who 
 had obtained just recognition of his skill and 
 industry. 
 
 I am, therefore, not inclined to share the 
 theory which is generally held in this village 
 that wanton depravity supplies the explana- 
 tion of Young Crispin's fall. I believe that 
 his manliness was to blame that and the 
 " Pictures " which have been established in a 
 reformed stable at Blowfield. 
 
 If you are a manly butcher's boy and know 
 that you are manly and that you are publicly 
 known to be manly ; if, further, it is prac- 
 tically a condition of your employment that 
 you keep up a slap-dash style and nut-brown 
 gaiters, then the builder's daughter natur- 
 ally follows. When the builder's daughter 
 happens to coincide with the opening of
 
 2O Moby Lane 
 
 " Pictures " at Blowfield, what else can ensue, 
 but the cultivation of a certain monetary 
 recklessness which, when it is combined with 
 the complicated financial functions which 
 have to be discharged by butchers' boys, 
 leads inevitably to trouble ? 
 
 And so it is officially recorded that Mr. 
 Bates, young Crispin's master, found out, 
 one morning, that he had been despoiled. He 
 accordingly sent for Young Crispin, who was 
 performing trade rituals in an outhouse, and 
 that young gentleman and his nut-brown 
 leggings having appeared before him, Mr. 
 Bates spoke up. He said : 
 
 " Now, then, Crispin. How's this ? Gurney, 
 of Pinfolds, has been in. We've gone into 
 accounts, him and me, and I find you've paid 
 in five-and-threepence short. Crispin, how's 
 this ? " 
 
 Young Crispin lifted a corner of his striped 
 apron and rubbed a nut-brown legging with it. 
 " I I've paid in all I've 'ad," replied Young 
 Crispin. 
 
 ' You've paid in four-and-nine," said Mr. 
 Bates. " There's my books to prove what 
 you've paid in. And Gurney, of Pinfolds, 
 he've paid you over half a thick 'un. Told me 
 so hisself, standin' here, in this shop."
 
 Young Crispin 21 
 
 "I've paid in all I've had," repeated Young 
 Crispin. 
 
 1 Then, Gurney, of Pinfolds, is a liar. 
 What ? " retorted Young Crispin's master. 
 " Don't you try to fool me, Crispin," con- 
 tinued that tradesman, growing warm. 
 " Speak up, Crispin. Spit it out. Where's 
 that five shillun ? What else ' ave you took ? " 
 
 ' I've paid in all I've had." Young Crispin 
 again uttered this monotonous response. 
 
 " Very well, then," shouted Mr. Bates, " I'll 
 take you round to Mr. Gurney. We' 11 see who' s 
 the liar then him or you. We'll go into this. 
 We'll go right into it. Get ye' re jacket." 
 
 Young Crispin, still holding a corner of his 
 striped apron, walked slowly to the outhouse 
 where his jacket was hanging. He took the 
 jacket from its hook, and matches and a 
 cigarette from the jacket pocket, and he lit 
 the cigarette and leaned against a chopping- 
 block holding his jacket with a hot, light hand, 
 and puffing hard at his cigarette. Then, as 
 his master called, he picked up a sharp knife 
 from the face of the block and walked out 
 of the shed, holding his coat in one hot hand 
 and the knife in the other. 
 
 " Come on, Crispin. 'Urry up ! " shouted 
 Crispin's master.
 
 22 Moby Lane 
 
 " Coming, sir ; coming," responded Crispin ; 
 and he came, falling down at his master's feet, 
 
 " Christ ! " cried Crispin's master. " If the 
 boy ain't cut his throat ! " 
 
 This the boy had done, and as he lay there 
 the cigarette fell slowly from between his 
 lips. And his nut-brown gaiters showed up 
 clear with chintzy red splashes all over 
 them. 
 
 Mrs. Bates was sent for, and Mrs. Bates 
 pronounced the fear that Young Crispin's life 
 had become extinct. " He can't stop here," 
 said Mrs. Bates, adding : " For all the cus- 
 tomers to see." 
 
 " No, he can't," assented Mr. Bates. " Send 
 for old Rummery." And P.C. Rummery 
 came and assisted Mr. Bates to remove Young 
 Crispin to the outhouse, where the rest of 
 Mr. Bates' s meat was stored, and Mr. Rum- 
 mery uttered expressions of horror. " Just 
 look at it," said Mr. Rummery. "It's awful ! 
 All over 'is gaiters." 
 
 They closed the outhouse door on him, and 
 Mrs. Bates administered brandy. I should be 
 the last to deny that they needed it. And 
 then they held a conference, the final contri- 
 bution to which was uttered by Mrs. Bates, 
 who said :
 
 Young Crispin 23 
 
 " Depend upon it ; there's more in this 
 than five-and-threepence ! " 
 
 ***** 
 
 Young Crispin became the object of general 
 discussion and of State investigation. At 
 last, after much delay and a great deal of 
 formal deliberation and procedure, a hole 
 was dug in the field beside our church, and 
 Young Crispin was put inside it. This opera- 
 tion they performed at night by candle-light, 
 with all the late friends and neighbours of 
 Young Crispin looking on. 
 
 Old Mrs. Crispin, Archie's mother, and Mr. 
 Crispin, the chicken farmer, Archie's father, 
 were much touched by this proof of neigh- 
 bourly feeling. They walked in and out 
 among the company, shaking individuals by 
 the hand, and saying : " Thank you ! Thank 
 you ! " 
 
 And they cut out and caused to be framed a 
 printed notice which had appeared in our 
 Sentinel, wherein the burial of Young Crispin 
 was described by an eloquent young writer, 
 with a sense of euphemy, by whom the 
 ceremony was stated to have taken place on 
 'Tuesday evening" and the grave to be 
 situated in " a new part of the churchyard." 
 
 This framed document now hangs in old
 
 24 Moby Lane 
 
 Mr. Crispin's chimney-corner. And he has 
 already developed a pride in it which will 
 last throughout his lifetime. All old Mr. 
 Crispin's visitors are invited to inspect this 
 trophy, and he says to them : 
 
 " Read that. That's the account of poor 
 Archie our son, ye know. Him what there 
 was all that talk about." 
 
 At these moments, old Mrs. Crispin leaves 
 the room.
 
 Ill 
 
 A SHORT STORY 
 
 NOT only "a" short story: but the short 
 story : the shortest which ever was written 
 by a responsible author. 
 
 To make a longer story of it would spoil it. 
 
 It relates to Mr. Will Pepper, our village 
 carrier, who came to my cottage at 7 p.m. 
 with a York Ham, which had been expected 
 to join us at breakfast. Mr. Pepper uttered 
 confused apologies and unconvincing excuses. 
 He also removed his hat. 
 
 I then perceived that two lumps, or bumps, 
 or knobs, or blobs, the size respectively of an 
 orange and a tangerine, pertained to the 
 forehead of Mr. Pepper. 
 
 " Pepper," I said, " you have sustained a 
 blow." 
 
 ' Yessir," responded Pepper : " 'tis looking 
 for a Night-jar done this." 
 
 ' You got the jar all right," I suggested. 
 'Tis a bird I'm speakin' of," said Mr. 
 Pepper. " Some people calls it a corncrake. 
 
 25
 
 26 Moby Lane 
 
 ' Im what come out after dark and say : 
 < C-r-r-r-k ! C-r-r-r-k ! ' I was lookin' for 'im 
 with a comb. Me and Fred Tolputt." 
 
 " But how humane ! " I interjected. " Do 
 they wear their partings in the middle, these 
 corncrakes, Pepper ? " 
 
 " If you please, sir," answered Pepper, 
 " the idea of this comb, it is more in the nature 
 of sport, sir. They will answer very often to 
 a comb, sir, these here corncrakes. You 
 scritches it, so C-r-r-r-k ! C-r-r-r-r-k ! with 
 the thumb, sir, and they mistakes it for their 
 mate, sir, and comes to your 'and. 'Tis a 
 ignorant bird, the corncraker, sir, though very 
 tender eatin'. 
 
 " Me and Fred Tolputt, we drored one the 
 first go off, sir. We found him along be 
 Copperkin's Wood, and 'e answered to the 
 comb as quick and ready 'sif it was the voice 
 of his little old sweetheart in the thicket, sir. 
 
 " We crep' along the edge o' the wood, sir, 
 me and Fred Tolputt, scritching the comb, 
 f C-r-r-r-k ! C-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-k ! ' We 
 crep' and crep', and we crep' and the call from 
 the wood it come closer, and plainer, and 
 louder and longer : 
 
 " ' C-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-k ! ' 
 
 " There was a steep bank, like a wall, on
 
 A Short Story 27 
 
 one side of us, the edge o' the wood like, with 
 sycomore and hornbeam and that style o' 
 tackle growin' out of it. Where the call come 
 from, that was the steepest part of all, and 
 we crawled up very cautious, scritching the 
 comb. I worked the comb, and Fred he 
 followed close be'ind me with a ash stick. 
 He was breathing eager, so to speak. All of 
 a sudden he whispers to me. ' Steady ! ' he 
 says. And I stops. And there's resserling 
 among the leaves. And then, from before 
 me very nose, as you might say, the last, long 
 call come out : 
 
 ' C-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-k ! ' 
 ' Now you've got it ! ' says Fred Tolputt. 
 And, begod, I 'ad : the same as you see, sir." 
 Mr. Pepper removed his hat again and 
 re-exhibited the bumps. 
 
 ' Ye see, sir," he explained, " young Bert 
 Pusey, and that lot, they was out with their 
 little comb and their ash sticks, and that 
 seem s'if we'd sorter 'tracted one another."
 
 IV 
 THE SQUIRE 
 
 I HAVE just returned from Blowfield, a neigh- 
 bouring parish, which I visited for the purpose 
 of offering thanks to a certain Mr. Amos 
 Pranklyn. This old person, who carried a 
 swab-hook in the aboricultural interest, hap- 
 pened to have shown hospitality and kindness 
 to a dog of mine, and I had marched that 
 civil beast across the fields to pay his visit 
 of digestion. 
 
 Mr. Pranklyn and I held council under the 
 oaks in Blowfield Park. Mr. Pranklyn is a 
 person of observation, a noticing person, to 
 converse with whom is not to suffer intel- 
 lectual humiliation. This cannot be said for 
 some of the other inhabitants of Blowfield, 
 the staple industry of which small village 
 consists in groom-gardening for lieutenant- 
 colonels. 
 
 Mr. Pranklyn has noticed many things. He 
 has noticed meteors and wood-mice and 
 motor-cars, and he has observed the habits 
 
 of Saturday afternoon photographers. He 
 
 28
 
 The Squire 29 
 
 has also examined a number of other phe- 
 nomena, including . But, well, some 
 
 other time, perhaps ! What I want to put 
 on record here is the fact that he has observed, 
 amongst other things, his Betters. He had 
 done this thing respectfully, of course, without 
 impatience or emphasis, and with the reserva- 
 tions which become his humble mind and 
 station. But still he has looked at the 
 " gentry " : he has noticed them. 
 
 This, when you think how thickly Mr. 
 Pranklyn' s path is strewn with gentry, is a 
 remarkable circumstance : more remarkable, 
 perhaps, than if you and I should take 
 suddenly to noticing telegraph-posts. 
 
 When, therefore, Mr. Pranklyn began to 
 offer me the fruits of his observation, I 
 listened carefully. Mr. Pranklyn said : 
 
 'Tis a funny thing about the gentry, 
 nowadays. That seem as if they was more 
 simple, somehow, compared to what they be 
 in my young days. There's our Squire : He 
 say to me this mornin' , he say : ' I see you 
 areunt fixed up that trespass notice yet then, 
 Pranklyn ? ' So I say to him, I say, ' Why, 
 to be sure I are, then. 'Tis over yander,' 
 I say, ' among they ellums. I fixed it to the 
 she-ellum a-purptfse,' I say, ' for the gaffer
 
 30 Moby Lane 
 
 he don' t look none too 'ealthy, an' 'twould be a 
 pity/ I say, ' but what the oold board should 
 stop up now 'e be up.' 
 
 ' The Squire, he hike out his jingleums and 
 light a cigar. ' Show me a ellum,' he say. 
 
 " That surprise me, for a person would 
 think as any gentleman (Sussex gentleman, 
 leastways) might know a ellum without he be 
 shown one. Such a well-growed pair as that 
 be, too. Anyways, I give him a pointer with 
 my swab-hook. ' That' say the Squire, 
 puttin' in his glass eye, so's to git a close view 
 o' they droopin' ash what stand top-side o' 
 the medder, ' That ? Why, surely to good- 
 ness, that be a weepin' wilier ? ' 
 
 " That seem a queer set-out to me," mused 
 Mr. Pranklyn. " When I wor a lad, the 
 gentry seemed to be more larned nor what 
 they be to-day. And yet they tal me as our 
 Squire have got the name for bein' quicker at 
 figgers nor any man in this parish. Our late 
 Squire, he be all for timber and damn ye' re 
 mathematics. He couldn't keep the sheriff 
 out, for all that. 
 
 " There's another thing as puzzle me about 
 the gentry, these times," continued Mr. 
 Pranklyn. " 'Tis so queer the way they snip 
 the land about. Our Squire, he have kept
 
 The Squire 31 
 
 his lot together pretty decent ; but most of 
 the other gentlemen, they seem as if the land 
 about ain't naarthun to 'em. Live in villas, 
 most on 'em do. They keeps a platt, or 
 two, per'aps, and a bit o' wood just two 
 or three 'underd acre ; enough to doddle 
 round, cool marnin's. But they don't none 
 of 'em seem to go in for land, if you unner- 
 stand my meanin', sir. There's none of 
 'em got enough land to keep a gentleman 
 busy, no sense. Ju^t two or three 'underd 
 acre, and a pheasant yere and a rabbut theer. 
 'Tis no wonder as they goos abroad. This 
 villa life that be too close an' stuffy for J em. 
 A gentleman want enough land to kip him 
 occupied ; a farm or two, and some water and 
 a bit o' rough not a shrub ' ere and a rabbut 
 there." 
 
 All this reminded me of something. I 
 therefore said to Mr. Frankly n : 
 
 " Talking of gentlefolk, who was that little, 
 round magnate whom I met in the Tenter- 
 mead ? A curly-headed magnate, with flat 
 feet ? " 
 
 " Magnate ? " repeated Mr. Pranklyn. 
 " What sort o' thing be that, sir ? " 
 
 " A sort of gentleman," I replied. " A 
 rather excessive sort of gentleman. A Swell."
 
 32 Moby Lane 
 
 Mr. Pranklyn nodded slowly to indicate 
 that he had grasped the definition. He said, 
 with a slight stiffening of his manner, as if 
 he suspected me of an intention to cross 
 the boundary which separates Enquiry from 
 Disrespect : 
 
 ' We areunt got no gentry hereabouts as 
 would answer to that picture, sir. At least, 
 I hopes not, sir. Our Squire, to be sure, he 
 do show a trifle short and broad in the bar'l, 
 the same as be the fashion these times among 
 the gentry ; but but you couldn't mean 
 our Squire, sir ! " 
 
 " What is the name of your Squire ? " I 
 inquired. 
 
 " Name ? Why, Squire Kosky, to be sure," 
 answered Mr. Pranklyn. 
 
 " Kosky," I reflected. 
 
 " They do say, sir," remarked Mr. Pranklyn, 
 with a note of pride in his voice, " as Squire 
 Kosky be the head o' the Corn Exchange in 
 London. They say as he buy more corn in a 
 week nor what all Sussex could grow in a year. 
 A wonderful moneyed gentleman he be, sir. 
 ' Tis said he pay a hundred and fifty thousand 
 pound for the Hall here." 
 
 " The man I saw, Mr. Pranklyn, had a 
 green, greasy face, a pot-belly, curly hair, an
 
 The Squire 33 
 
 under-hung jaw, hand like a bunch of ripe 
 bananas, a pink waistcoat, and " 
 
 u I don't know naarthun about what you 
 see in the Tenter-mead," said Mr. Pranklyn, 
 quietly, picking up his swab-hook. 
 
 He turned his back on me, and fell to 
 trimming hornbeam shoots. Presently, with- 
 out turning round, he said, in the same 
 quiet voice : "I can't let no one speak ill o* 
 moi master." 
 
 I asked Mr. Pranklyn to forgive me, and he 
 forgave me, and I called the dog, and we 
 walked away. 
 
 As I walked up the hill, stopping occasion- 
 ally to look over my shoulder at Mr. Pranklyn' s 
 patient back, the fear began to grow in me 
 that I had done Squire Kosky an injustice. 
 I decided that he Mr. Kosky was probably 
 quite unrelated to the awful little man from 
 Hatton Garden whom I had seen, and whom 
 I had suspected of feudal inclinations. 
 
 It did not seem possible that that flabby 
 arm, those brown bananas, could hold a thing 
 so strong and vital as the loyalty of Amos 
 Pranklyn. Thus I thought, until. ... I 
 came to the hill-top, and there it was again 
 . . . pink waistcoat and all. 
 
 It was leaning against a stile, receiving the 
 
 c
 
 34 
 
 obeisance and the salutes of a tall young 
 Englishman, who spoke these words : 
 
 " No, Squire, beggin' yere pardon, Squire : 
 that beant oats nor that beant rye as be 
 growin' in the field there. ' Tis barley, Squire." 
 
 So that, after all, I had done no man 
 injustice. This person was Squire Kosky 
 " Head" of the Corn Exchange in London. 
 
 He put his bananas together and rubbed 
 them, looking at the growing barley with a 
 bland, accomplished smile.
 
 V 
 THE OLD BROWN LADY 
 
 AN old brown lady, wearing an old brown hat, 
 and having three sacks upon her body and 
 three chins upon her face, came to my cottage 
 door this morning, and sang the song which 
 follows : 
 
 He swore that he would love me, 
 
 He swore he would be true : 
 
 He made his vow by the hawthorn bough t 
 
 He swore by the sky so blue. 
 
 But he boarded a ship and gave me the slip, 
 
 And I am left to rue ! 
 
 O, all you rich ladies, 
 
 And you unmarried maidens, 
 
 And you damsels and courtiers, 
 
 And you innocent daughtiers, 
 
 And you bold and headstrong wenches likewise too : 
 
 Come give me your pity, 
 And list to my ditty, 
 For I am left to rue I 
 
 He swore by all the stars above j 
 He swore in accents wild, 
 His eye was grey, his coat was gay, 
 My fond heart was beguiled. 
 
 And now my need is sad, indeed 
 
 For, lo ! I am with child. 
 
 35
 
 36 Moby Lane 
 
 O, all you rich ladies, 
 
 And you unmarried maidens, 
 
 And you damsels and courtiers, 
 
 And you innocent daughtiers, 
 
 And you young and headstrong wenches, bold or mild : 
 
 Come list to my ditty, 
 And give me your pity, 
 Alas ! I am with child. 
 
 The old brown lady sang these words with 
 great distinctness, in a penetrative voice. 
 It was a wet day, and she was an old lady 
 ever so old a lady. And she sang her song 
 with such great distinctness that one had to 
 take notice of it, and well, considering one 
 thing with another, her situation seemed 
 sufficiently serious to warrant an act of 
 charity. So I sent her out some cocoa. 
 
 Cocoa, I believe, is a beverage which clergy- 
 men and ladies value highly. It is a beverage 
 possessing sound eleemosynary traditions. 
 There is always cocoa in my house, and, 
 thank God, I can always spare it. I bestowed 
 at least a quart of it upon the old brown 
 lady. 
 
 But the old brown lady despised my cocoa. 
 At least, I suppose that she despised it, 
 though she did not verbally declare that 
 sentiment. What she did do was to come to 
 my door, which I had partly opened in order
 
 The Old Brown Lady 37 
 
 to witness my benefactions, and push the 
 jug of cocoa through the crack, saying firmly, 
 but without anger : 
 
 "No you don't" 
 
 I therefore opened the crack a little wider 
 and discovered myself. ' ' Why, how is this ? ' ' 
 I demanded, a little sternly, removing the 
 banished beaker, which the brown lady had 
 placed in a direct draught. " Why do you 
 reject my cocoa, and in this terse manner ? 
 What is the matter with the cocoa ? I'm 
 sure that is, I'm told that it is very good 
 
 cocoa." 
 
 ' Very likely, my son," said the old brown 
 lady. " But it's cocoa." 
 
 " Of course. Well . . . ? " 
 
 " I'm not a Vegetarian, that's all, Sport," 
 replied the old brown lady. " A little old- 
 fashioned drop o* whisky is good enough for 
 me." 
 
 Her wistful song was still ringing in my ears. 
 She looked like a woman who needed whisky, 
 who had been too long deprived of whisky. 
 So I said to her : 
 
 " Well, mother, seeing that it is such a 
 wet day, and that ah and that . . . Well, 
 seeing what a wet day it is, I will give you 
 some whisky."-
 
 38 Moby Lane 
 
 ' Thanks, Sport," said the old brown lady. 
 
 She stood on the doorstep and sipped it, 
 with gloating, miserly sips. And she peered 
 at me through the crack of the door. And 
 offered me a smile a smile so broad, so 
 roystering, so urgent, that I had to open 
 the door to admit it. 
 
 " You got a nice little 'ome 'ere," remarked 
 the old brown lady, regarding my modest 
 dwelling-room with an appreciative and 
 appraising eye. " Books, baccer-jar, candle- 
 stick, 'ats Oh! a nice little 'ome. I s'pose 
 ya don't 'appin to be in want of a 'ouse- 
 keeper ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course," I said. (I feel, like 
 everybody else, that a capable, middle-aged 
 housekeeper is the only possible solution.) 
 " Have you anybody in mind ? " 
 
 " Certingly," replied the old brown lady. 
 " Meself." 
 
 I stood and thought. The old brown lady 
 was not at all the sort of housekeeper for 
 whom I was seeking, but I did not like to tell 
 her so. How could I look her in the eye, 
 standing there on my own doorstep, and say : 
 " You have too many chins and your sacks 
 smell ? " 
 
 I temporised.
 
 The Old Brown Lady 39 
 
 " Have you any qualifications ? " I said. 
 
 The old brown lady shook her head em- 
 phatically. " None whatever, thank God ! " 
 she replied. " Me 'usbin's dead an' me only 
 child's a soldier, out in India." 
 
 " But . . . " I began, and, checking myself, 
 relinquished that particular line of thought. 
 ' You seem to have misunderstood my ques- 
 tion," I continued. " What I wanted to know 
 was whether you have any knowledge and 
 experience of the housekeeping business ? " 
 
 " Certingly I 'ave," replied the old brown 
 lady. 
 
 " Can you cook ? " I said. 
 
 " Certingly I can." 
 
 ' What can you cook ? " 
 
 " Well, I kin fry potaters," said the old 
 brown lady. 
 
 1 What else can you cook ? " I demanded. 
 
 " Bacon," answered the old brown lady. 
 " I kin fry bacon." 
 
 " Fish at all in your line ? " 
 
 " Y e s," rejoined the old brown lady, 
 with a thoughtful air, " I kin fry a kipper." 
 
 I then made perquisition into her more 
 general accomplishments. I asked if she 
 could sew. 
 
 " Certingly I kin sew," she proclaimed, with
 
 4o Moby Lane 
 
 a toss of the chins, " I sewed these sacks 
 together." 
 
 " And you understand all the other branches 
 of household management ? Laundry, for 
 instance ? " 
 
 " Well," replied the old brown lady, " I 
 worked for two years at a carpet cleaners. 
 (Me glass is empty.) " 
 
 I relieved her of the glass. " Any other 
 domestic accomplishments ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Well," said the old brown lady, " I kin cut 
 out paper roses. I'm a bit of a box-finisher. 
 I kin shell walnuts and so on." 
 
 " In short," I suggested, " you are quali- 
 fied to take complete charge of a small 
 house ? " 
 
 " Well, I ougkter be ! " exclaimed the old 
 brown lady. I've managed a marine store. 
 Where's my glass got to ? " 
 
 That vessel had got to the table. I re- 
 mitted it to the old brown lady, having first 
 carried it to the dresser. 
 
 I regret to say that shortly after receiving 
 back her glass the old brown lady became a 
 little boisterous. Her chins began to jiggle. 
 They seemed to multiply. She began to utter 
 compliments. She proposed toasts. 
 
 ." Sport," she said, " I like yar ways. Here's
 
 The Old Brown Lady 41 
 
 wishin' you good fortune. "Til come back 
 here and be yar housekeeper. I will, straight. 
 We'll get on well together, me an' you. I'll 
 sing my songs to you. I knows a lot o' songs 
 old songs, new songs, comics all kinds. I'll 
 sing all day. Ya' 11 think ya got a gramaphone 
 about the 'ouse. I'll pick out jigs for ya. 
 I'll learn ye to play the ocherina." 
 
 " And will you, sometimes, wash the dishes, 
 and make tea ? " I inquired. 
 
 "That will I. Certainly I will," replied 
 the old brown lady. " We'll 'ave srimps for 
 tea." 
 
 " Oh yes," she continued, "I'll certingly be 
 yar housekeeper. I'll come back in the latter 
 time of the year. I woulden leave ya at all, 
 on'y they're expectin' me in Kent. I ought 
 to be 'oppin' now." 
 
 " Oh, surely you can stay a little longer ? " 
 I urged, genteelly. 
 
 'You've mistook my meanin', Sport," 
 replied the old brown lady. " It ain't a 
 'op o' the foot I'm speakin' of. I'm speakin' 
 of a 'op on a pole. 'Op, the vegetable ; 
 malting 'ops. You know, Sport BEER ! " 
 
 " So you're going hopping," I said. " Let 
 me wish you fine weather and a pleasant 
 holiday."-
 
 42 Moby Lane 
 
 "'Oliday! 'Oppin' !" ejaculated the old 
 brown lady. " Ya're jokin', ain't ya, Sport ? 
 (This glass could do with another rinsin'.) 
 There's no 'oliday attached to 'oppin' ; on'y 
 'ard work an' wet feet. Time I was younger, 
 I thought different. I thought the same as 
 what you do. I thought it was a sort o' 
 pin-nic, this here 'oppin'. I thought they 
 growed their ' ops on bushes, same as cherries 
 or bananas. I thought ya walked among the 
 bushes pickin' a 'op 'ere an' a 'op there. 
 An' then ya drew y ar money, an' then ya ' ad 
 yar tea. But that was a dream, that was, 
 Sport, the same as all the other notions what 
 ya has when you are young. It's a 'airy, 
 self-willed, ugly vegetable, is a 'op. It climbs 
 up a pole an' ya gotter pull it off. Ya gotter 
 pull all day. Ya gotter pull 'ard an' steady. 
 Ya gotter make a workin' job of it. There's 
 nothink in it, Sport on'y the pay. Ya 
 woulden ketch me 'oppin' if it wasen for the 
 pay." 
 
 " Let's hope you'll earn a lot of pay, then," 
 I proposed. 
 
 " Oh, I'll earn the pay all right, laddie, and 
 spend it," replied the old brown lady. " See 
 I'm 'oldin' out me glass. It's a nice little 
 ome," she added, irrelevantly.
 
 43 
 
 I didn't fill the glass again. But I gave 
 her some smoked salmon and a little money. 
 And the old brown lady wagged her chins 
 and walked away with difficulty saying 
 
 " Good-bye, Sport. Good-bye, little 'ome."
 
 VI 
 THE BED O' PATTIKEWS 
 
 GIDEON HEMUS used to live in Sloe Cottage, 
 which stands at Sly Corner, near the cross- 
 roads, behind the blacksmith's, not far from 
 Blowfield, in Sussex. 
 
 He is a hedger and woodman by craft. 
 When I first knew him he worked for Mr. 
 Isadore Kosky, our squire, who lives in the 
 big Tudor house on the hill : a glorious old 
 place, endeared to Mr. Kosky by fifty thousand 
 ties of gold. 
 
 Mr. Hemus, who began life as a farm lad in 
 the employment of Squire Kosky 's pre- 
 decessor, and who is not a psychologist, 
 often muses with simple wonder upon the 
 altered habits which distinguish the new order 
 of squire from the old. 
 
 Of course, he knows what is due to a squire, 
 new or old. Gideon Hemus is no leveller. 
 He knows his place. His place is not to 
 inquire about things, but to accept and 
 
 44
 
 The Bed o> Pattikews 45 
 
 respect things. A squire is a squire. You 
 salute him with the first two fingers of your 
 right hand. You leave it at that. To do 
 more is to presume. Meteorological comment 
 of a respectful character may be offered to 
 vicars and the lesser gentry, but curly- 
 headed men like Squire Kosky, having once 
 paid down their purchase money, get two 
 fingers and the silent homage of unutterable 
 humility. Still, even the humble can think 
 about things. Gideon thinks about them. 
 He said to me, once : 
 
 " The gentry nowadays that seem as if 
 they was more short in the bar'l nor what 
 they used to be. And shorter in the wind. 
 'Tis all this larnin', I spoose." 
 
 I first became intimate with Mr. Hemus in 
 connection with certain mercenary trans- 
 actions. I had been conducting barter with 
 Ellen Mary Hemus, Gideon's wife, in the 
 matter of Campine cockerels. When Mrs. 
 Hemus came out with the change to their 
 cottage gate, she uttered the following strange 
 speech : 
 
 " Hemus send his respects, sir, and will you 
 please to walk inside. If it isn't taking a 
 liberty, he would like you to look at his 
 pattikeWs."
 
 46 Moby Lane 
 
 " But I am not a doctor/' objected your 
 servant. 
 
 Mrs. Hemus regarded me with an expression 
 of surprise. 
 
 " Cert'nly not, sir," she answered. " You 
 be a gentleman. We know that." 
 
 " Isn't it a disease, then ? " 
 
 " Sir ? " queried Mrs. Hemus. 
 
 " This ah patticuse. It has a patho- 
 logical sound." 
 
 " Cert'nly not, sir," replied Mrs. Hemus, 
 with spirit. " I woon't hear of such a thing, 
 that I woon't. Anybody's welcome to come 
 into my house, that they be, and look for 
 theirself." 
 
 I made apologetic noises. Mrs. Hemus 
 reciprocated. She opened the gate, and I 
 followed her into their little front garden. 
 Mr. Hemus, extruding his head from an attic 
 window, proclaimed that he was mending 
 his trousers, but that in half a minute he 
 would have completed that act of decency and 
 could then join me. He requested me to be 
 so good as to wait. I accordingly waited : 
 and Boreas did blow. 
 
 \Vhen Mr. Hemus eventually descended 
 the process of rehabilitation had occupied 
 much more than half a minute a suspicion
 
 The Bed o Pattikews 47 
 
 which had been gradually forming in my 
 mind was confirmed. The pattacuse or 
 pattikews, as I soon learned, under Mr. 
 Hemus's direction, to call them belonged to 
 the race of vegetables. A horticultural work 
 of reference, which I have since consulted, in- 
 sists upon calling them hepatica. It says that 
 this is a well-known name applied to a section 
 of the anemone family, Ord. Ranunculaceae. 
 
 The pattikews, when I first beheld them, 
 xvere clothed in their mid-winter deshabille. 
 Mr. Hemus pointed to a vast bed of low- 
 growing foliage, which occupied the best part 
 of his front garden. A novice, such as I was, 
 might have mistaken the plants for ground 
 ivy, as I did ground ivy which had suc- 
 cumbed to an attack of jaundice. Mr. Hemus 
 stroking the leaves with his gritty blue 
 fingers, invited me to do homage to them. I 
 wondered (having at that moment no oppor- 
 tunity of consulting a horticultural work of 
 reference) whether they constituted a salad. 
 
 " Did ever you see such pattikews as they 
 be ? " demanded Mr. Hemus. 
 
 I admitted that I never did. 
 
 " He have grown them," said the voice of 
 Mrs. Hemus, in tones of soft affection, 
 " according to a patent of his own. They
 
 48 Moby Lane 
 
 areun't been allowed to flower this three 
 yeer past, that they areun't. Gold Amos 
 Frankly n, the hedger him over at Frank- 
 lands "he rackon to grow pattikew. But " 
 
 Mrs. Hemus finished her sentence with a 
 derisive laugh. 
 
 " Amos," stated Gideon, " will find out 
 what a pattikew really look like, come 
 Easter. J Tis no manner o' use to leave 'em 
 bloom, not until the roots be got a-holt. So 
 I are tal oold Amos ; but th' oold beggar, he 
 be that stubborn, he don't never listen to 
 what anybody tal him. A pattikew that 
 want two year, it do, to get a proper holt 
 with its root. And even then, if a person 
 rackon for to grow blooms as be blooms, he 
 got to nip off the buds in the third year. 
 Well, we'll see about it at Easter time. Oold 
 Amos' 11 find out what a pattikew really look 
 like, come Easter, shouldn't wonder." 
 
 " You see, sir," explained Mrs. Hemus, 
 " he have growed them according to a patent 
 of his own." 
 
 II 
 
 When I next heard of the pattikews, I 
 heard a tragic thing. They had been trodden 
 on. The treading was performed by a stag,
 
 The Bed o Pattikews 49 
 
 three boys, a dozen men, half a dozen horses, 
 and eight couple of hounds. 
 
 It seems that the staghounds had been 
 invited by Squire Kosky to breakfast and 
 other hospitalities, including the right of 
 entry to Mr. Hemus's garden. Squire Kosky 
 himself does not hunt stags, that pursuit being 
 an active, very noisy and slightly dangerous 
 one. But he does eat breakfast, and well he 
 can afford to do so, being the Head and 
 Brain of Kosky and Leverson, the Imperial 
 mathematicians. 
 
 They brought the stag in a sort of window- 
 less hearse, and, after they had breakfasted 
 with Kosky, they opened the hearse and the 
 stag jumped out and ran away. 
 
 After the stag (which, by the way, was a 
 hind) had been allowed to run for a certain 
 number of minutes, as recorded by the watch 
 of a stout gentleman on a stout horse, who, at 
 stated intervals, uttered the words : " Hounds, 
 ladies and gentlemen, please ! " they all ran 
 after it and found it, after a brief search, in 
 Gideon Hemus's garden, where it and the 
 hounds and the horsemen and a detachment 
 of peasantry and several highly illuminated 
 servants with whips did not do much good to 
 the bed of pattikews.
 
 50 Moby Lane 
 
 I found, on offering my condolences to 
 Gideon, that that husbandman treated the 
 matter with admirable philosophy. 
 
 " 'Tis a pity in one way," he confessed, 
 " for they was fit to bloom, come another 
 fortnight. But 'tis of no consequence in the 
 main ; for I can easy nip their buds off, to 
 set them back again, and mulch 'em. The 
 blooms' 11 be something to look at next year. 
 You can' t keep a pattikew back too long. The 
 secret of growin' pattikew, that be to let their 
 roots get a firm holt of the soil. I shouldn't 
 wonder but what oold Amos Pranklyn find 
 out what a pattikew look like, come the 
 Easter arter next." 
 
 Mrs. Hemus exhibited less calm. 
 1 They and their clumsy dargs ! " she 
 exclaimed. " Passel o' noisy gooks, stompin' 
 all over the place with their tally ho and what 
 not ! And all because I give the pratty tame 
 creature a drink o' water out o' my wash- 
 bowl, poor dearr ! " 
 
 III 
 
 The " Easter arter next " came round in 
 due course, but I regret to say that Gideon 
 Hemus' s pattikews bore no blossom.
 
 The Bed d Pattikews 51 
 
 You see, it was this way. Squire Kosky 
 owns a cook, a husky German, whom he calls 
 his " chef'' The cook wanted to get married 
 the cook insisted on getting married. It 
 therefore became necessary for Squire Kosky 
 to provide the cook with nuptial accommoda- 
 tion. Gideon's cottage, in which Gideon had 
 lived since boyhood, and in which Gideon's 
 father and grandfather had lived, accordingly 
 presented itself to the imagination of Squire 
 Kosky as constituting an agreeable and 
 conveniently situated enclosure for the cook. 
 
 A home was found for Gideon in a place 
 called quite simply " The Hole." This place 
 in bygone years, had been the scene of 
 excavations for chalk or clay. A cavity had 
 thus been formed, and in later, but still 
 sufficiently distant years, an edifice had been 
 constructed within the shelter of this cavity. 
 Here, certain beasts and waggons had been 
 housed. These the Squire caused to be 
 accommodated with some galvanised iron ; 
 and, by the addition of plaster, Norwegian 
 windows, a chimney, a cess-pool, a copper, 
 and a sink, the old byre was converted into a 
 roomy, unconventional habitation for Gideon. 
 
 Gideon received a week's notice to vacate 
 Sloe Cottage, besides receiving a day's holiday
 
 52 Moby Lane 
 
 and five shillings, on which and with which 
 to perform the operation of " moving." 
 
 IV 
 
 He moved by instalments. I watched him 
 in the smoky autumn twilight as he staggered 
 past my window, backwards and forwards, 
 carrying chairs and blankets and portions of 
 mangle. Once, he carried a sixteenth -century 
 Bible-box, filled with nails and rat poison. 
 This I know, because I helped him to climb 
 over the stile at Goddard's Piece. He did it 
 clumsily, and the box, which was lashed to his 
 back, became entangled with an elm branch 
 and its iron hasp came off and the lid came 
 open and a shower of nails and rat poison 
 descended upon my head. It struck me then 
 how old and stupid Gideon was. 
 
 After climbing the stile at Goddard's Piece, 
 he had to cross three meadows, which, at that 
 season of the year, offered rather a weak 
 resistance to the foot. All through that week, 
 Gideon's boots seemed to grow bigger and 
 bigger, so that his later pilgrimages pre- 
 sented quite a comic spectacle. Gideon is a 
 blue-faced, wrinkled man, on the short side, 
 and if you can imagine that sort of person
 
 The Bed o> Pattikeivs 53 
 
 jerking along with a table on his shoulders and 
 a clay pudding on each foot, you can imagine 
 how utterly ridiculous this one looked. But, 
 then, of course, I can't help thinking that 
 the mere act of being a Gideon is in itself 
 a ridiculous thing. There is no "style" 
 about these labourers. 
 
 There was an especial absence of style about 
 Gideon. After a time, his shoulders, too, 
 supported clay. He began to crawl by with 
 great trug-baskets full of earth in which were 
 imbedded certain jaundiced plants having a 
 sort of resemblance to the ivy. 
 
 Mr. Hemus's habit of indifference to ex- 
 ternal events rather failed him at this time. 
 
 " The missus," he explained, " don't seem 
 to care much for this moving. That seem as 
 if the house in ' The Hole' don't please her. 
 She say that it smell of rats. I believe that 
 the pore oold gel'll take to hedge-mopin' . 
 That'd be pity if she was drove to hedge- 
 mopin' all along of a foreign-born allitera- 
 tion same as that Steinkop be. 'Tis a pity 
 when anybody take to hedge-mopin', at 
 sixty-three. There bean' t no cure for hedge- 
 mopin'. Once a hedge-moper, always a 
 hedge-moper. Anybody what has rared 
 cattle can tell vou that,"
 
 54 Moby Lane 
 
 " What is your feeling about this this 
 change of residence ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Me ? " said Mr. Hemus. " Oh, that don't 
 trouble me naarthun. What's the odds about 
 it, any rood ? 'Tis naarthun where you live. 
 When I be a lad, me and one or two of us 
 we 'listed into the milishy, and when we went 
 to do our exercisin' they put us to sleep in a 
 cow-house. 'Tis naarthun wheer you sleep. 
 I was eighteen then. 'Tis naarthun where 
 you sleep." 
 
 Mr. Hemus took out his pocket-knife and 
 carefully removed a piece of clay which he 
 had deposited upon the top bar of the stile 
 which leads to Goddard's Piece. 
 
 '"Tis naarthun to me," he repeated, after 
 shutting his knife. "'Tis the missus don't 
 like it. Th' oold gal areun't never been broke 
 in to a cow-house." 
 
 I then asked him who had been barking 
 the fruit trees at Sloe Cottage. He re-opened 
 his clasp-knife and jabbed again at the stile. 
 
 " Have they been spoilin' they fruit trees, 
 then ? " he asked, with averted eyes. " They 
 fruit trees was planted be moi oold father.
 
 The Bed 'o Pattikews 55 
 
 'Tis a pity if anybody are damaged them. 
 The boys and young lads, they be ser saucy 
 and mischievous nowadays. Moi father, he 
 planted they trees all exceptin' the quince 
 tree, and that weer put in be moi gran' father. 
 'Tis a pity if anybody are damaged them. 
 Hey ? Well, I'll be gettin' on." He lifted 
 the basket of clay and leaves to his shoulder. 
 
 " These," he said, with a sideways jerk of 
 his head, " 'ull 'ave to put up with it, same as 
 me, I spoose. Their roots' 11 have time to get 
 a holt before the spring come, I shouldn't 
 wonder. They'll 'ave to go through with it 
 now, whather or no. Gold Amos Vll git 
 the laugh of me, if I don't show a bloom next 
 spring." 
 
 But there was a further delay in the pro- 
 duction of those remarkable flowers. On a 
 night in January, there came one to my 
 cottage who asked for a ladder. He said 
 that the house in " The Hole " was burning, 
 and that Gideon wanted to rescue his potatoes 
 from the loft. 
 
 I returned with this man to the house in 
 ' The Hole," which, I found, was burning 
 well and brightly. Squire Kosky, with whom 
 were the Misses Kosky, wearing theatre 
 wraps, was present, and directed the salvage
 
 56 Moby Lane 
 
 operations with much spirit and gesticulation. 
 No fire engine had arrived, because the fire 
 engine has yet to be invented which Gideon 
 can carry on his shoulders. 
 
 It was a notable conflagration. Much of 
 Gideon's furniture was destroyed by it, in- 
 cluding the Bible-box ; but they saved his 
 potatoes, and Mrs. Gideon's mangle and her 
 stuffed owl. My memory of the scene, as a 
 whole, is confused, but I remember that Mrs. 
 Gideon was the object of devoted attentions 
 from a group of feminine convives, who 
 offered her vinegar and ale. And I remember 
 that Mrs. Gideon wept continuously. I re- 
 member also that the youthful population 
 of the parish was very numerously represented 
 and that its proceedings were the object of 
 constabulary attention. I likewise remember 
 that hoarse-voiced men kept telling other 
 hoarse-voiced men to " look out," because the 
 roof was certain to fall in, which it ultimately 
 did, among a cascade of sparks, but with a 
 singular avoidance of noise or fuss. 
 
 That which I chiefly remember, however, 
 is the peculiar conduct of Gideon Hemus. 
 
 When I first arrived at the scene of this 
 illumination, Gideon was not visible. Other 
 members of the audience told me that he
 
 The Bed tf Pattikews 57 
 
 had retired to a distant knoll, with a basket 
 containing dirt and roots. I looked for this 
 knoll and found it, just as the roof fell in. 
 
 Gideon sat among his baskets, nursing a 
 spade. He had lighted a pipe and was 
 smoking it, thoughtfully, as he gazed at the 
 spluttering ruins of the house in " The Hole." 
 
 During the whole period of his vigil, he 
 only uttered one speech : 
 
 " That's well alight," he said. " Burning 
 strong. Hey ? " 
 
 Mr. Kosky objected to this behaviour. He 
 said, and caused it to be known that he had 
 said, that it was extraordinarily suspicious 
 behaviour. He said, and caused it to be 
 known that he had said, that Gideon's conduct 
 might have to form the subject of inquiry. 
 In the meantime, he commanded the Hemuses 
 to inhabit a newly-erected cottage on the top 
 of Abbot's Hill. 
 
 Here the wind is an important horticul- 
 tural factor, and here the pattikews throve 
 amazingly. 
 
 VI 
 
 They were planted by Gideon in straight, 
 bleak rows. The garden which they adorned 
 was itself a singularly bleak and expressionless
 
 58 Moby Lane 
 
 garden. It consisted of pure subsoil, enjoy- 
 ing what is called an open situation. But the 
 pattikews like it. 
 
 Gideon planted them in January. By the 
 middle of March, they were in bloom. Not 
 having ever seen a pattikew, and being curious 
 to inspect the favourite flower of Mr. Hemus, I 
 ascended that breezy height and looked at 
 them. 
 
 I thought that they were interesting flowers ; 
 but a friend who was with me, and who is a 
 Poet, used stronger language. " That isn't 
 flowers," he said. " It's a piece of the sky 
 which has fallen down." 
 
 He began to talk deliriously. Without 
 pretending to countenance his unmanly 
 emotion, I admitted that the flowers were 
 nice. I even admitted that Gideon was per- 
 haps right : that all this goodness was worth 
 the trouble which he had been at to get it. 
 I then opened the little gate which led to the 
 garden. 
 
 " What are you doing ? " demanded my 
 friend. 
 
 " I am offering thanks," I replied, " to the 
 man who grew these flowers." With that, I 
 snatched a nosegay from the bed of pattikews. 
 
 We then walked to a house five miles away,
 
 The Bed o' Pattikews 59 
 
 at Cuckfield. In this house we found Gideon, 
 who stated that he had left the house on 
 Abbott's Hill, and was going to remain for the 
 rest of his life at Cuckfield. His new and 
 final habitation was called " The Cuckfield 
 Workhouse." 
 
 I gave him the nosegay of pattikews, which 
 he was very glad to receive. He said : 
 
 " Be they moi pattikews ? They ha' took 
 a-holt, then, arter all." 1
 
 VII 
 THE MERRY WAIT 
 
 " WAITS ! " exclaimed my pretty cousin 
 Charlotte. 
 
 " Nonsense/' I answered ; " that's the 
 kettle wheezing." 
 
 " What an extraordinary kettle ! " re- 
 flected Charlotte. " Does it always wheeze 
 to the tune of ' Old Tom's Apple Tree' ? " 
 
 " Always," I replied. "It's a patent 
 kettle." 
 
 My cousin Charlotte, who was only lent 
 to me for an hour while her father searched 
 the darkling lanes for somebody with petrol 
 in his pocket, looked extremely effective 
 against the raddled bricks of my chimney 
 corner. She has that soot and amber colour- 
 ing which lights up so well ; and I had piled 
 on enough logs to light up twenty pretty 
 cousins. . . . " Old Tom's Apple Tree," I 
 continued, " is one of its favourite tunes." 
 I thought that if any old lie about a fourpenny 
 tea-kettle would please my cousin Charlotte 
 and reconcile her to my company in preference 
 
 60
 
 The Merry Wait 61 
 
 to that of a father with a defective petrol tank, 
 she was welcome to it. 
 
 " With variations ? " demanded cousin 
 Charlotte. 
 
 " With variations," I asserted. " It is 
 introducing these in your honour and my 
 Hat, what's that ? " 
 
 ' Those are the variations, I suppose," 
 replied my cousin Charlotte. " They sound 
 like a dentist's little grindstone, don't they ? " 
 
 They did. 
 
 " Do you still pretend it's the kettle ? " 
 
 I didn't : I couldn't. It would have been 
 sheer folly to pretend that any kettle, even a 
 patent one, could juggle with sound like that. 
 " It must be the Waits," I confessed. 
 " Listen." 
 
 We listened. It whatever it was grew 
 suddenly shriller and more imminent ; it 
 seemed to be piping through the key-hole, 
 ma a hollow tooth. "It is the Waits!" 
 we cried, and it was the Waits, and this is 
 what they sang : 
 
 Now, arl yew good people 
 
 What yerein doth dwell, 
 
 Come gather around 
 
 And my story I'll tell, 
 
 And wish you the joys of the season.
 
 62 Moby Lane 
 
 Yere's a 'ealth to King George, O 
 
 And likewise his Queen, 
 
 Also the Royal Little Ones 
 
 Where e'er they are seen, 
 
 And I'm sure as I means no treason. 
 
 Long Life to you, Success to me, 
 And may our Hearts be full of Glee, 
 This Merry, Merry Ker-ist-mus ! 
 
 The music ceased quite suddenly, but I felt 
 instinctively that this was artifice a feint. 
 My cousin Charlotte looked at me with 
 glistening eyes. 
 
 " Aren't they dears ? Aren't they quaint ? 
 she demanded. " I do hope they'll go on." 
 
 " They'll go on all right," I assured her. 
 " Listen ; they are blowing through the key- 
 hole now. That's to clear it. There you 
 are ! " 
 
 Poor Lazarus he sot down 
 
 At Dives 'is door ; 
 
 His limbs they was weary, 
 
 His feet they was sore, 
 
 And he begged for a mossel o' bread. 
 
 But Dives was stubborn : 
 
 He woon't gin 'im none, 
 
 Poor Lazarus fainted 
 
 His strength was all gone, 
 
 And when they come out, he was dead 1 
 
 Long Life to you, Success to me, 
 And may our Hearts be full of Glee, 
 This Merry, Merry Ker-ist-mus !
 
 The Merry Wait 63 
 
 I took advantage of the temporary Cease- 
 fire which ensued to ask my pretty cousin 
 Charlotte whether she had had enough of it. 
 
 "Enough!" echoed that lady. "Why, 
 we've hardly begun yet. They've got to 
 come inside now and be entertained. You've 
 got to give them plum-pudding and beer and 
 hot wassail." 
 
 ' That's awkward/' I replied, " because 
 my wassail's all on ice. However, if you 
 command . . . ! " I went to the Hall Door 
 (which happens to be conveniently situated in 
 my Breakfast Room and Parlour) and opened 
 it, calling softly to the Waits. Then ensued 
 a silence. 
 
 " Well ? " inquired my pretty cousin 
 Charlotte, 
 
 " There are no Waits," I answered, simply. 
 
 " Absurd ! " exclaimed my cousin Charlotte, 
 coming to the door. She peeped over no, 
 I won't own to that ; not at Christmas time 
 she peeped under my shoulder, and cried out, 
 in quite a vexed voice : " How aggravating ! 
 There really are no Waits." 
 
 " On'y me, miss," exclaimed a shrill voice, 
 suddenly. 
 
 My shoulder was of use in this emergency 
 to Cousin Charlotte. I am glad it was about
 
 64 Moby Lane 
 
 just then. " Did you hear that ? " ex- 
 claimed my cousin Charlotte, dramatically. 
 
 I confessed that I did ; also that I would 
 give much to know where it came from. 
 
 " So would I," said Cousin Charlotte. 
 
 " Unless what's that on the ground ? 
 
 That little, bright thing ? " 
 
 " Here, Hullo ! What's that on the ground ? " 
 I demanded, in my Bay of Biscay voice. 
 
 " On'y me, sir," replied the dentist's file. 
 
 I looked again. This time I, too, seemed 
 to perceive a small thing on the ground, a 
 glittering, multichromatic object. It looked 
 like a little flag. 
 
 " Who is ' me ' ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Brown, sir. Eustize Willum Brown, sir, 
 please, sir," replied the shrill voice. 
 
 " Then, Eustace William Brown, come in ! " 
 I commanded. And Eustace William Brown 
 came in. That is to say that the small bright 
 object advanced towards us, and, when it 
 reached the doorstep we saw that it was indeed 
 a flag, a small, gay paper flag, and that it was 
 attached to the cap of an extrenely minute 
 boy. He came right in, and we shut the door 
 behind him. 
 
 Eustize Willum Brown stood full in the 
 glare of the big log fire and blinked at us.
 
 The Merry Wait 65 
 
 His four feet four of stature was crowned 
 by an imperfect cap and by the solitary flag, 
 which was rather torn. He did not offer to 
 remove either the cap or the flag. He 
 evidently regarded them as emblematic of his 
 office and the season ; as a mark of his official 
 connection with Christmas and gaiety. 
 
 Master Brown possessed some peculiar 
 physical attributes. His eyes were small, 
 red-rimmed, and watery. He was bow-legged 
 and humpy. His face was emphasised by a 
 slight rash. He breathed in an unconven- 
 tional manner, holding in his breath for 
 several seconds in succession and then blowing 
 hard at everybody. This idiosyncracy ac- 
 counted for those elusive noises which we had 
 associated with the keyhole. Eustize stated 
 that he was fourteen years of age and that he 
 did this sort of thing for pleasure and gain, but 
 primarily for philharmonic reasons. He said : 
 
 " I knows a lot more, yit." 
 
 ' Then let's have some more," exclaimed 
 my pretty, impulsive cousin. We therefore 
 had this : 
 
 Oh, the Mizzel-toe, Mizzel-toe, 
 
 Mizzel-toe Bough : 
 
 It was cut from the tree, 
 
 As the story tells how, 
 
 And it hung in the banqueting court, 
 
 E
 
 66 Moby Lane 
 
 But the beautiful bride 
 
 Ran away that same night : 
 
 Nigh Twenty year later 
 
 Her corpse come to light 
 
 In a box where she'd 'idden for sport. 
 
 Long Life to you, Success to me. 
 And may our Hearts be full of Glee, 
 This Merry, Merry Ker-ist-mus 1 
 
 " That's simply splendid," asserted my 
 cousin Charlotte, when Eustize had subsided, 
 blowing hard. " Have you any more ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, miss," began Eustize. "I 
 
 But I would not be a party to this sweating 
 practice. I pointed out to cousin Charlotte 
 that Master Brown had walked at least two 
 miles from the scene of his last triumph in 
 order to accommodate us with his cheerful 
 society, and that the barest considerations 
 of hospitality prompted one to offer him food 
 and drink. " I will go into the kitchen and 
 fetch " 
 
 " Oi woon' 'ave no plum-pudding, thank 
 ye, sir, kindly, sir," said Eustize, hastily. 
 
 " Nor yet no mince-pies," he added. 
 
 " What would you like, then ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Serdeens, if you please, sir," answered 
 Master Brown. " Oi be partial to serdeens" 
 
 With a sardine in his mouth, and another
 
 The Merry Wait 67 
 
 on his fork, and two on a plate, Mr. Eustize 
 Willum Brown again addressed us. " Oi 
 may's well gi' ye the next bit while Oi be 
 eatin'," he said. 'That don't make no 
 difference to me, whether Oi be eatin' or no. 
 I got it all be 'eart." Under the united 
 stimulus of oil and zeal Master Brown then 
 began, in a voice which was at least a full 
 octave higher than his previous best : 
 
 Of young William Corder 
 
 I now wish to sing ; 
 
 Which tumble shame 
 
 On his parents did bring 
 
 Through killing his sweet- 'eart so ter-ew. 
 
 To the Red Barn he coaxed 'er : 
 
 Then levelled 'is gun, 
 
 Maria fell dead, 
 
 Saying : " What have you done ? 
 
 Rash villain, this night you will re-ew 1 " 
 
 Long Life to you, Success to me, 
 And may our Hearts be full of Glee 
 This Merry, Merry Ker-ist-mus ! 
 
 " Oi'll tal ye one thing, sir," added Master 
 Brown. " Oi never wish to taste no better 
 serdeens than these be, not if Oi live to ninety. 
 Oi made a study o' serdeens. This is moi 
 third box to-night." 
 
 " You've made a study of poetry and music, 
 too," remarked my pretty (though impulsive) 
 cousin,
 
 68 Moby Lane 
 
 Eustize nodded. The sardines precluded 
 speech. 
 
 " At the same time," I submitted, " if one 
 may venture to criticise, your studies have 
 been a little bit groovy. Variety is everything 
 in art. Give us something pathetic for a 
 change." 
 
 " I could gi f ye ' The Death of Nelson/ ' 
 said Eustize Willum Brown. He did : 
 
 Theer once was a sailing ship 
 
 Went out to sea, 
 
 What roightly was called 
 
 H.M.S. Victory, 
 
 To f oiler the Foe o'er the Tide : 
 
 Her brave Captain Nelson. 
 
 He found them at last, 
 
 But the cowardly French 
 
 Fired a gun from the mast : 
 
 y Kiss me, Hardy," he murmured, and died 1 
 
 Long Life to you, Success to me, 
 And may our Hearts be full of Glee 
 This Merry, Merry Ker-ist-mus 1 
 
 I won't trouble you with any more of 
 Master Brown's bright carols. His repertory, 
 if not varied, was extensive ; and my pretty, 
 foolish cousin encouraged him to squander 
 nearly the whole of his seasonable stock before 
 permitting him to depart, accompanied by a 
 shilling and two tins of sardines.
 
 The Merry Wait 69 
 
 After the departure of Master Brown, 
 cousin Charlotte became sad. Our ardent, 
 enthusiastic and happy little visitor had 
 presented himself to her in the light of a 
 pathetic subject. In the mood of melancholy 
 which resulted from the cultivation of this 
 theory she began to grieve for her absent 
 father. I therefore suggested that we should 
 go out into the night and look for that 
 gentleman and his can of petrol. My cousin 
 Charlotte was pleased enthusiastically to 
 accept this suggestion. " We shall have to go 
 over the Common," I explained; "but . . ." 
 
 " Oh, 7 don't mind," said my pretty cousin 
 Charlotte. 
 
 All the same, it was dark on the common. 
 My pretty cousin Charlotte had to take my 
 arm. Still, if she didn't mind, I didn't. 
 Presently we came to a solitary, twinkling 
 window, which pleased and awed her. 
 
 " How pretty ! How romantic ! " said my 
 cousin Charlotte. ... " But how lonely I 
 Who lives there ? " 
 
 " Miss Sankey," I said. "She is " But 
 
 I was checked by a cry and a pinch. 
 
 ' Whatever is that noise ? " exclaimed my 
 cousin Charlotte : " That strange, unearthly 
 noise."-
 
 70 Moby Lane 
 
 I listened for a moment. Then I said, 
 calmly : " That strange, unearthly noise is 
 the voice of your young friend, E. W. Brown. 
 He is serenading Miss Sankey." 
 
 " Oh, how amusing ! " said my pretty cousin 
 Charlotte, drawing closer to Miss Sankey' s 
 window. " Who is Miss Sankey ? " 
 
 I began again. " Miss Sankey is a Parish 
 Worker. Just that. She is a Parish Worker 
 by Heredity, Instinct, and Practice. She is 
 also kind to cats. That is her calm, benignant 
 face at the window." 
 
 Miss Sankey had drawn aside the curtain at 
 her window, and was looking forth with a 
 gentle, welcoming smile, upon Eustize. That 
 young gentleman sang to her. He sang of 
 Old Jacob, the bad Jew pedlar : 
 
 Now, Old Jacob, the Jew, 
 
 He was dressed very poor : 
 
 He come to the cottage 
 
 What stands on the Moor, 
 
 So lonesome, and silent, and cold. 
 
 Miss Hannah, the Spinster, 
 
 It was her abode, 
 
 She offered him alms ; 
 
 He jumped in from the road 
 
 And strangled her there for her gold. 
 
 Long Life to you, Success to me, 
 And may our Hearts be full of Glee 
 This Merry, Merry Ker-ist-mus 1
 
 The Merry Wait 71 
 
 Master Brown had scarcely concluded this 
 verse when Miss Sankey closed her curtain, 
 and her little gift of light was shut out from 
 the Common. 
 
 Nothing further happened, except some 
 feats of blowing from Master Brown. He 
 blew and blew, but no sardines, no sixpences, 
 came out to him. Presently we heard his 
 queer flat feet crush into the grass as he 
 walked away, still blowing, to look for other 
 lonely souls whom he might gladden with his 
 voice.
 
 VIII 
 OUTSIDE 
 
 AT the significant hour of eleven, I climbed the 
 steps of my favourite little inn in my favourite 
 little town, and turning round on the topmost 
 step surveyed the people and dogs and oxen 
 which were hurrying to and fro in the street 
 beneath me. My mood was indecisive, as it 
 always is at eleven o'clock, and my mind was 
 heavily in labour, as it revolved the confusing 
 alternatives which always present themselves 
 to the human mind on those steps at that hour. 
 
 Whilst still immersed in these profound 
 thought processes, I perceived, as with some 
 spare sub-conscious sense, that an incident, if 
 not incidents, had taken place in the world 
 below me. A certain young man had detached 
 himself from the mass of cows and persons, 
 and was ascending the steps whose summit 
 I adorned. 
 
 He was a tall, fair, rather grave young man, 
 wearing severely flattened flannel trousers 
 and an air of diffidence ; that modern sort of 
 
 diffidence which seems to address itself to all 
 
 72
 
 "Outside" 73 
 
 the women in the universe with the admoni- 
 tion, " Oh, I say, chuck it ! " He, in fact, 
 bore all the marks and attributes of a quiet, 
 gentlemanly, conscientious, popular young 
 man. 
 
 He hesitated on reaching the step next to 
 mine, and then spoke to me. 
 
 " Good day," he said ; " I am looking for a 
 fellar. I suppose you haven't seen a fellar 
 about here ? A red-haired fellar in a shabby 
 sort of suit ? " 
 
 I was unable to state with confidence 
 whether I had or had not seen such a fellar as 
 that described by the gentlemanly young 
 man, but then, as I told the latter, I had not 
 been thinking much about fellars. I had been 
 thinking about drinks. 
 
 " If you had seen this fellar," replied the 
 young man, " I think you would remember it 
 now, no matter how much drink you may have 
 thought about. He's a remarkable sort of 
 fellar, because of his red hair and shabby 
 clothes, and because the people throw things 
 at him." 
 
 " Why should they do that ? " I inquired, 
 having remarked what an even, unjoking 
 head the young man had. 
 
 ' Well, you see," replied that person,
 
 74 Moby Lane 
 
 "this fellar is one of my fellars." This state- 
 ment he proffered in all good will as a com- 
 plete answer to my question. 
 
 I judged therefore that this young man 
 must be well-known and well-esteemed on 
 these steps, and that by asking further 
 questions, I should exhibit an ignorance 
 which it would be prudent to conceal. I 
 therefore asked no further questions. The 
 young man asked me one. He said : 
 
 " Will you have a drink ?" 
 
 The answer to this question was in the 
 affirmative. 
 
 " I am sorry to have troubled you about my 
 fellar," said the young man, civilly, " but I 
 thought you looked like the sort of fellar that 
 might have seen this fellar. It was the way 
 you were standing up here, you know. You 
 had a sort of fixed, immovable look. You 
 were starin' down at the market like a chap 
 who's been lookin' at cattle and thinkin' about 
 drinks for yaws and yaws and yaws. You 
 looked like a man who was bound to notice 
 everything, and you looked as if you xvere 
 standin' here on purpose to answer questions. 
 However, I am sorry to have troubled you. 
 Let's have a drink." 
 
 Whilst we were carrying out the process
 
 " Outside " 75 
 
 suggested by the young gentleman he again 
 talked about his red-haired fellar. 
 
 "Of course I don't always walk about 
 inquirin' for them," said the young man. 
 ' There are men in brass buttons to do that. 
 But this particular fellar happened to be a 
 particular chum of mine. He's one of these 
 quiet, kind fellars, with a lot in reserve. He 
 makes bird-cages and flower baskets out of 
 osier twigs and sends them up to me. And he 
 makes fool's-parsley whistles and all that sort 
 of thing. He can splice a cricket-bat, too. 
 He's one of these quietly clever fellars. 
 
 " I came to look for him because I'm afraid 
 he'd have rather a miserable time out here. 
 He's been at our place for nearly twenty years 
 now, and he's much more plainly marked than 
 some of the others are. His walking out has 
 surprised everybody very much indeed. We 
 thought he was quite to be trusted. The 
 quietest and nicest of them take a fit some- 
 times and walk out. They don't mean to 
 run away, you know. They just want to look 
 at the shops, and stare in at the smithy, and 
 so on. They always come back again of their 
 own accord. But the deuce of it is, you 
 don't know just how they'll come back. 
 They always behave all right ; but you can't
 
 76 Moby Lane 
 
 trust these outside people to behave. These 
 outside people have a way of getting into 
 one of their horrible sane furies as soon as 
 they detect one of our fellars running loose." 
 
 By this time I began to realise what the tall, 
 fair, grave young man was all about. He was 
 some sort of official from some sort of insti- 
 tution, and he was looking for some sort of 
 inmate who had played some sort of prank. 
 
 I was about to ask the young man to con- 
 firm these suspicions when that action was 
 rendered unnecessary by the entrance of a 
 bashful youth of the labouring class, who, 
 addressing my young man, demanded to know 
 if his name was Doctor Penny, and if he 
 belonged to the county lunatic asylum. 
 
 My young man answered both these 
 questions in the affirmative, and the labouring 
 man then said : 
 
 " Well, doctor, will you please come outside 
 at once, doctor? They've found that bloke 
 you lost." 
 
 They had indeed found him, and there he 
 was, all safely netted down in a cart. It was 
 a strong, rough cart, and a stout pig net, and 
 lie was a frail little slip of a man, and the little 
 white face which he pressed up against the 
 pig net was bruised and blooded in divers
 
 "Outside" 77 
 
 places. Two men walked before the cart, 
 and one man walked behind, eyeing the 
 prisoner steadily, whilst maintaining a posture 
 of acute self-defence. 
 
 One of the foremost men spoke to my young 
 friend the doctor. 
 
 ' We've found your lunatic, doctor," he 
 said. "And what's more we've caught him. 
 'E didn't 'alf 'oiler and kick out when I come 
 up be'ind to put the sack over 'is 'ead." 
 
 " He would," said the doctor to your 
 servant, in an aside. " Students of divinity 
 do get excited if you put unexpected sacks 
 over their heads. That's what this fellar is 
 a divinity student. It's the only thing that's 
 wrong with him. He believes that his Re- 
 deemer liveth ; he believes that Jesus walks 
 and talks with him. 
 
 ' Where did you find him ? " he said aloud 
 to the foremost of the tjiree sane men who 
 were with the cart. 
 
 " We found him on the old iron bridge," 
 replied the man, " a-spitting into the kinaul. 
 So I dropped the sack on 'im, Billy 'ere 
 knocked 'is feet from under 'im, and this 
 other man, 'e lent us the cart and the pig net. 
 Hi, doctor, steady on ! " 
 
 The last exclamation had further reference
 
 78 Moby Lane 
 
 to the pig net, which the doctor was slashing 
 beyond hope with a big sharp knife. A 
 fissure resulted, through which the doctor 
 dragged his fellar, who, during the operation, 
 and for some time afterwards, uttered and 
 reiterated, without ceasing, the words, " Oh, 
 doctor ! Oh, doctor ! Oh, doctor ! " 
 
 He held the doctor's hand, and clung to the 
 doctor's arm as a frightened child might do. 
 
 " Isn't this exactly what I warned you to 
 expect ? " said the doctor to his fellar. " I 
 told you you'd be sorry if you ever went 
 outside. People outside always behave like 
 this." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, doctor/' said the 
 fellar. " I ought to have listened to what 
 you said. I'll never run away again, I'll 
 stay inside for the future and jabber along 
 with the rest of them, and act kind and live 
 gentle."
 
 IX 
 
 SWEET PEAS 
 
 MR. HANNIKIN came to my house in the 
 company of a dog-kennel. I had bought this 
 article in Blowfield, and Mr. Hannikin, who is 
 a wheelbarrow proprietor of that town, was 
 engaged by the vendor to convey my kennel 
 to its destination. 
 
 Mr. Hannikin looked feverish, having 
 wheeled the barrow, the dog-kennel, his coat, 
 his waistcoat, his collar, his tie, and an empty 
 bottle all the way from Blowfield (which is 
 five miles off) under a July sun. 
 
 I accordingly invited Mr. Hannikin to sit 
 in the scullery and condense, which, having 
 re-connected himself with the coat, the waist- 
 coat, the collar, and the tie, Mr. Hannikin 
 cheerfully consented to do. I was unable to 
 offer Mr. Hannikin any beer, having recently 
 had occasion to employ the talents of our 
 local hedge-trimmer. But Mr. Hannikin, 
 with little, if any, display of feeling, accepted 
 bottled cider in substitution. 
 
 " Norfolk, eh ? " mused Mr. Hannikin, 
 
 79
 
 8o Moby Lane 
 
 deciphering the text on the bottle. " That 
 strikes a little mawkish on the palate, t' any- 
 body what aren't been bred teetotal ; but 
 they say 'tis as good as a physic, if on'y a 
 person can get over the taste. They pea 
 blooms o' yourn look well, sir." 
 
 They did, although, of course, it wasn't for 
 me to say so ; but I admitted that I had seen 
 worse. 
 
 "R,and so 'ave I," responded Mr. Hannikin, 
 warmly. " At Blowfield 'All itself. I was 
 in the garden at the 'All only yesterday, and 
 the General's pea blooms, they don't shape 
 no sense in compar'son with yourn. The 
 General's sweet peas, they look like so many 
 beanflowers in compar'son with yourn. Well, 
 yes, sir, thank you, sir, seein' as it be so mild 
 and beneficial. The same glass' 11 do, sir." 
 
 Mr. Hannikin, restraining an evident im- 
 pulse to hold his nose, then benefited him- 
 self, in one determined gulp, to the extent 
 of a standard pint. Having regained his 
 breath, Mr. Hannikin then spoke again, with 
 heightened colour, but with a subdued 
 intonation : 
 
 "There's somebody dead in this village, 
 then ? " said Mr. Hannikin. 
 
 Was there ? I hadn' t heard of it.
 
 Sweet Peas 81 
 
 " They been soundin* the bell, at all events,'* 
 Mr. Hannikin declared. "'Tis a woman, 
 simmingly," he mused ; " for I took particular 
 notice o' the music, and they sounded three 
 times two. There's a wonderful lot of illness 
 about." Mr. Hannikin sighed. 
 
 I filled his glass. 
 
 Mr. Hannikin emptied it not with enthu- 
 siasm, but without effort and sighed again. 
 "Them as be' ant ill," he reflected, "be' ant 
 well not to say well. Some calls it the 'ay 
 fever. Meself, I puts it down to all they 'ere 
 germs and microbes. I be dreadful failed 
 meself ; compared to what I used to be." 
 
 I refused, in peremptory tones, to credit this 
 statement, at the same time carelessly re- 
 moving Mr. Hannikin' s glass. Mr. Hannikin, 
 who was a stout, pink man, in middle age, 
 did not exhibit even the primary symptoms 
 of breakdown. He followed the track of his 
 disappearing glass with a listless eye, and 
 having witnessed its final abandonment in 
 the sink, transferred his gaze to the fluttering 
 congress upon the pea- vines. 
 
 " It don't do to judge o' a person's private 
 interior from the outside view," Mr. Hannikin 
 then proclaimed. " I buried a old aunt last 
 
 Michaelmas. A nice old lady, as used to rare 
 
 F
 
 82 Moby Lane 
 
 chickun and tomater at Cookstead. She be 
 one o' the plump kind, much after me own 
 fashion. If anybody was to judge o j 'er 
 private interior from a outside view, they 
 would put 'er down for a well-growed, 'earthy 
 woman. And ' ere we buries ' er at sixty-four I 
 She be one o' the failin' sort, 'earty to look 
 at, but poor in 'erself. Sickens on Monday ; 
 lays up on Tuesday ; sees the Doctor Wed- 
 nesday ; dies on Thursday. 'Tis in the 
 blood o' our family. We're 'earty to look at ; 
 but we none o' us lives to be old. They 
 pea-blooms is a wonder. They be blooms, 
 they be." 
 
 " Could I offer you a handful ? " inquired 
 your servant, who was not unwilling to in- 
 troduce a fragrant topic of conversation. 
 
 " You be very kind, sir," responded Mr. 
 Hannikin. " I got the ole lady close by me, 
 in the Simmetary at Blowfield. I goo theer 
 pretty nigh reglar, of a Sunday arternoon, 
 an' I don't reckon that'd come amiss if I was 
 to strew a 'andful o' they blossoms upon the 
 poor soul's grave. Such wunnerful blooms as 
 they be ! " 
 
 "I'll get the scissors," quoth your servant. 
 
 " Don't you trouble naarthun cutting 7 em 
 for me, sir," protested Mr. Hannikin. ' Leave
 
 Sweet Peas 83 
 
 me do the cuttin', sir. You kin trust me set 
 about it ship-shape, sir. I shan't damage 
 they vines, naarthun to speak of, if you leaves 
 it to me, sir.'' 
 
 I accordingly delivered the scissors into 
 Mr. Hannikin'shand. 
 
 " It were a cold, raw day we buried her,"' 
 said Mr. Hannikin, presently, pursuing his 
 reflections on the mortality of aunts. 
 "About tea-time it weer. 'Tis new to me, 
 this marnin' burial, same as you sim to go in 
 for in this 'ere parish. 'Tis sharp work, 
 boxin' 'em in afore twalve of a mornin'. 
 'Taint the custom anywheers else, ever I 
 ' eered on. ' Tis to be ' oped as they don' t do it 
 reg'lar in this parish, oon'y on an emergency. 
 There's one thing, tennerate, an' that's a sure 
 thing it don't do to stand on ceremony at 
 this time o' year." 
 
 " If you will excuse me," I said, " I will 
 leave you to deal with the sweet peas, while I 
 go indoors to attend to some rather pressing 
 business. Take your time and kindly cut 
 off any dead blossoms which you may happen 
 to find." 
 
 " You leave it to me, sir," cried Mr. Hanni- 
 kin. " Don't you trouble naarthun. You 
 leave it to me."<
 
 84 Moby Lane 
 
 I accordingly left it to Mr. Hannikin. 
 When, after watching for his departure, from 
 the parlour window, for three-quarters of an 
 hour, I ventured into the garden again with 
 a view to assuring myself of Mr. Hannikin' s 
 existence and perfect well-being, I discovered 
 that gentleman still in the act of dealing with 
 the sweet peas. A pile of blossoms, one 
 yard square and a foot high, which lay in a 
 shady corner of the garden, provided me 
 with evidence of Mr. Hannikin' s zeal and 
 industry. As I surveyed the multi-coloured 
 mass of fragrance which Mr. Hannikin had 
 deposited on the grass, my eye detected a 
 splash of coral pink, and, hardly venturing 
 to credit Mr. Hannikin with the audacity 
 indicated by this discovery, I hastened to the 
 heap of flowers. My God ! Mr. Hannikin 
 had indeed dealt with my sweet peas. 
 
 He had dealt with "Sterling Stent," 
 " King Edward Spencer," and " Vicomte de 
 Janze." 
 
 These were my prize peas, grown for pur- 
 poses of exhibition. They occupied special 
 quarters, specially fenced in, at the far end of 
 my little garden. The seeds from which 
 these vines were groxvn had cost a shilling 
 each, It had not occurred to me that Mr.
 
 Sweet Peas 85 
 
 Hannikin would venture to stray from the 
 extensive general plantation of sweet peas 
 into a domain so obviously limited and 
 private. 
 
 However ... he had done it. There was 
 no use in complaining. Sweet peas, after all, 
 are grown to be cut. I contented myself with 
 suggesting to Mr. Hannikin that my floral 
 tribute to his deceased aunt's memory would 
 benefit by immediate transference to a jam- 
 pot and the sequestered coolness of the 
 cemetery. Mr. Hannikin took the hint. 
 
 " If a poor man's gratitude is any use 
 to you," said Mr. Hannikin, by way of 
 valedictory utterance, "you got it. She weer 
 oon'y a pore old lady, what growed chickun 
 and tomater for her livin', but her spirit in 
 Heaven will look down on you and bless you, 
 same as I do now." 
 
 If another poor man's blessing is of any use 
 to Mr. Hannikin, he will have to go somewhere 
 else for it. I withheld it then, and I with- 
 hold it now. 
 
 You see, I had been preserving those 
 exhibition flowers for a definite object none 
 other than that of exhibiting them. 
 
 The day succeeding that of Mr. Hannikin' s 
 visit was the day appointed for the Blowfield
 
 86 Moby Lane 
 
 and District Flower Show. Sweet Peas grow 
 quickly : but they don't grow from verdant 
 bud to perfect flower in a single night. And 
 verdant buds were all that the accursed Mr. 
 Hannikin had left me. 
 
 I attended the flower-show, after a pro- 
 longed spiritual conflict, partly from brave 
 and honourable motives and partly with a 
 view to seeing what sort of trash would re- 
 ceive first prize (value i) in the unavoidable 
 absence of my own " exhibit." 
 
 Our Vicar accosted me at the entrance to 
 the show. 
 
 " You are not exhibiting ? " he said. 
 
 I explained to the reverend gentleman 
 that an incident unparalleled in the history 
 of horticulture had deprived me of that 
 pleasure. 
 
 " The incident, whatever it was/* replied 
 our Vicar, " was, perhaps, a fortunate one. 
 It has saved you from a public humiliation. 
 Wait till you see the winning collection of 
 sweet peas. Your blooms were well enough 
 pretty flowers : pretty flowers. But these 
 oh ! Just you come and look at them." 
 
 It was certainly a stunning " exhibit." 
 The flowers were badly staged, in sticky 
 groups and dirty jars. But what flowers !
 
 Sweet Peas 87 
 
 I accepted defeat like a man. " This makes 
 me feel happier," I said to our vicar. " Noth- 
 ing but ' first ' would have suited me, and I 
 see now that I couldn't have got in These 
 flowers beat mine. My flowers look like 
 cutlet papers beside these flowers. Who 
 exhibits them ? " 
 
 The Vicar pointed to an official card, bearing 
 a name which at that time was unfamiliar to 
 me. " Who is he ? " I asked. 
 
 " Hannikin ? " replied the vicar " Oh, a 
 rather disreputable person. A working man. 
 Lives at Blowfield. Something must have 
 happened to his soul. Never knew him grow 
 a potato before, let alone a flower. And such 
 flowers ! I wish the beggar luck ; he deserves 
 it. He's exhibiting again to-morrow at 
 Cookstead." 
 
 A voice which, somehow, sounded quite 
 unlike my voice, was then heard to address 
 the vicar. 
 
 " Is he a middle-aged, pink man, with a 
 fat face and a wheelbarrow ? " demanded the 
 voice. 
 
 " He is," said the Vicar. " Where are you 
 off to? What's up?" 
 
 " A bloody combat," replied the voice. 
 
 I rushed out of the booth ; I scoured the
 
 88 Moby Lane 
 
 tented field. But Mr. Hannikin had fled. 
 " Hannikin ? " exclaimed a constable, whom, 
 in the last extremity, I consulted, " why, 
 they took him away an hour ago in 'is own 
 wheelbarrer." 
 
 There remained to me the comforting 
 thought that to-morrow was another day and 
 that at Cookstead there was another pond. 
 I went home and dieted. 
 
 But at Cookstead I missed him again. I 
 did, as a matter of fact, just see him there. 
 I saw the bald patch on his head as four trium- 
 phant convives lifted him into a tax-cart and 
 galloped away at high speed. So I again 
 went home and dieted. Next morning, at 
 Blowfield, I resumed my search for Mr. Han- 
 nikin. I wanted him more badly than ever, 
 for, thanks to his inconsiderate treatment of 
 our " exhibit," it had only taken second prize 
 at Cookstead. 
 
 At Blowfield I found Mr. Hannikin. I 
 found him in the cemetery. On a grave. 
 Toying with a bouquet ; a bouquet of sweet 
 peas. Our sweet peas, looking very tar- 
 nished. 
 
 I approached Mr. Hannikin unexpectedly, 
 and without preface. At sight of me he rose 
 to his feet and assumed a defensive attitude,
 
 Sweet Peas 89 
 
 waving the sweet peas wildly. He also 
 spoke : 
 
 ' You wouldn't go for to strike a man on 
 God's Acre ? " said Mr. Hannikin. " And 
 him just putting some blossoms on the grave 
 of his pore old aunt ? " ;
 
 X 
 
 " VIADUCT VIEW" 
 
 IT was the landlord of the Tiger Inn, at 
 Pucklefield, who presented me to Miss Twose 
 and her hard wooden chair. 
 
 The landlord of the Tiger, having closely 
 scrutinised my shabby bicycle, my dirty face, 
 and my dusty clothes, with their varicose 
 excrescences (representing underwear and 
 toilet ware and lunch), shook an extremely 
 square, hard head at me. 
 
 " I am sorry to ill-convenience you," said 
 the landlord of the Tiger Inn, " but I regret 
 to say that there is not a room in the house 
 which I can put at your disposal. Ya see, 
 we don't reckon to take in travellers, not 
 ordinary travellers, not in these days. We 
 find there's more profit attached to a more 
 gentlemanly trade : summer visitors, motor 
 parties, luncheons, 'unt breakfasthes, and 
 cetera. Besides, our prices are rather 'igh. 
 And then again, I don't fancy ya'd be quite
 
 " Viaduct View" 91 
 
 at 'ome, not with the company we got here 
 now. Ya're a commercial, ain't ya ? " He 
 eyed my excrescences again. " Picture post- 
 cards. Eh ? " 
 
 "No," I responded; "smoked salmon 
 sandwiches." 
 
 1 Well, well," proclaimed the landlord, an 
 evident cosmopolitan, " there's no knowing 
 what foreign fad will catch on nowadays. I 
 can remember the time when the first celluloid 
 collar was seen at Pucklefield. Now ya see 
 them everywhere. I can remember the time 
 when Australian Port was a novelty. I can 
 
 But I daresay ya're in a hurry to find 
 
 accommodation. Ya'd like a wash, eh, and 
 a brush-up ? " 
 
 I confessed that I would like some beer and 
 a bath. 
 
 " There's no trouble about the beer," re- 
 plied the landlord. " We sell beer here 
 worse luck." 
 
 In response to the exclamation which was 
 wrung from me by the unfamiliar spectacle 
 of a publican denouncing beer, the landlord 
 of the Tiger Inn explained that this beverage 
 was associated in his mind with a vulgar sort 
 of customer. He confessed to an enthusiasm 
 for the light burgundies and gentility.
 
 92 Moby Lane 
 
 He also told me that only one other inn 
 existed in the village, and this he could not 
 conscientiously recommend to me. It was 
 kept by a retired prison warder. " A good 
 enough man in himself," said the landlord of 
 the Tiger, " but with a Government way about 
 him and from what I hear with Government 
 ideas of comfort. Now, it seems to me, 
 pursued my obliging mentor, " that the best 
 thing which you can do is to come along o' 
 me to the house of a very pleasant, clean 
 woman which I know of : a spinster, by the 
 name of Miss Twose. We've recommended 
 many young fellows like yourself to this lady, 
 and they have always been wonderful pleased 
 with the accommodation and cetera." 
 
 I accordingly permitted the landlord of the 
 Tiger Inn to conduct me to a small and offen- 
 sively red villa on the outskirts of Pucklefield. 
 It was one of those utterly irrevelant villas 
 which effuse quite purposelessly from the face 
 of an otherwise spotless landscape, and strike 
 the eye with a sense of incongruity, as if 
 one's vicar came unexpectedly to tea in 
 red socks. This villa had a name, and this 
 name was Viaduct View. The name, so I sub- 
 sequently learned, originated in the circum- 
 stances that by climbing to the attic window,
 
 " Viaduct View " 93 
 
 with a telescope, one could command the 
 prospect of a distant railway bridge. 
 
 Leaving me outside the fence of galvanised 
 iron which protected the garden of Viaduct 
 View from unauthorised inspection, the land- 
 lord of the Tiger entered that pleasaunce, and 
 was shortly afterwards heard to be conducting 
 a whispered conference with some person or 
 persons unseen. He then reappeared and 
 signified, with his thumb, that I might ap- 
 proach him. I did so, and was duly con- 
 ducted to the entrance hall or vestibule of 
 Viaduct View, on the right-hand side of which 
 was situated the entrance to a tightly 
 furnished alcove. " This," said the land- 
 lord of the Tiger, " is your sitting-room 
 the droring-room, in fact. Now, isn't it 
 very nice ? " 
 
 I expressed the opinion that it was, com- 
 prehending in a single appreciative glance, 
 and a single ejaculation of pleasure, all its 
 amenities, which consisted of a piano, an 
 harmonium, an " overmantel/' a mahogany 
 table, a papier-mache table, a bamboo table, 
 a sofa, two upholstered armchairs, two 
 wicker-work armchairs, five smaller chairs, 
 three mirrors, framed portraits of King Ed- 
 ward, Queen Alexandra, Sims Reeves, and
 
 94 Moby Lane 
 
 Our Saviour, four pots of geranium, fourteen 
 photographs, a paper fireplace ornament, 
 four pieces of linoleum, and a smell of paraffin. 
 I was fortunate in timing my encomium ; for 
 just as I uttered it, Miss Twose came into the 
 room. 
 
 MissTwosewas a very bleached and shapeless 
 little person, who, somehow, reminded one of 
 an inferior dried fig. She looked as if she had 
 formed part of a consignment of Miss Twoses 
 who had all been packed flat in a wooden box. 
 She walked with a stoop, and wore ringlets 
 which, although they were of no particular 
 colour, somehow succeeded in not matching 
 at all with her hair, which likewise was of no 
 particular colour. She rubbed her yellow 
 hands together and hoped that I liked the 
 room. 
 
 The landlord of the Tiger Inn replied to 
 this inquiry. " The young man likes it very 
 much," he said. " He was say in', just when 
 you come in at the door, that gettin' all these 
 pieces of furnicher to stand in this room with- 
 out touchin' each other was an art in itself. 
 ... I been thinkin', Miss Twose : you can 
 send the young man round to my place, 
 when he's had a wash and brush-up. I dare- 
 say we can find him a bit o' dinner. He can
 
 " Viaduct View " 95 
 
 eat it in our sitting-room. He wouldn't be 
 comfortable in the public dining-room. It's 
 evening dress in our dining-room." 
 
 I thanked the landlord for having imposed 
 upon himself the trouble of devising this 
 thoughtful plan, but confessed to a disinclina- 
 tion for further travel that night. " I can per- 
 haps have a little supper here," I suggested; 
 " Miss Twose \vill perhaps boil me an egg." 
 
 Miss Twose, with a fig-like gesture, inti- 
 mated her willingness to perform this service. 
 But the landlord of the Tiger Inn regarded me 
 with a changed expression : an expression of 
 disfavour. 
 
 " An agg ? " he exclaimed. "An 
 
 aggl A biled AGG!! Well, well! Ha! 
 Ha ! " 
 
 He said no more ; but with this bitter and 
 mysterious laugh upon his lips, he turned and 
 went away. 
 
 I then sat down in one of the upholstered 
 armchairs. Miss Twose then screamed. 
 
 Miss Twose having uttered this distressing 
 noise, I rose from the upholstered armchair, 
 and ran about the room, feeling sure that 
 wasps had entered it. But as soon as I got 
 up from the chair, Miss Twose desisted from 
 screaming.
 
 g6 Moby Lane 
 
 " Dear, dear ! " said Miss Twose : " What 
 funny ideas people do get hold of ! Fancy 
 sitting down on a good new chair like 
 that ! " 
 
 I protested to Miss Twose that the chair 
 in question was no newer than other chairs 
 in the room. 
 
 " Of course not," replied Miss Twose. " All 
 the chairs in here are new. That's why I 
 think it's such funny behaviour to sit on them. 
 There are plenty of other chairs in the house. 
 I'll fetch you another chair.'' 
 
 With these words, Miss Twose went out of 
 her " drawing-room," leaving me in a state 
 of compression between the corners of the 
 piano, the papier-mache table, and the 
 harmonium. Within a few minutes, Miss 
 Twose returned, bringing with her a small, 
 hard, wooden chair, of the commonest 
 Buckinghamshire variety. " You can sit on 
 that," said Miss Twose. 
 
 I sat on it. 
 
 Miss Twose regarded me from between 
 half-closed eyelids. " I think you'd better 
 drar your legs in," said Miss Twose. " They 
 toes o' yours might get scratching the pedals of 
 the harmonium." 
 
 I drew in my legs.
 
 " Viaduct View " 97 
 
 " I daresay," pursued Miss Twose, " as you 
 look upon me as if I \vas a rather strict person. 
 Well, anybody as wishes to keep a good 'ome 
 around them, they got to be strict. Besides, 
 I got a particular call to be careful. This 
 home, it do not belong to me, not in a exact 
 manner of speakin'. It belongs to all them 
 there." 
 
 With a quick little jerk of her arm, Miss 
 Twose indicated the fourteen photographs 
 which decorated the walls and mantelpiece. 
 A curt, disinterested glance at these portraits 
 revealed to me the fact that they were, 
 principally, of an equestrian character. 
 
 " Hi ! " cried Miss Twose, suddenly, " take 
 yere feet off that rug." 
 
 " And now," said Miss Twose, " you had 
 better go and get a wash and a brush-up. 
 When you come down again, I expect yere 
 eggs and tea will be ready." 
 
 When I came down again, the eggs and tea 
 were set out on a small tin tray, which stood 
 on a small deal table, which had been forced 
 into the "drawing-room" and was situated 
 beside the wooden chair. 
 
 " Mind how you squeeze yere knees in," 
 said Miss Twose. " I woulden like them to 
 rub agin the harmonium. That don't belong 
 
 G
 
 98 Moby Lane 
 
 to me, not properly speakin' . That belong to 
 my nephew." 
 
 I nodded thoughtfully, being really rather 
 more interested in my eggs. The first one 
 showed evidences of having travelled from 
 Ireland on a slow boat. 
 
 " This is my nephew," Miss Twose then said, 
 taking down fourteen photographs from the 
 walls and mantelpiece and placing them on 
 the table before me. " He's in America. 
 One o' the best young fellows they got there." 
 
 I looked at the photographs. They de- 
 picted a flat-faced young man in a variety of 
 attitudes upon a variety of horses amid a 
 variety of circumstances and in a variety of 
 dress. The predominating costume was one 
 familiar to all students of romantic literature. 
 It was composed of a wide-brimmed, felt hat ; 
 a silly neckcloth ; a shirt ; two revolvers ; a 
 belt ; gauntlet gloves ; a corn cob pipe and 
 hearthrug trousering. It reminded one of 
 those arresting placards which adorn the 
 frontages of " Picture Palaces." 
 
 Other photographs illustrated the daily 
 pursuits and avocations of Miss Twose' s 
 nephew. In one of them, he was represented 
 as pointing his revolver at an Indian ; in 
 another, he was waving a whip at some horses ;
 
 " Viaduct View" 99 
 
 in another he was throwing a rope's end at 
 a cow and, in yet another, he was offering 
 homage to a lady. 
 
 Some of the pictures presented Miss Twose's 
 nephew in civic attire and amid urban sur- 
 roundings. In one of these, he was seen to 
 be riding in a motor car, with three young 
 women, two of whom reposed their heads 
 upon his respective shoulders and one of 
 whom was seated confidentially upon his lap. 
 Another photograph showed Miss Twose's 
 nephew in full evening dress, and a straw hat, 
 a bunch of roses adorning his button-hole, a 
 parti-coloured ribbon athwart his chest, and 
 a concertina in his hand. 
 
 " These are only some of them," said Miss 
 Twose. " I got about a hundred more, up- 
 stairs. He's a fine young fellow, my nephew, 
 ain' t he ? You don' t see many chaps like him 
 in Pucklefield:" 
 
 I admitted that you didn't. 
 
 "It's seven years since he went away,"' 
 continued Miss Twose. " He was coming 
 home in three years, but he's had to keep on 
 putting it off. They want him so badly over 
 there. It must be a great disappointment to 
 him, having to stop on out there, roughing 
 it in the wilds, instead of coming back here,
 
 ioo Moby Lane 
 
 to all the comforts of England, and the little 
 home what I've got together for him. Do you 
 mind not rubbing your sleeve up against the 
 corner of that plant pot ? It takes the paint off.' ' 
 
 I carried my offending limbs to the window, 
 and placed them beyond temptation. 
 
 " It has took me three years," said Miss 
 Twose, " to get this little home together. My 
 nephew, he ain't got a friend or relation in 
 the world, only me, and I ain't got nobody, 
 only him. It's a pity they keep on keeping 
 him out there in the wilds, when there's 
 such a beautiful little home, and all the com- 
 forts waiting for him here, and me to keep him 
 company. I want to keep the home all new 
 and nice, so that he can get the full amount 
 of pleasure out of it when he does come back. 
 Such a pity as he's got to keep on putting it 
 off. I'm afraid that the home' 11 be spoilt 
 before he sees it. I have to take in a gentle- 
 man or two, so as to get a little money to put 
 by for him. And some of the gentlemen are 
 very careless. Would it be all the same to you 
 if I was to ask you to set on the window sell ? 
 Your legs keep rubbin' up against that chair 
 leg. Thank ya ! 
 
 " The idea is for my nephew to take up some 
 quiet position here, when he does come home.
 
 " Viaduct View" 101 
 
 There's Mr. Tunks, of the general shop. He 
 would be glad to find a travelled young 
 man like my nephew to take charge of the 
 tinned beef and the pineapple and that. Or 
 there's Mr. Grist, of the Timber Yard. 
 
 " I orfen think of my nephew living quietly 
 here, at home, with me, all among this beautiful 
 furnicher. 
 
 ' Week-days, he would go to his job until 
 six o'clock, and then he would come home, 
 and have his bit o' tea in the kitchen, and then 
 read his paper a bit, and then talk to me, 
 tellin' me about what's been goin* on in the 
 timber yard, or else tellin' me stories about 
 his life out there, in the wilds. And then 
 we'd have our bit of supper and then, per'aps, 
 pick out a tune or two on the 'armonium. 
 
 " On Sundays, we could go to chapel to- 
 gether, and then go out for a little walk till 
 two o'clock. Then we'd 'ave our bit o' 
 dinner. Then 'e could sit at 'ome and rest 
 here, at ' Viaduct View.' He could sit in one 
 o' these best chairs, per'aps, and 'ave a little 
 nap, per'aps. 
 
 " And, after tea, he could get his telescope, 
 and go up to the attic, and have a look out 
 at the railway bridge and the trains, down 
 there in the valley."
 
 XI 
 
 COURTSHIP 
 
 THOSE persons who do not know the hamlet 
 of Mont chalet, in Sussex (not Normandy), do 
 not know a very curious and entertaining 
 village, and are probably unacquainted with 
 the Boot and Slipper Inn, as I was, until last 
 Saturday. Until last Saturday, I was likewise 
 unacquainted with Mr. Ralph P. Heathcote, 
 of Europe, war correspondent, literary critic, 
 actor-manager's adviser, and journalist. 
 
 Mr. Heathcote, seeing from the state of my 
 boots that I had walked a matter of five-and- 
 thirty leagues, was so obliging and charitable 
 as to purchase for me a refreshing draught, 
 consisting of a spirit called gin in combination 
 with sour cider. Mr. Heathcote, of Europe, 
 happened to be temporarily resident in the 
 hamlet of Montchalet, in Sussex, he having 
 a consumptive aunt with property, a striped 
 dog, and a thirst for the society of favourite 
 nephews. 
 
 Mr. Heathcote was kind enough to state 
 these facts to me without the stimulus of 
 
 102
 
 Courtship 103 
 
 inquiry. He remarked that Montchalet, in 
 Sussex, was (generally speaking) a quiet place, 
 but that it had its moments. One of these 
 moments, he informed me, was now existing. 
 It took the form of gipsy folk, a roundabout, 
 goldfish, dart boards, cocoanuts, and swing 
 boats, now to be seen in the tenter-mead. 
 
 With the gin and cider conducting revolu- 
 tionary propaganda among the uplands of my 
 soul, I took the arm of Mr. Heathcote, and, 
 thus linked, we sought the tenter-mead. 
 
 Mr. Heathcote (did I say that he was a stout, 
 well-nourished man of 40 years ?), having 
 cast a weather-beaten eye around the tenter- 
 mead, then initiated an utterance. He 
 said : 
 
 " Now what we want, old lad, that is I 
 mean to say : Well, there's quite a charming 
 ah well, look here : Suppose you just wait 
 there a moment." 
 
 Without any further parley, this so-called 
 friend forsook me. He strolled across the 
 greensward, looking very fortyish and fine, 
 and I saw him halt and bow before a brightly 
 illustrated young woman, a young woman 
 whose naked modesty was clothed in, con- 
 cealed by, squashed poppies, salmon-coloured 
 ribbons, and other less noticeable accessories.
 
 IO4 Moby Lane 
 
 The salmon-coloured lady was accompanied, 
 I perceived, by another female one having 
 great width and stature and a cow-like eye, 
 and a plum-coloured face and freckles. I was 
 thinking to myself how awkward it would be 
 if one should find oneself in the position of 
 having affronted this lady, when my medita- 
 tions were interrupted by the return of Mr. 
 Heathcote, who took me by the arm and 
 whispered in my ear the following hasty 
 confidence : 
 
 "It's like this, old chap. She's a rippin' 
 gal a deuced rippin' gal, and quite friendly. 
 Only, you see, she's got a pal with her, you 
 see. And this pal, don't you see well, it's 
 like this, old man : If a gal's a decent gal, 
 don't you know, she can't very well chuck 
 over her pal at a minute's notice, to go off 
 merry-go-rounding with a stranger. You do 
 see, don't you ? So I just said to her, I 
 said, ' My dear young lady/ I said, ' don't 
 you worry about that. Because,' I said, ' my 
 friend here, the stout little fellar standin' 
 ovah theyah by the swings, will be delighted 
 to look after your pal. He will, really,' I 
 said. And you will, won't you, old man ? " 
 
 I took Mr. Heathcote by the arm. I led 
 him forward. And, regardless of all the rules
 
 Courtship 105 
 
 of chivalry, I pointed at the salmon-coloured 
 girl's girl-friend, and I said : 
 
 " Just look at her ! " 
 
 Mr. Heathcote emitted a nervous cough. 
 "I know, old man, I know/' he said. "But 
 
 you know I mean to say " At that 
 
 moment he seized me by the arm, muttering, 
 carried me forward, and uttered rapidly 
 certain phrases of introduction. 
 
 The next thing I remember is gazing vacantly 
 before me at the swiftly-rotating form of Mr. 
 Heathcote and the salmon-coloured one, 
 while the salmon-coloured one's friend, planted 
 firmly at my elbow, discoursed intelligently of 
 meteorology and pleasure. 
 
 " It is a fine evening," I assented, the rules 
 of courtesy demanding no less. 
 
 ' Yaas," replied my fair companion. " I 
 got a 'ole in moi tooth. Coin' ter 'ave it 
 stopped a' Monday." 
 
 ' Toothache," I hazarded, " is a very pain- 
 ful thing." 
 
 " Not ami," said the fair one. " Especi- 
 ally in dull weather. Although," she added, 
 after a pause devoted to reflection, " I wouldn't 
 swear but what the stomach-ache is pain- 
 fuller." 
 
 That, I submitted, was as it might be. In
 
 io6 Moby Lane 
 
 the meantime, could I not persuade her to 
 follow the example of her attractive young 
 friend and honour me with her company 
 round and round the round-about. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Oi woulden roide 'pon one o' they things 
 not for money, I woulden. Pimmicky le'l 
 pastoime, / calls it. The amusement for moi 
 fancy be the swing-boats. Ooh, yaas. Give 
 me the swings ! " 
 
 So, of course, I gave them to her. 
 
 " Be this a penny roide, or a tuppenny ? " 
 inquired Joanna (for that she confessed to be 
 her name), as she clambered up the swing- 
 man's little step-ladder. And I, in my 
 spendthrift vanity, " Joanna/' I said, " I will 
 not stint you. Let us have a bob's worth." 
 
 Joanna seated herself heavily, and grasping 
 a multi-coloured object which resembled a 
 bell-rope, " There be one for you," she said, 
 pushing across a similar accessory. 
 
 " When I be upwards, you pull yourn ; and 
 when I be downward, I pull moin. Let her 
 
 go" 
 
 " Go it is," I replied. And away we went. 
 
 "It be foin fun swinging," observed 
 Joanna. 
 
 " Ripping ! " I replied.
 
 Courtship 107 
 
 " Me brother Abraham," continued Joanna, 
 chattily, " he are runned away and gone for a 
 soldier." 
 
 ' You do not say so ? " I responded. 
 
 " We got a lodger in our 'ouse," pursued 
 my entertaining friend. 
 
 " Oooooh ! " I said. 
 
 " Hoo-oop ! " shrieked the triumphant 
 Joanna. 
 
 " Hoo ! Oo ! " I repeated. 
 ' There be one pennorth gone," observed 
 the lady. 
 
 " Not - more than than that ? " I 
 gasped. 
 
 " What did you say ? " chirped Joanna. 
 
 I said : "I said Hoo-oo-oo ! " 
 
 " Hoo-oop ! " screamed Joanna. 
 
 " Hoo-oop ! " came in an echo from beside 
 us. 
 
 And I beheld, as through a reeling mist, the 
 salmon-coloured damsel and my beaming 
 friend. 
 
 " Let's see who can stick it the longest," 
 suggested that gentleman, in a cheerful 
 
 roar. 
 
 
 Two pennorth gorn," announced Joanna. 
 " Mean to say got to support 'nother t-ten 
 pennyworth of this ? "
 
 io8 Moby Lane 
 
 11 Hoo-oop ! " came the answer, in chorus. 
 
 ' Whoi, you beant ' anf pullin'," com- 
 plained my partner, in a tone of remonstrance. 
 
 "I I I I Hoo-oo ! " replied your 
 servant. 
 
 " Just so ! " said Joanna. " But that don't 
 make no odds. Because I can easily pull for 
 two ! " 
 
 " Hoo-oop ! " exclaimed the revellers at my 
 side. 
 
 " Three pennorth gorn ! " chimed in 
 Joanna. 
 
 " Hoo ! Oo ! Oo ! " I retorted. 
 
 " You be quite the sportsman/ ' 
 
 " Thi-ink s-s-s-s-so ? " 
 
 " Four pennorth gorn ! " 
 
 Six pennorth gorn ! ' 
 *** 
 
 Nine pennorth gorn ! 
 
 G-r-r-r-r-r ! 
 All over ! "
 
 Courtship 109 
 
 " A-a-ah ! " 
 
 "And " 
 
 "And " 
 
 " And now, young fellar, it be moi turn. 
 Jest you keep seated, and 'ave another six- 
 pennorth along o' me ! "
 
 XII 
 
 THE LAST OF THE GENTRY 
 
 THIS is the history of a psychological ex- 
 perience. 
 
 We had had cold duck for supper and folk- 
 songs to follow. At a subsequent hour the 
 experience took place. 
 
 It took place in what I imagined to be my 
 garden, although the darkness which pre- 
 vailed at the time prevented me from forming 
 any exact topographical ideas. Besides, I 
 was dressed in a garment entirely unsuited to 
 the time and place, and the lower part of my 
 legs lacked even the meagre covering which 
 that afforded. I wrapped it round them as 
 well as I could. The grass appeared to be 
 very wet. It tickled my bare toes. The dew 
 fell gently on my head, reminding me of that 
 fine old ballad, " The Amorous Financier " : 
 
 The pawnbroker stood at the trysting gate, 
 
 With the wild rose wreathed in his hair, 
 " Lieber Gott ! " he exclaimed, " 'tis a quarter to eight, 
 
 Why tarries the Lady Clare ? 
 no
 
 The Last of the Gentry 1 1 1 
 
 " The dew, the gentle dew," quoth he, 
 
 " Is falling everywhere : 
 I am widowed and thirsty and sixty-three, 
 
 And the top of my head is bare." 
 
 I am not a pawnbroker, nor am I sixty- 
 three, but the life which I lead is as wearing 
 as any pawnbroker's, and my physical apex 
 as arid. I, too, cursed the dew. The Ex- 
 perience then manifested itself, saying, in a 
 thin voice, " Oh, sir ! " 
 
 At this I ceased to think about my own 
 discomforts. I forgot about the dew, the 
 wind, and the damp place I was standing on. 
 The emotion of Curiosity took possession of 
 me, and I looked at the place from which the 
 Voice came from. I looked, and all that I 
 saw at first was a sundial pedestal. (This 
 makes me feel sure that the whole thing hap- 
 pened in my garden though what I was doing 
 there at that .hour in that costume in dew, 
 only the good God who made ducks can know.) 
 However ! 
 
 On looking again at the sundial pedestal, I 
 perceived that it was now surmounted by 
 some extraneous object. On looking yet 
 again, I saw what that object was. It was a 
 little man. 
 
 The little man was rather gaily attired. He
 
 H2 Moby Lane 
 
 wore green breeches, a red plush waistcoat, a 
 green cut-away coat, and a little red hat. He 
 was a very little man indeed, scarcely ex- 
 ceeding in stature the height of two breakfast 
 cups. He stood on the dial-face, with his 
 legs crossed, grasping the time-indicator, or 
 " style," with his right hand. The top of the 
 style reached up well up to his waist. All 
 this I saw by the light of my cigarette 
 though why I should have been smoking in 
 that place at that time in that However ! 
 
 The little man addressed me. He said : 
 
 "Good evening, friend. 'Tis cold work, 
 eh this waiting about for the night owl ? 
 He ought to ha' started an hour ago, the lazy 
 oold raascal." 
 
 " The night owl is nothing to me," I said. 
 
 The little man released the style and came 
 to the edge of his pedestal, leaning forward 
 and looking at me with evident curiosity. 
 " Not waiting for the night owl ? " he said. 
 " Good gracious ! What are you doing here, 
 then, at this time, in that ! " 
 
 " I am here," I answered, rather resenting 
 his tone, " for a very good reason of my own. 
 If it comes to that what are you doing here, 
 on my pedestal ? " 
 
 " You don't need to ask me that," replied
 
 The Last of the Gentry 113 
 
 the little fellow, with a grin, "you know what 
 I am." 
 
 " Yes, I think I know what you are," I 
 answered. " You are something I can't 
 pronounce." 
 
 " Then spell it," said the little man. 
 
 " But I can't spell it." 
 
 " Then try to spell it." 
 So I tried to spell it thus : " Leprachaun." 
 
 The little man threw up his face and 
 sniffed. ' You seem to take me for some 
 sort of Irishman ? " he suggested. 
 
 " Well," I replied, " it's an Irish idea, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Don't you believe it," cried the wee 
 person, hitting his metal platform with a 
 little oak stick. ' Your whole theory is 
 about as wrong as a theory could be. To 
 begin with, I'm not an idea at all. I'm a 
 person the oldest person in Sussex. My 
 mother was a Sussex person, my father was a 
 Sussex person ; all their ancestors were 
 Sussex persons. I've lived in Sussex myself 
 for three hundred years. I'm the last of the 
 Gentry. That's what they call us in Sussex : 
 the Gentry. You ask old Peter Dumbrell, who 
 mends your hedges. You ask him what he 
 knows about the Gentry. He'll tell you lots. 
 
 H
 
 ii4 Moby Lane 
 
 "As to our being an Irish idea, that's all 
 nonsense : self-evident nonsense. We were 
 going strong in all the old English songs and 
 bogey-tales before Ireland was heard of. 
 Why, I myself was turning Sussex milk and 
 changing Sussex babies before they had a 
 cow or a cradle in Ireland. What nonsense 
 it all is ! They'll be telling us soon that corpse 
 lights are an Irish notion." 
 
 "And aren't they?" 
 
 " Just listen to the fellow ! " exclaimed 
 the little green man, apostrophising the place 
 where the moon ought to be. " Why, my 
 own sister made the very last corpse lights 
 which were seen in the British Isles she made 
 them herself, of sheep's fat and sulphur and 
 tow, and the secret died with her, a hundred 
 years ago. There never was a corpse light in 
 Ireland at all. They stole the idea from 
 Ashdown Forest, and pretended that it hap- 
 pened in their dreary bogs and made a lot 
 of moaning songs about it. What place is 
 this?" 
 
 " I think it is my garden." 
 
 "It's a dull hole. Even the night owls 
 seem to avoid it, confound them ! " 
 
 " Why ' confound them ' ? " 
 
 " Because I can't go away till the night owls
 
 The Last of the Gentry 1 1 5 
 
 come about. That's the rule, you know. I 
 try to follow the rules as well as I can, being 
 the last of the Gentry. If I didn't follow 
 them, nobody would, and they'd simply die 
 out. I'm sick of things dying out. It's jolly 
 inconvenient for me, in some ways, I can tell 
 you, this dying-out craze. Food, for instance. 
 I haven't had a meal for thirteen years- 
 Nobody puts down food for The Gentry any 
 more. It's died out ! It isn't long ago 
 eighty years, perhaps so recently, at any 
 rate, that even a young man like you ought 
 to remember it since everybody used to leave 
 out a bit of supper for The Gentry. A saucer 
 of milk, a sippet of bread, and a little white 
 napkin to rub his bald head : that was the 
 regulation plan. Why, a year or two ago, 
 when you were a boy of thirty, perhaps, there 
 wasn't a farmer in Sussex who would dare to 
 lock up and go to bed before leaving my 
 napkin, and my bread and my milk outside 
 the dairy door. Nowadays they never even 
 think of it. 
 
 " But, then, look at the people nowadays. 
 That's what I say : Look at them ! And look 
 at the places where they live : Haywards 
 Heath, Burgess Hill, Hassocks ! Oh, it's 
 well I'm the last of The Gentry. What
 
 u6 Moby Lane 
 
 would my old father say, or my old Gramp, if 
 they came back and saw these rattle patches 
 spreading, spreading everywhere, all over the 
 big wild places w r here Gentry and weasels used 
 to lie among the gorse ? 
 
 "I'm glad to be the last of us, I tell you. 
 The people have changed. Nowadays they 
 laugh at Gentlemen like me. Therefore I 
 don't often let the people see me. The last 
 time anybody saw me was five years ago, and 
 he was a man that made bricks, and we met 
 each other suddenly, on a Saturday night, 
 along the twitten that's over the hills, the 
 twitten that leads to the sea. And when this 
 fellow saw me, I thought he'd die of laughing ! 
 ' Ho, ho ! ' he says, ' Ha, ha ! He, he ! Why, 
 there's a funny face ! ' And that was all 
 he said. 
 
 " I tell you candidly, young man, it's 
 years since anybody screamed at me. I 
 wonder whether you would scream at me, 
 just for old sake's sake ? " 
 
 I couldn't refuse to oblige the little man, 
 and so I screamed at him. He stood erect, 
 defiant, peering proudly into the darkness. 
 " Now another," he demanded when I had 
 finished screaming. So I screamed again. 
 This time the emotion of triumph overcame
 
 him, and he danced about on the dial-plate, 
 waving his stick ; and sparks flew up from 
 beneath his little boot-heels. " One more ! 
 One more ! " he cried, and I screamed a third 
 time. At which he vanished utterly. And 
 dogs began to bark. 
 
 It then occurred to me that it was dark and 
 cold, that dew was falling, and the grass was 
 wet, and that I was imperfectly attired. 
 And a Voice which I knew well spoke unto me 
 saying : 
 
 " But whatever are you doing on the 
 
 lawn, at this time of night, in that ? " 
 
 " Cold duck," I answered, and went to the 
 kitchen door. 
 
 " And what are you doing now ? " the 
 Voice demanded. 
 
 "Locking up," I answered. 
 " Isn't it taking a very long time ? " per- 
 sisted the Voice. 
 
 I explained that the doorstep required to 
 be dressed. 
 
 " Doorstep dressed ! " echoed the Voice. 
 " What with ? " 
 
 " Oh, the usual dressing," I replied : "A 
 saucer of milk, a sippet of bread, and a little 
 white napkin to rub his bald head."
 
 XIII 
 BENNY DODD'S ADVENTURE. 
 
 BENNY DODD is our village postman : a 
 round, short, solemn man, having withal a 
 certain nimbleness. He sits his bicycle in a 
 round, short, solemn manner, but he has an 
 abrupt, unexpected, authoritative way of 
 ringing his bell, a quick, decisive way of jump- 
 ing off, an impetuous way of jumping on. 
 He is, in fact, despite his shortness and his 
 roundness, an agile, jerky man. Many short, 
 round men are like that. 
 
 One morning, there being a promise of sun 
 in the sky, though a realisation of humid 
 darkness in the wind, I worked my way to 
 Goddard's Piece ; and there I stood against 
 a gate and brooded, puffing my pipe, stuffing 
 my soul, and pretending, against all evidence, 
 that August is as August was. 
 
 While I was pushing my heart against 
 the gate, while I was watching the vapours 
 rise from Goddard's Piece, the overhanging 
 clouds were suddenly forced or prised apart 
 and a little chink of sunlight elbowed its way 
 
 118
 
 through and illuminated Goddard's Piece. 
 It disclosed to my vision a gaily lighted 
 scene. 
 
 It showed me Goddard's Piece, a square 
 of vivid green, backed by tall poplars, which 
 formed a high screen of less vivid colour. In 
 this screen there was a central opening, 
 formed by the path, or glade, which leads 
 to Bartlett's Mead another green field 
 and to Copperkin's Wood, which lie beyond. 
 Through this opening there issued suddenly 
 into the sunlight a bright crimson object, 
 jingling loudly. I thought at first that some 
 sort of little fire-engine had come bursting 
 out of Copperkin's Wood. 
 
 Then I looked again, and saw that the 
 crimson object was nothing more unusual 
 than Benny Dodd's official bicycle, which 
 Benny was pushing not riding at high 
 speed. As Benny, though noticeably agile, 
 is not a professional acrobat, it did not sur- 
 prise me to find that he had dismounted from 
 his bicycle in order to propel it along the 
 craggy and intricate paths which traverse 
 our woods and fields. What did surprise me, 
 however, was the extraordinary speed at 
 which Mr. Dodd was pushing his bicycle. 
 
 Post-office bicycles are not light objects
 
 I2O Moby Lane 
 
 in themselves. Their perfectly " regardless" 
 equipment of red paint must weigh something, 
 to say nothing of their over-sized tyres and 
 reinforced frames, to which must be added 
 not less than two hundredweight of bulging 
 mail-bag. But Mr. Dodd was shoving his 
 little old bicycle along as though it was 
 feather's weight. The mail-bags were flap- 
 ping, the brackets, bells, and things were 
 jingling. Mr. Dodd himself perspired and 
 panted. Yet on they came, he and his 
 bicycle, straining, leaping, bumping. ... A 
 wreath of smoke, with which was associated 
 a thudding sound and a booming noise, 
 pursued them closely. 
 
 I thought at first it must be poison gas ; 
 but then I looked again, and saw it was a 
 . . . cow a piebald cow, all black and 
 white, with steaming nostrils and red eyes. 
 And then I looked again, and saw it was a 
 bull. 
 
 Yea, it was a bull a regular, right-down, 
 royal bull, and no mistake about it. It 
 emitted bellows, in addition to the steam and 
 smoke short, triumphant bellows. 
 
 It was a well-set-up sort of bull broad 
 shouldered, burly, massive. It had a hard, 
 round, wide-nostrilled, indelicate, negroid face,
 
 Benny Dodcfs Adventure 121 
 
 surmounted by tufts of wool and two short 
 horns. Its breast was profusely flecked with 
 blobs of white foam, which it performed with 
 its mouth in the intervals of uttering noises 
 and issuing smoke. 
 
 Oh, it was a bull all right : a good bull, 
 fully grown, and every way equal to the 
 standard set by the best Spanish illustrators. 
 Every five yards or so it would stop, shoot a 
 lot of smoke at Benny Dodd, roar loudly, 
 shake its horns, and paw, pummel, or pound 
 the earth with its forefeet. It would then 
 resume the offensive. 
 
 In the meantime, Benny kept shuffling 
 on. Grasping the Government bicycle firmly 
 by its handle-bar, he buzzed it along, together 
 with the Government mails, at an average 
 speed of not less than fourteen miles per 
 hour. His face was red and swollen. The 
 Government mail-bags kept flapping back 
 and hitting it. His breathing was laboured, 
 stertorous, intense. Benny Dodd was hard 
 pressed. 
 
 I leant against the gate. I held my 
 breath. I let my pipe go out. I waved 
 my stick. I cheered. " Buck up, Benny ! " 
 I exclaimed. " Only six yards more. You'll 
 beat him yet."
 
 122 Moby Lane 
 
 But Benny's strength was nearly ex- 
 hausted. His pace began to flag. The bull 
 gained on him. Horrible, gaspy, gurgling 
 noises came out of Benny's mouth. His face 
 was all distorted. His eyes were dull and 
 glazed. I saw a fatal numbness overtaking 
 him. I thought his time had come. So I 
 gave him one cheer more. 
 
 But, mirabile dictu I Benny made another 
 effort a final, triumphant effort. My cheer, 
 I suppose, had encouraged him. 
 
 When he had reached within two yards of 
 the gate the bull had reached within two feet 
 of him. The bull had got his head down. 
 His horns were pointing straight at Benny's 
 back. His eyes gave forth sparks, and smoke 
 poured from his nostrils. I could see the 
 Adam's apple working up and down in Benny's 
 throat. I nearly fainted at my gate. Then 
 . . . Benny came to life again. 
 
 With a sudden agile, unexpected move- 
 ment, almost superhuman in its swiftness, 
 force, and dexterity, Benny flung the bicycle 
 away from him. It cleared the gate by a 
 fraction, and cleared my cheek by half a 
 fraction, and then fell, clattering to the road 
 behind me. Almost at the same moment 
 Benny himself leapt forward. He flung him-
 
 123 
 
 self across the gate and fell into my arms, 
 gibbering, gasping, helpless, inert. ... A 
 second later the bull came crashing into the 
 gate, smashing its cross-stay into a thousand 
 splinters. But Benny was safe ! 
 
 I laid him on the grass beside the road. 
 I patted his hand. I blew on his forehead. 
 He opened one eye weakly and gave me a 
 glance of gratitude. 
 
 " My God ! " I exclaimed, " he nearly had 
 you, Benny." 
 
 Benny managed to gasp out a reply. 
 ' Yes," he said. " He nearly h has me 
 every morning ! "
 
 XIV 
 
 THE HORSE-DEALER 
 
 HE did not really live at Hailsham. He 
 lived at a place which is remote from Hail- 
 sham. I call him " The Horse-Dealer of 
 Hailsham," however, in order to throw my 
 readers off the scent, and in order to achieve 
 an alliterative effect. 
 
 The horse-dealer's name was Pennylove. 
 He was one of those active young men of 
 seventy, with red hair. The worst of red- 
 haired horse-dealers is that they never die. 
 
 Mr. Pennylove explained that he was only 
 a horse-dealer by accident. His true vocation 
 was that of a plumber and undertaker. 
 
 I happened to find him on the roadside, 
 courting, and I asked the way to Hailsham. 
 In directing me to that hive of industry and 
 true-blue sentiment, Mr. Pennylove took 
 occasion to offer certain criticisms in reference 
 to the pony and pony-waggon with which I 
 happened to be equipped. Mr. Pennylove 
 
 said: 
 
 124
 
 The Horse-Dealer 125 
 
 " That's a poor le'l pony you got there. 
 Breed 'im yourself ? " 
 
 I didn't attempt to deceive Mr. Pennylove. 
 I told him the simple truth, which was that I 
 had not bred the pony, but had bought him 
 at auction for more than three pounds, and 
 that he was a very good pony. 
 
 " Well," responded Mr. Pennylove, with 
 remarkable acuteness, " I only got to look 
 at 'im to see as 'e bean't one o' my breedin'. 
 The ponies what / breed, they brings in forty 
 guineas and more. I bin breedin' ponies 
 for more'n thirty yeer. Breedin' ponies 
 bean't my business, mind ya. I'm a plumber 
 and undertaker, be rights. I buried our late 
 Squire." 
 
 I congratulated Mr. Pennylove upon this 
 feat, and asked the way to Hailsham. 
 
 " All in good time," said Mr. Pennylove. 
 ' The first time," he added, " as ever I begun 
 to do much with 'orses to say do much 
 that was five and thirty yeer ago come 
 August. An old schoolmate o' mine a man 
 be name o' Thomas Tupper he happened 
 to be out o' work at the time, and I hap- 
 pened for to lend him a helping hand. I 
 be allus one for lending anybody a helping 
 hand "
 
 126 Moby Lane 
 
 "Perhaps you could tell the way to 
 Hailsham," I interjected. 
 
 "All in good time," answered Mr. Pennylove. 
 " I be allus a one for doing good turns to 
 people. On'y this very morning I walked 
 a mile to the work'ouse, on purpose for to 
 look at this very man what we be speakin' of 
 this here Thomas Tupper, what be growed 
 too old for work. ' Good morning, Thomas/ 
 I says to him : ' I areun't forgotten you, you 
 see. I be come here on purpose for to see as 
 you be still live, and not more nuisance than 
 you got to be.' And Thomas, he say, ' God 
 bless you, sir, and thank you, sir ; I bean't 
 dead yet.' " 
 
 " Do I turn to the left for Hailsham ? " 
 1 ventured at this moment to inquire. 
 
 " All in good time," responded Mr. Penny- 
 love. " We' 11 come to that presently. About 
 this here Tom Tupper, now. I be allus one 
 for showing kindness to any one, and I hap- 
 pened to be walking lame at the time, owing 
 to a le'l accident which befel me coming down 
 the steps at the King's Head, and this here 
 Tom Tupper, what was a old schoolmate o 1 
 mine, he happened to be out o' work at the 
 time, and his missus feelin' poorly, an 
 another baby comin' ; so I says to him,
 
 The Horse- Dealer 127 
 
 ' Tom/ I say, ' Old Mate/ I say, ' this won't 
 never do/ I say, ' you can't go on like this. 
 You'll 'ave to find some work to do/ I say. 
 
 " Old Tom, he look at me sorrowful and he 
 say : ' That's just what I wishes I could find, 
 Mr. Pennylove.' 'Well, Tom/ I tals 'im, 
 ' if you can' t find the work, I got to find it for 
 you. That's all there is about it.' And old 
 Tom, he looks at me with tears in 'is eyes, and 
 he say : ' God bless you, Mr. Pennylove ! ' 
 
 And What be you pullin' that there 
 
 'orse round for ? " demanded Mr. Pennylove, 
 suddenly. " That bean't the rood to Hail- 
 sham. Jest you attend to me, and never 
 mind about pullin' that there 'orse around. 
 /'// tal ye which rood to take when the time 
 come. 
 
 " And so," continued Mr. Pennylove, " the 
 long and short of it be as I make old Tom 
 a offer. ' Now, look a-here, Tom/ I say to 
 him, ' that sim to me as if I got to find some 
 work for you to do. Well, Tom/ I say, ' the 
 work's a thing what I can find you easy. 'Tis 
 the wages what trouble me. I got a big busi- 
 ness to keep up and a dozen men or more 
 what I got to find employment for. But 
 there's a 'orse-boy in the firm what don't 
 work 'ard enough, and I don't trust 'is drivin'
 
 128 Moby Lane 
 
 and I be lame, and somebody's got to drive 
 me. I thought o' gettin' rid of 'im. You 
 can come along if you like, Tom, and take on 
 'is work, and I'll give ye the same money 
 eight shillin' a week we pays 'im. 'Tain't a 
 great lot o' money, Tom, I know, but you be 
 out o' work and you bean't the man you used 
 to be. Take it or leave it. 'Tis all I got to 
 offer. I only offers it at all 'cos you and me 
 be old schoolmates.' 
 
 " Old Tom, he say : ' God bless you, Mr. 
 Pennylove ! ' And so we made the bargain. 
 What you boobin' up and down for, Mister ? 
 May as well sit still. You won't find out the 
 Hailsham rood be boobin' up and boobin' 
 down duck fashion. 
 
 " Now, let me see. Where be we ? Ah ! 
 Old Tom. Well, Tom, he took on this job 
 what I offered him, and he come into our yard 
 for to look arter the horses, and to drive me 
 about a bit and look arter me, me bein' lame, 
 same as I tal ye. 
 
 ' Well, one day, when we be drivin' out to 
 a le'l village over beyand theer, for to measure 
 a party for a corfin, old Tom he tal me as he 
 know another party thereabouts what got a 
 little horse for sale. ' He want ten pound for 
 it/ says Tom. "Tis a poor le'l 'orse to look
 
 The Horse-Dealer 129 
 
 at, but I know as 'tis a good 'un, and I know 
 the man what it belong to and I know as he 
 kept it dreadful poor. I know if that le'l 
 'orse was to get a few weeks' rest and grazing, 
 as he would come on wonderful. That's a 
 twenty-guinea horse,' says Tom, ' if on'y he be 
 properly looked after. You buy that le'l 
 'orse, guv' nor, and you rest 'im. It woon't 
 cost ye 'ardly naarthun to graze 'im, and if he 
 don't fetch his twenty pund in June, you can 
 stop the difference out o' my wages/ 
 
 ' Well, I thought the matter over. Tom, 
 he drove me to the man's place what had the 
 J orse, and I seed him. Tom, he say as that be 
 a well-shaped le'l 'orse. I turned the matter 
 over, accordin' to what old Tom had said, and 
 I see as I didn't stand to lose naarthun ; for 
 even if the old 'orse didn't come up to Tom's 
 idea of him, 'twas Tom would lose the dif- 
 ference, for I should stop it out o' his wages, 
 same as he said. 
 
 " So I says to him, ' Well, Tom,' I say, 
 ' I' 11 buy the' orse V 
 
 " And Tom, he says : " God bless you, Mr. 
 Pennylove ! ' 
 
 " Well, sir," pursued the horse-dealer, " I 
 bought that old thing, same as Tom advised 
 
 me, and Tom he hitched him up behind our 
 
 I
 
 130 Moby Lane 
 
 cart and we brought him home. I paid ten 
 pound for the horse, and the man what he 
 belong to, he give Tom a shilling for hisself, 
 so I need 'ardly tal you as Tom were more 
 than grateful to me. 
 
 "Well, sir, we got the 'orse 'ome, and 
 that's the beginning of my story : that's 'ow 
 I started for to breed 'orses. Don't fidget. 
 I hates to tal a story to anyone what fidget. 
 'Ailsham don't lie where you be lookin' ; so 
 you may jest 'swell look at me and, listen. 
 
 " So soon as we be got 'ome with the horse, 
 Tom he fetches out my wife the one I had 
 then : an obligin' woman for to look at 
 him. 
 
 " ' Well/ says my wife, "tis a poor-looken 
 thing, and no mistake ; but I'll say this for 
 Tom, as 'e ain't ever wrong about a 'orse 
 leastways, I never knowed 'im be and if 
 on'y Tom can find the time to look arter 'im, 
 I'll lay as he make something of him/ 
 
 " ' Tom' 11 'ave to make time/ I says, ' or 
 else pay the penalty/ 
 
 " And Tom, 'e says, * That's right, sir, 
 thank you, sir/ 
 
 "Well, I will say this of old Tom, as 'e 
 stood to 'is bargain. We be extraornarary 
 busy at the time that was a splendid yeer
 
 The Horse-Dealer 131 
 
 for mortality and Tom he got more and 
 enough to do lookin' arter his reg'lar employ- 
 ment drivin' his master about and carin' for 
 the beasts what we use in the business, without 
 spendin' my time in the medder, arter this 
 old 'orse. But Tom, he be a managing chap, 
 and he find the opportunity in 'is own time. 
 Night arter night, when he'd done his reg'lar 
 day's work, up at our yard, old Tom, he doddles 
 off to the medder, and there he stops till arter 
 dark, patting this old 'orse and brushing him 
 and feeding him with corn and mash and God 
 knows what. 
 
 " And at last, in the hay-making time, old 
 Tom, he come up to the house one night, and 
 he ask to see me, and then he tal as he have 
 took the horse into the market that same 
 arternoon, and he have sold him. Twenty- 
 two-pun-ten he got for the horse, so wonder- 
 ful improved that be since I had had the 
 owning of him. 
 
 " ' Well, Tom/ I says, ' you been as good 
 as your word and a bit over.' And I gives 
 the man two shillun for 'isself. That didn't 
 half please old Tom, I can promise you. You 
 oughter ha' sin him go hoppen home to tal his 
 old missus the story. 
 
 * f But the best is yet to come. What ya
 
 132 Moby Lane 
 
 looken at yare watch for ? What's the 
 hurry ? Hailsham areun't gointer run away 
 from the likes of you. If Isaac Pennylove 
 got the patience to converse with you, I dare- 
 say you got time to listen to him. 
 
 ' The morning after this day, when I made 
 so good a price over the old 'orse, Tom, he 
 come up to me again with a new notion in 'is 
 'ead. He tal me as a gentleman what used 
 to live in the neighbourhood, in that big house 
 back there as is now a school, have had a mis- 
 fortune with a fine black mare of his what he 
 paid sixty guineas for in the autumn for to 
 drive in his phaeton along of his darters. 
 ' One o' the young ladies,' says Tom, ' they've 
 had 'er down in Flint Lane, and her knees 
 look pretty awkward. Mr. Tunks that be 
 this gentleman's name he talks of shootin' 
 her. Now, governor, you give me twenty 
 pound and let me goo round to the gentleman's 
 'ouse and see what I can do about it. There 
 bean't a better-bred mare of her size in 
 Sussex,' says Tom, ' nor yet a better-looking 
 one, and they knees of hers bean't neer so 
 bad as what they seem to be. You buy the 
 mare, guvernor, and breed from 'er. Time 
 she've rested for a twal-months and 'ad her 
 foal, you'll 'ave a mare worth thirty guineas
 
 The Horse-Dealer 133 
 
 and a colt worth double. Let me goo round 
 now, governor, while the gentleman be in the 
 mind to part.' 
 
 " Well, now, I'd been at the 'orse-dealin' 
 long enough be this time to know as Tom 
 were a man as I could trust ; so arter thinkin' 
 the matter over, I gives 'imthe twenty pound, 
 same as he said, and away goes Tom. 
 
 " Arter an hour or two, Tom comes back, 
 and the mare with him. He'd bought her 
 for eighteen guineas ! I give him a trifle 
 for hisself, and the pore chap fairly cried ; 
 and arter his work was done that night, off 
 he trudges into Hailsham for to buy some 
 chemicals to dress the poor mare's knees. 
 When we come to look at them, there be only 
 one of 'em as be damaged any sense at all, 
 and Tom, he say as that bean't near so bad 
 as some he've seen. Tom's wife, she tal me 
 as she never 'ardly see the man all through 
 that next fortnight. So soon as his day's 
 work in the yard be over, up'd go Tom to the 
 medder and stay till black dark, tendin' the 
 poor mare's knees. 
 
 " Time the mare had her foal, nobody 
 would believe, not unless they was to look at 
 her knees through a telescope, as she had ever 
 fell down in her life ; and the foal, that was
 
 134 Moby Lane 
 
 a reg'lar beauty. So soon as she was fit to 
 work, Tom, he drove me out behind the 
 mother, and we hadn't gone a mile from the 
 house before a gentleman as met us orfered 
 me forty guineas for her ! But Tom and me, 
 we knowed better than to part with her, 
 seein' what class of foal it be as she was giving. 
 But I didn't forget to mention the circum- 
 stances up at the inn, and they told me I 
 could count meself a lucky man. ' Never 
 mind moi luck,' I tals 'em. ' You put your 
 money on moi judgment' And Penny love's 
 judgment have been knowed and respected 
 in this parish ever since." 
 
 " What do you judge to be the distance 
 between here and Hailsham ? " I then inter- 
 polated, " and which is the best way to get 
 there ? " 
 
 But the horse-dealer of Hailsham ignored 
 this utterance, and continued to talk, wearing 
 an entranced expression. 
 
 " I sold her foal for sixty guineas," said 
 Mr. Penny love, " and another one for eighty. 
 That was a mare ; and I bought her back 
 again for thirty, two years later, arter they 
 had let her down, pore thing. And then my 
 first old mare, she had a foal what I wouldn't 
 sell at all, but kep' and showed him, and he
 
 The Horse-Dealer 135 
 
 took prizes everywhere ; and what with him 
 and his sister and one or two other things what 
 I bought in, I was able to give old Tom the 
 wish of his life and start my breed o' black 
 hackneys, what is now so well beknown to 
 every gentleman in Sussex. I reckon as my 
 horse-breedin' has been worth as much as two 
 thousand pound to me, taken from first to 
 last. I been breedin' now for thirty yeers, and 
 only made but one mistake ; and that was 
 poor old Tom's. He sold my first old mare for 
 eighteen guineas, the same as I gave for her. 
 She be more'n twenty yeer old at the time, 
 but still a remarkable one to go and wonder- 
 ful pretty to look at and wonderful kind. 
 
 ' There was an old lady lived in the village 
 then, what took a grand fancy to the old thing, 
 and Tom was well disposed to this old lady, 
 for she was in the habit of givin' him 'bacca. 
 The upshot of it was as I allowed myself to 
 be over-persuaded, and I sold this old mare to 
 this lady for the same money what she had cost 
 me twenty yeers before. It seemed a good 
 price at the time. But a week arter I'd sold 
 the creeture, I found as there was another 
 old lady in the parish as would willingly 
 have given me five guineas more for her. 
 
 " Well, I never said naarthun to poor old
 
 136 Moby Lane 
 
 Tom about it ; 'twould on'y have vexed the 
 man. But I could see as he be growed a bit 
 too old for his work, and as his missus were 
 dead be this time and his children all growed 
 up and able to look after theirselves, I just 
 eased him off into the workus. He's livin' 
 there now, and I be just come from visitin' 
 him. I took him the news about a colt o' 
 mine, the great-great-grandson of this old 
 mare, what I've sold for a hundred guineas at 
 the show. I thought the old fellar would ha' 
 cried, he be that pleased to see me. 
 
 " Well, sir, that's the story of my horse- 
 breedin'. What do you think about it ? " 
 
 " I think," I answered, " that if you stand 
 between me and Hailsham any longer, old 
 Pennylove, I shall run you down." With 
 that we went our ways.
 
 XV 
 BARCLAY'S SHOP 
 
 ANN WALSTEAD Ann Walstead II., I ought 
 to call her : because, although her fickle mother 
 is dead to me, she is not dead to all the world 
 Ann Walstead II. came to tea with me the 
 other afternoon, and remarked in a distinct 
 voice on the absence of seed cake. 
 
 I defended this omission with the old, old 
 plea that there was plenty of plum. Ann Wal- 
 stead II. made short work of that argument. 
 
 " Plum cake is not very good for people in 
 hot weather/' she said. " I am not supposed 
 to eat plum cake, and besides, it isn't plum 
 cake : it is currant cake. Only common 
 people say ' Plum cake/ And it doesn't look 
 like a very nice currant cake, and vere isn't 
 much of it." 
 
 The truth of this statement was so obvious 
 Ann II.'s visit was unexpected, you see, 
 and I had not had time to prepare for it that 
 I did not attempt to deny it. I adopted 
 another line of defence, also an old one, I 
 being a collector of antiques. I said : 
 
 137
 
 138 Moby Lane 
 
 1 The truth is, Ann, that I have been 
 measured for a new piece of pi currant cake, 
 but it has not yet come home. The caker 
 hasn't sent it yet. He says he won't send it 
 until I pay for it, and I say I won't pay for it 
 until next Saturday. I don't get my pocket 
 money till Saturday." 
 
 This argument succeeded. Ann II. re- 
 garded me with a deeply sympathetic gaze. 
 " You poor old fing," she said. " How 
 dreadfully inconvenient ! I know all about it, 
 because I have to wait until Saturdays too. 
 And ven they very often forget me. Do they 
 ever forget you ? " 
 
 " Often and often," I replied. 
 
 " Oh, rotten ! " exclaimed Miss Walstead. 
 She was silent for a little while, considering 
 the situation in all its hollow decadence. At 
 last, frowning thoughtfully, she spoke again. 
 
 " I don't understand," she said, " why a 
 grown-up person like you are puts up wiv this 
 pocket money business at all. When you are 
 young, you have to take what you can get ; 
 but when I am as old as you are, I shall go to 
 Barclay's shop in Blowfield, like Muggins does." 
 
 Muggins is Miss Walstead' s father. " Why 
 don't you get some money from Barclay's 
 shop ? " continued that young lady.
 
 Bar clay] s Shop 139 
 
 " I don't think I know Barclay's shop 
 unless you are talking of the ban " 
 
 " Of course you know Barclay's shop," 
 insisted Miss Walstead. " Everybody knows 
 it. Barclay's money shop, you know, in 
 Blowfield. You write how much you want on 
 a piece of pink paper and vey give it to 
 you." 
 
 " I think," I admitted, " that I do know 
 the shop to which you refer." 
 
 " Of course you do," repeated Ann II. 
 " Barclay's shop is a lovely big shop, and 
 there is a long, brown, shiny table in it, and 
 Mr. Barclay and all his sons vey stand behind 
 this table all day long to give people money. 
 Mr. Barclay has white hair and two or free 
 chins, and vere is bits of white hair on vem, and 
 his collar is made wide open, to show vem off. 
 But Mr. Barclay's sons are "beautiful. Vey 
 are all very young, wiv lovely yellow hair, all 
 stuck down flat. And vey have only got one 
 chin, and vey wear tall, tight collars and 
 pretty waistcoats. And Mr. Barclay has 
 given each of his sons a little golden-coloured 
 spade, and vey dig out the money with vese 
 spades and ven vey weigh it in a golden- 
 coloured weighing ring. Nannah and me, 
 we often go to Barclay's shop wiv a bit of
 
 140 Moby Lane 
 
 pink paper what Muggins has drawn words 
 on. And when we go into the shop, Mr. 
 Barclay's sons, vey all look very pleased and 
 Nannah looks very red, and vey dig up pounds 
 and pounds wiv veir little gold spades an' 
 give vem to us for Muggins. And when Mr. 
 Barclay hears vem digging, he comes out. He 
 comes out from ve little wooden house behind 
 his sons, and he don't look at Nannah, but he 
 looks at me, and he shows his teef to me and 
 rubs his hands togever, and he says : ' Dear, 
 dear ! It's little Miss Walstead. And how 
 is little Miss Walstead vis morning ? ' 
 
 " When I am as big as you are," continued 
 Ann II., " / shan't bother waitin' about for 
 Saturday. I shall buy some pink papers, 
 like Muggins has got, and I shall change them 
 for money at Mr. Barclay's shop." 
 
 " That's a jolly good idea," I cried. 
 
 " Ven why don't you do vat ? " demanded 
 Miss Walstead. " Ven you could have a 
 nicer cake for tea ? " 
 
 " I haven't got any pink paper," responded 
 your servant. " And if I had it would be the 
 wrong paper, or I should draw the wrong words 
 on it, or something. I'm always unlucky in 
 those things." 
 
 " You are like Mr. Rummery/' said Ann II.
 
 Barclay's Shop 141 
 
 " Am I indeed ! " I replied. The tone in 
 which I uttered this exclamation was perhaps 
 a little frigid. Mr. Rummery is a husband- 
 man, who is employed by Anne's father. He 
 is a rather aged husbandman. He has bow 
 legs and a squint, and he is toothless. His 
 back is permanently cricked, there are knobs 
 on his hands, and when he talks he bubbles. 
 Like all professional writers, I have cultivated 
 the art of seeming older than my years ; but 
 but, dammit, I don't want to seem as old as 
 Mr. Rummery. 
 
 " Mr. Rummery is unlucky in vose rings, 
 too, ve same as you are," pursued Miss Wai- 
 stead. 
 
 " I found vat out last week, when Mr. 
 Rummery was digging in ve garden. It was 
 Saturday, and Muggins had given him his 
 pocket money. He often forgets my pocket 
 money, but he never forgets Mr. Rummery 's. 
 He says vat Mr. Rummery works for his 
 pocket money. 
 
 " And I spoke to Mr. Rummery, and I 
 said : ' Why are you always digging, Mr. 
 Rummery ? ' And he said to me, ' ' Tis how 
 I gets me money, Miss.' 
 
 " And so I said to Mr. Rummery : ' But 
 vat's a very tiresome way of gettin' money.
 
 142 Moby Lane 
 
 Why don't you get your money from Mr. 
 Barclay's shop in Blowfield, ve same as 
 Muggins does ? ' And Mr. Rummery said, 
 1 1 can't hardly say I've ever fought of that, 
 Miss.' 
 
 " I said to Mr. Rummery : 'You ought to 
 go to Barclay's shop, in Blowfield, for your 
 money. Vat is the way vat all nice people 
 get veir money. Vey do not dig, and dig, and 
 dig, all day, like you do, Mr. Rummery, and 
 ven go round to ve study door on Saturdays 
 for pocket money, ve same as if vey was a 
 little girl. Vey goes to Mr. Barclay's shop, 
 in Blowfield, wiv pieces of pink paper. And 
 Mr. Barclay rubs his hands togever and gives 
 vem money for ve paper. He gives vem lots 
 of money. Pounds and pounds. He's got 
 some lovely sons, vviv yellow hair, and vey 
 digs out money wiv veir little golden spades 
 and vey weighs it in a little golden weighing 
 fing. You ought to go to Barclay's shop and 
 get some money, Mr. Rummery.' 
 
 " Mr. Rummery laughed when I said that. 
 ' Perhaps I ought, Miss/ he said, ' but then, 
 perhaps I haven't got the proper bits of 
 paper.' 
 
 " When Mr. Rummery said that," pursued 
 Miss Walstead, " I felt so sorry. So I fetched
 
 Barclays Shop 143 
 
 a piece of the pink paper out of a book in 
 Muggins' study, and I drawed some words on 
 it. And ven I went to Mr. Rummery and 
 made him leave off digging, and I made him 
 hold my hand, and I took him over the hill 
 and frough ve woods to Blowfield, and I took 
 him into Mr. Barclay's shop. And ven I said 
 to him : 
 
 " ' Mr. Barclay's sons will dig you up a lot 
 of money now, and ven you needn't go on 
 digging any more.' 
 
 " But Mr. Rummery, he is unlucky in vese 
 rings, like you are. Vey wouldn't dig out any 
 money for him. Vey took the piece of paper 
 what I had drawed words on and vey laughed 
 and vey knocked at ve wooden house where 
 Mr. Barclay lives, and Mr. Barclay he came 
 out, and he rubbed his hands togever and he 
 showed his teef to me and he said, ' Dear, dear ! 
 And how is little Miss Walstead vis morning ? ' 
 But when he looked at ve piece of paper, he 
 shook his head, and ven he tore ve paper up. 
 
 " Vey wouldn't dig up any money, so Mr. 
 Rummery and me, we went away. And Mr. 
 Rummery, he made a lot of bubbles wiv his 
 mouth, and said to me : 
 
 "'Ah! I fought vere was a catch in it, 
 somewhere.' "
 
 XVI 
 BEFRIENDING HER LADYSHIP 
 
 MR. JESSE MUTTON has now come to reside 
 within this parish, which is a great comfort, 
 for we have lacked a competent shoemaker 
 for some years. He has rented the daub-and- 
 wattle cottage at Sly Corner a ten-pound 
 matter, with a decent garden and he has 
 brought with him his father's father's last. 
 We do our best to keep him busy. 
 
 Mr. Mutton is by way also of understanding 
 oak, and will repair you an old table with 
 greater nicety and judgment than here and 
 there a fellow plying the secondary craft of 
 " Bodger." 
 
 I have been able to offer Mr. Mutton some 
 trifling employment in the bodging line. His 
 feeling for wood is deep and sincere. He has 
 a reverence for old timber, and an aptitude 
 for imparting an appearance of maturity to 
 that which is new. Such qualities and ac- 
 complishments as these were bound to secure 
 for Mr. Mutton the regard of honest men. I 
 
 think I can say without immodesty that Mr. 
 
 144
 
 Befriending her Ladyship 145 
 
 Mutton is now my friend. Besides, we have 
 up to a point, political sympathies in common. 
 That is to say, Mr. Mutton is all for cheap 
 leather and the preservation of footpaths. 
 Also, he is kind to the rich. 
 
 I first heard of Mr. Mutton's relations with 
 the governing classes when I went to his 
 cottage to discharge a debt of four shillings 
 and oddpence, arising out of a surgical 
 operation to a hen-house. 
 
 " They got a case o' sickness at the 'All/' 
 said Mr. Mutton. 
 
 " Indeed ! " I murmured idly, counting 
 four-and-sixpence into Mr. Mutton's palm. 
 " I saw the little doctor-man from Blowfield 
 driving that way in his gig." 
 
 "Ah!" assented Mr. Mutton. "That 
 would be Doctor Pope. There's a penny- 
 'a' penny change to come. Jes' you 'old on a 
 minute while I look through me pockets. Dr. 
 Pope, eh ? But 'e would be drivin' to the 
 gardener's lodge. They sim to rackon as 
 they got some sickness there as well." 
 
 " Quite an epidemic ! " I suggested. 
 
 ' The woman at the lodge," continued Mr. 
 Mutton, " she be in such a trot as never any- 
 body see, when I passed theer s' afternoon. 
 
 K
 
 146 Moby Lane 
 
 " I weer visitin' the 'All for to look up a 
 old carved chest which is missin' a rib or two. 
 The lady at the 'All, she seem to 'ave a 
 wonderful friendship for cottage folk us 
 carpenters and such like. Talks about callin' 
 to see my missus and what not. But that 
 chest of 'ern, I can't say as that's of much 
 account. 'Tis a shop affair, same as is 
 bought by all they made-o' -money folk as 
 goo to London for their farm' ouse furniture. 
 . . . Ah, now ! 'ere be that 'a' penny. 'Old 
 on another minute, sir, and I'll find the odd 
 penny. 'Tis keeping' o' so many nails and 
 knick-knacks in me pockets which muxes 
 me up. 
 
 " When," continued Mr. Mutton, " I got 
 to the 'All s' afternoon the gardener's wife, 
 she come runnin' out to me in a state o' fair 
 distraction, as the sayin' goo. ' Moi li'l boy,' 
 she say, ' 'e got 'is li'l throat swelled up that 
 unkid I think 'e be to die. I believe that be 
 the typhide,' she say, ' or else diftheria/ 
 
 " The woman tal me," continued Mr. 
 Mutton, " as she be out of 'er wits for to find 
 out ' ow to git the doctor up. 
 
 " ' I dursen leave this place/ she say, ' and 
 Tom 'e dursen leave the gardens. Jesse 
 Mutton/ she say, ' will ya do we a favour ?
 
 Befriending her Ladyship 147 
 
 Moi Tom would do as much for you/ she say. 
 ' Will ya ride into Blowfield, bein' as'ow you've 
 got yar bicycle, and fetch the doctor up ? 
 The li'l mite,' she say, ' can't swallow nuthin', 
 on'y some 'ot tomater sauce what I put with 
 a 'addick for to tempt 'im dinner-time. Will 
 ya fetch the doctor for we, Jesse ? ' 
 
 "I tal 'er," continued Mr. Mutton, " as I 
 can do better nor that. ' They got a tele- 
 phone up at the 'All,' I say. * I kin talk 
 through into Blowfield, and git the gentleman 
 immediate.' 
 
 " But the woman at the lodge, she won't 
 'ear naarthun about no telephone. ' 'Twon't 
 never do at all, that won't,' she say. 'The 
 Colonel, 'e would never overlook a pice of 
 impidence like that.' 
 
 " ' What do the Colonel matter ? ' I ask 
 'er. 
 
 " ' 'E matter a lot to we,' she gimme back. 
 * Tom would look pratty to be discharged 
 from a gentleman's service without any 
 character. Now, do as I arst you, Mr. 
 Mutton, and ride into Blowfield. The poor 
 li'l mite, 'e've got a dreadful chocked-up 
 swaller.' 
 
 " Well," pursued Mr. Mutton, " I tal her 
 to cheer up and keep smilin', and I will ride
 
 148 Moby Lane 
 
 into Blowfield and fetch up Doctor Pope, 
 same as she asked me. ' But 'twould be 
 quicker and easier to talk along the telephone/ 
 I say. 
 
 " ' No, no ! ' she answered back. ' We 
 dursen take a liberty like that ! ' 
 
 " So I leave it at that," said Mr. Mutton, 
 " and as I push me bicycle up the drive I 
 wonder to meself why a woman so well- 
 be' aved as that be should 'ave the impidence 
 to bear any babies at all. 
 
 " Then I come to the big side door of the 
 'All, under the archway on the south ; and 
 so soon as ever I come there I see as there be 
 sickness in that 'ouse, too. 
 
 " For Mrs. Gomme, the 'ousekeeper, she 
 stand tiptoe on the doorstep, with boiled- 
 lookin' eyes and a 'and on 'er lip, and she say 
 to me : ' Oh, Mr. Mutton,' she say, ' please 
 step in very quiet, for we got a li'l invalid 
 inside.' 
 
 " ' That's bad, marm,' I says to 'er, civil 
 like. 
 
 " ' The poor li'l dear/ say Mrs. Gomme, 
 ' be swelled up dreadful with they stomach 
 pains. It come on sudden in the middle o' 
 larst night, and 'er ladyship, she took on 
 dreadful.'
 
 Befriending her Ladyship 149 
 
 " ' Dear, dear ! ' I say. 
 
 " ' The worst of it all/ say Mrs. Gomme, ' be 
 the findin' of anybody to attend to the poor 
 mite. First we sends man o* nag-back into 
 Blowfield, but 'e come back to say there 
 bean't no one atome, on'y a servant. Then he 
 tries to telephone to Lewes, but the line be 
 out of order. At last/ says Mrs. Gomme, ' the 
 Colonel, 'e send another groom to Blowfield 
 for to fetch up a motor-car from the shop 
 there where our own's a-mendin', since young 
 Mister Cosmo, the Colonel's nephew, drove 
 to the Yeomanry dinner. They sent a man 
 from the shop there to go on the motor to 
 Lewes, and at last 'e come back 'ere, at six 
 o'clock this mornin', and bring the gentleman 
 with him. 
 
 " ' The gentleman be only gone this half- 
 hour/ Mrs. Gomme ends up. "E've been 
 here all the day, tendin' the poor li'l mite wi' 
 poultices an' chloroform to take the pain 
 away/ 
 
 " Then," said Mr. Jesse Mutton, " I ask her, 
 simple like, if 'twas her ladyship's li'l niece 
 as be so poorly, for I knowed as 'er ladyship 
 had none of her own, bein' too dressed-up for 
 motherin' . 
 
 " And Mrs. Gomme, she look at me aslant.
 
 150 Moby Lane 
 
 ' Miss Marjory be well enough,' she say ; ' 'tis 
 not Miss Marjory that's ill. 'Tis 'tis- 
 (" Ah ! " cried Mr. Mutton, " here be your 
 other penny!") "Tis Lovey-Loo, the 
 spaniel dog, what's took so bad.' 
 
 "Arter that," continued Mr. Mutton, "I 
 didn't seem to 'ave no stomach for bilin' 
 glue. So I raises a tale about forgettin' a 
 centre-bit, and gets upon me bicycle and rides 
 to Blowfield, to find a poultice for the other 
 li'l patient at the lodge. 
 
 " And as I'm ridin' down the drive, 'oo 
 should I meet but 'er ladyship, cuttin' lilacs 
 for the sick-room, and lookin' very wild and 
 haggid. So I takes the liberty for to speak to 
 her ladyship about the woman at the lodge. 
 But she be that took up with 'er dam' dog 
 she woulden 'ardly listen. 
 
 "'Oh, Mutton!' she say, 'you mustn't 
 bring me any cottage troubles to-day ; you 
 really mustn't. My little dog is very ill, and 
 I can't attend to any parish matters. I can't. 
 I really can't/ " 
 
 Now, a few days later I happened to call at 
 the daub-and-wattle domain of Mr. Mutton 
 in respect to some new feet for an old mirror. 
 Mr. Mutton was not at home. Mrs. Mutton
 
 Befriending her Ladyship 151 
 
 was there, and the Mutlets or cutlets, but they 
 were all so busy, so confused, and so shy that, 
 for some minutes I was not able to state to 
 them the object of my call. The reason why 
 Mrs. Mutton and her children were busy, 
 confused and shy was this : 
 
 There had come to a stand outside the 
 cottage door, almost coincidentally with my 
 arrival, a large green carriage, of the kind 
 which is propelled by noise and smell. And 
 there descended from this equipage a lady of 
 impressive stature, who was likewise uphol- 
 stered in green. She went into the Muttons', 
 and when, a little later, I followed her, Mrs. 
 Mutton was occupied in a remarkable duologue 
 with this lady: a duologue conducted, on 
 the part of Mrs. Mutton, by a series of 
 spiritless monosyllables. 
 
 " I always call upon our new-comers," the 
 lady was saying ; "I like to make sure that 
 they are happy and comfortable, and, some- 
 times, I am able to offer them advice about 
 the management of their homes." 
 
 Mrs. Mutton placing the toe of one foot 
 carefully upon a square of oil-cloth, and then 
 replacing it by the other foot, laid a restless 
 hand upon the head of either Mutlet, and 
 answered simply : " Yaas'm."<
 
 152 Moby Lane 
 
 " I find," continued the lady, " that so 
 many of my people are glad to be helped in 
 the care of their children and their homes." 
 
 " Yaas'm," said Mrs. Mutton. 
 
 ' There are," declared the lady, "so many 
 little things in which I find that I am able to 
 help my people." 
 
 " Yaas'm ! " said Mrs. Mutton. 
 
 " I always like to feel sure," continued 
 Mrs. Mutton's visitor, " that all my people 
 realise the value of fresh air. There is 
 nothing so good for all of us as fresh air/ * 
 
 " Yaas'm," said Mrs. Mutton. 
 
 " And I thought, perhaps," said the visitor, 
 at last proclaiming the vital purpose of her 
 mission, " that you would like to take me over 
 the cottage, so that I can see for myself that 
 you all have plenty of fresh air, and are all 
 happy and comfortable." 
 
 An expression of perplexity appeared on 
 Mrs. Mutton's face. 
 
 " Beggin' your pardon, m'm," said Mrs. 
 Mutton, " but did you mean to to come 
 inside this cottage, to come in now, to goo 
 all cover us ? " 
 
 " I thought," repeated the visitor, " that 
 perhaps you would like to show me your 
 home. I find that I am often able to give my
 
 Befriending her Ladyship 153 
 
 people little hints about the care and manage- 
 ment of their homes. So many of my people 
 tell me that they are so grateful for the advice 
 and help which I have been able to give them." 
 
 " Yaas'm," said Mrs. Mutton. 
 
 " And so," continued the visitor, forced 
 into repetition, " I thought perhaps you would 
 like to show me over your cottage. It is so 
 important, you know, that we should all have 
 plenty of fresh air, and should all be happy 
 and clean." 
 
 Mrs. Mutton still looked perplexed. " Mr. 
 Mutton be be out s' afternoon," said Mrs. 
 Mutton. " 'Tis not a thing I would care to 
 do when Mr. Mutton be out to arst a lady in 
 to goo oover us all." 
 
 The visitor, baring her teeth, performed a 
 smile one of those quick, genteel ones. " I 
 am sure," she said, " that you do quite right 
 to consider Mr. Mutton. I always encourage 
 my people to be dutiful wives to their hus- 
 bands. I will call again on Saturday. Perhaps 
 Mr. Mutton will be at home on Saturday ? " 
 
 " Yaas'm," said Mrs. Mutton. 
 
 There seemed little more to be said. But 
 it was hot, and Mrs. Mutton had not once in- 
 vited her visitor to be seated an omission 
 partly due, perhaps, to the fact that save
 
 154 Moby Lane 
 
 for Mr. Mutton's working stool, which stood 
 by his bench and last in a corner, the room was 
 void of sitting places. Mrs. Mutton's visitor, 
 fanning herself with Country Life, surveyed 
 the apartment critically. 
 
 " I see," she observed, " that your husband 
 keeps his work-bench in this room. I always 
 think that these old cottage parlours ought 
 to be filled with pretty things dainty pieces 
 of china, old-fashioned corner cupboards and 
 nicely ochred flower pots." 
 
 " Yaas'm," said Mrs. Mutton. 
 
 " I always encourage my people to keep 
 their parlours fresh and clean," stated the 
 visitor. She moved, a little languidly, to- 
 wards the door, still fanning herself, still 
 keeping half an eye on the work-bench. " Then 
 I will call again on Saturday, when Mutton is 
 at home, and you can show me over," she 
 finally declared. 
 
 " Yaas'm," said Mrs. Mutton. 
 
 So the fine green lady sailed out, and was 
 duly encased within her great green carriage. 
 And Mrs. Mutton, still perplexed, still chang- 
 ing feet, still caressing the sunny locks of the 
 Mutlets, turned to your servant with a 
 nervous : 
 
 f ' Y-yessir ? ",
 
 Befriending her Ladyship 155 
 
 My requirements having been duly com- 
 municated to Mr. Mutton by his faithful wife, 
 that craftsman duly waited on me, accom- 
 panied by some old oak-floor boarding and 
 his glue pot. 
 
 The crippled mirror was given into his hand. 
 He examined it with a slow and irritating 
 smile. " Let me carry it to the light," he 
 said, still smiling, " so that I can find out 
 justly which be wood and which be tinder. 
 
 " This," said Mutton, after prolonged and 
 careful scrutiny, " will be an eight-shillin* 
 job." He repeated that smile. 
 
 I said to Mr. Mutton : "All right, then ; 
 fire ahead." 
 
 " All right," echoed Mr. Mutton, and he put 
 his head upon one side and smiled. At 
 which I foolishly gave way to temper. 
 
 " You do me the honour, Mr. Mutton, sir," 
 I said, " to be amused." 
 
 " Eh ? " queried Mr. Mutton. 
 
 " You are pleased," I explained, " to mock 
 at my mirror." 
 
 " Me ? " cried Mr. Mutton, growing sud- 
 denly very grave. " Me pook fun at your 
 li'l oold mirror ? Not at all, sir." 
 
 " Then why," I demanded, " do you wear 
 that smirk ? "<
 
 156 Moby Lane 
 
 "'Tis me thowts, sir," said Mr. Mutton 
 quite simply. 
 
 ' Then tell me the joke," I demanded quite 
 plainly. 
 
 "'Tis 'tis " began Jesse, but he was 
 
 tripped up by an impediment in his throat, 
 and for quite a while could do nothing else but 
 stand and gurgle. " 'Tis naarthun serious," 
 he said at last, " on'y we 'ad a visitor to our 
 'ouse the other afternoon a lady visitor." 
 
 " Indeed ? " I murmured. 
 
 " A rather expensive lady," continued Mr. 
 Mutton. " A big green motor-car, tortoise- 
 shell spy-glasses, six or eight necklaces, gilt 
 hair, and all the Brighton fixin's. She come 
 round voluntary to look up me and the 
 missis in our little 'ome." 
 
 ' You surprise me ! " I declared. 
 
 " Not at all, sir," protested Mr. Mutton. 
 " 'Tis a common enough thing what I be tellin' 
 you. 'Tis a 'obby and a 'appiness and a 
 Christian pleasure to such as she be for to be 
 everlastin' actin' kind to such as we be. She 
 say to my missis, she say " 
 
 I need not set forth Mr. Mutton's faithful 
 repetition of what the lady said. We have 
 had all that. 
 
 " When the missis got through with all the
 
 Befriending her Ladyship 157 
 
 story," continued Mr. Mutton, " she say to 
 me : ' Jesse/ she say, ' what be I to tal the 
 lady when she come back agin on Saturday 
 to goo all oover us, same as she 'ave pro- 
 mised ? ' And I tal the missis to lat 'er in, 
 an* welcome." 
 
 This surprised me. I had looked for more 
 revolutionary behaviour from Mr. Mutton, and 
 I permitted myself to tell him so. 
 
 " Well, well," said Mr. Mutton when I had 
 quite finished, " no doubt you know what's 
 best, sir. But we got a sayin' down 'ome which 
 says : ' Civility don't cost naarthun.' And 
 when a lady 'aves the kindness to come to 
 your cottage so's she kin see for 'erself as 
 your way of livin' suit 'er, 'tis bare civility 
 to show the lady round. An' besides," 
 added Mr. Mutton, resuming the smile of 
 mystery, " I areun't done tallin' ye yet." 
 
 "Come!" I cried, employing a gesture of 
 encouragement. " That's better ! " 
 
 " Is it ? " said Mr. Mutton. " Then let's 
 make a start with that glue pot. We shan't 
 be done 'fore midnight, not at this rate." 
 While we were waiting for the glue to boil, Mr. 
 Mutton threw out further shreds of narrative. 
 
 " When Saturday come," said Mr. Mutton, 
 " the lady come likewise, true to 'er word.
 
 158 Moby Lane 
 
 And very pleasant and 'omely she carried on, 
 tellin' us where we had oughter fix our bed- 
 steads so as to catch a 'ealthy draught. 
 
 ' The next day bein' Sunday, I ran over it 
 all again in me mind, along of a pipe. And 
 all of sudden it come to me what a selfish 
 chaps we be us shoemakers and what a lot 
 of Christianity we could learn off of the rich. 
 
 " So next night, bein' Monday, and a clean 
 shirt and a tin o' polish bein' 'andy, I made 
 meself look ' andsome, an* done a neighbourly 
 action on me own account. 
 
 " 'Tis a pretty fair step from Sly Corner to 
 the 'All, but I kep', so much as reasonable, to 
 the long grass, and got there lookin' pratty 
 decent. An' the butler, when I ask for 'er 
 ladyship, 'e show me at once to a little front 
 orfice no questions arst. 
 
 " Bein' as it were dinner-time, I was sat 
 alone in the little front orfice for a matter o' 
 forty minutes. But I spent them to good 
 advantage, lookin' at all manner o' stuffed 
 birds what the Colonel, 'er ladyship's 'usband, 
 'ad travelled all over the world for to kill on 
 account o' their prettiness. 
 
 " At last 'er ladyship come in, and though 
 I be a decent man for a shoemaker I 
 could not 'elp but remark 'ow poor a bosom
 
 Befriending her Ladyship 159 
 
 that seem for anybody to make a public 
 exhibition of. 
 
 'Tis you, Mutton, then/ 'er ladyship 
 say. ' I suppose you be in trouble ? How 
 very right and sensible to come and see me. 
 I allus encourage my people,' she say, ' for 
 to come an' tal me their affairs.' 
 
 "With that," said Mr. Mutton, blinking 
 violently at the mirror, " I touches me eye- 
 brow, same as is considered decent in a shoe- 
 maker, and I say to 'er ladyship, I say : 
 
 ; 'Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, it bean't so 
 much me own affairs I come about as yourn. 
 I be come round neighbourly,' I say, ' think- 
 in' you would like me to goo cover the 'All, 
 so as to make sure you got the proper quantity 
 of fresh air, an' be all 'appy and comfortable.' 
 
 " She look at me with a sort o' wondering 
 look. ' What did you say, Mutton ? ' she say 
 at last. 
 
 ' I was thinkin',' I tal 'er, ' as per'aps you 
 would like to take me oover the 'All, so's I can 
 give you some advice about fresh air,' I say. 
 1 That be so important,' I say. ' Fresh air an' 
 good soap, that be the sovereign remedy for 
 all of us, an' I be one as like to feel sure that 
 nobody goo without it for want of a little good 
 advice. I thought per'aps ' "
 
 160 Moby Lane 
 
 " ' Mutton/ her ladyship say very crisp, 
 ' do you mean to insult me ? ' 
 
 " ' Not in the least, ma'am/ I say. ' I be 
 come round pure and neighbourly, thinkin' 
 per'aps I could goo cover the 'All an' give you 
 some advice. I thought per'aps you would 
 like me to 'ave a look at the blankets and the 
 children's underlinen ; and I been wondering 
 also if you got your bedsteads properly 
 arranged for catchin' draughts, and I would 
 like to make sure that ' 
 
 Mr. Mutton broke off quite suddenly. He re- 
 garded me with earnest eyes, uttering no sound. 
 
 "Well," I demanded at last, "what are 
 you stopping for ? " 
 
 " Because she stopped me," explained Mr. 
 Mutton. " She throwed 'erself at the door, 
 same as if the devil be arter 'er, instead of a 
 honest shoemaker strivin' to do a neighbourly 
 action. An' she fling the oold door open, an* 
 she scream for the butler. 'Er chops come 
 fiery red, and she chatter and snivel for all 
 the world like any ordinary female. 
 
 " That surprise me moreun all, that did, to 
 see 'ow ordinary and 'omely she took on. I 
 thought as they there brazen-breasted ones 
 was reckoned to be above a common, oold- 
 fashioned paddy. But, bless my soul, there
 
 Befriending her Ladyship 161 
 
 wasn't no pride about this one not when you 
 touched it." 
 
 " What happened next ? " I inquired. 
 
 "Mr. Bellchambers, the butler, 'e guided 
 me to the door/' said Mr. Mutton. 
 
 " And was that all ?" 
 
 ' Well, nearly all, sir," answered Mr. 
 Mutton. " There's been a sort of a con- 
 tinuation since." 
 
 " Where ? How ? " 
 
 " S' afternoon, at Sly Corner," responded 
 Mr. Mutton. "Er ladyship come round to 
 see my missis. An' she tal my missis as 'er 
 and the Colonel, they 'ave talk things cover 
 among theirselves. An' they be come to 
 the conclusion as I are never meant to do no 
 'arm; I on' y acted ignorant. 
 
 " ' The Colonel/ she say, ' is sure your 
 'usband never acted outer malice, and we 
 may quietly overlook it. So there's no need 
 for any of us/ she say, ' to say anything more 
 about it especially not in the village! Where 
 are you off to now, sir ? " cried Mr. Mutton 
 suddenly. 
 
 "I'm off to tea at the Doctor's" I 
 responded.
 
 XVII 
 IT! 
 
 I FOUND it in the hedgerow, blown about 
 and towsled, a thing of too early growth, like 
 the February daffodils. Torn and battered 
 by the winds, bedraggled, dirty, rain-be- 
 spattered, worn with privation, warped and 
 misshapen, as all things become which are 
 thrown too soon upon the mercies of this 
 world, it had nevertheless, a certain beauty : 
 a sudden, staring beauty, vivid, desperate 
 like daffodils in February. 
 
 It had no precise age, but its body was the 
 body of a girl of fifteen, though its face was 
 much older than that, and its mouth and eyes 
 much younger, and its conversation incon- 
 sequent and inconsistent. It talked a jumbled 
 talk the talk of infancy, old age, and woman- 
 hood, all mixed up and wanton. 
 
 It had long hair, which hung about its 
 shoulders in sticky and disordered strands. 
 It wore an old, loose habit, made of sack- 
 cloth, and bearing, as it were by way of 
 
 decoration and embroidery, certain printed 
 
 162
 
 It I 163 
 
 characters which formed the words : " J. 
 BATES, MALT." Pieces of rope, pieces of 
 carpet, and smaller pieces of sackcloth were 
 lashed about its body in different places. It 
 had bare legs, but its feet were covered by a 
 pair of big, men's boots, which age, misuse, and 
 hard wear had caused to curl up at the toes. 
 
 It had an old, white face, as I have said, and 
 round, wondering eyes, like those of childhood, 
 and it had a thin mouth, with narrow red lips, 
 and there was a look of pain about this mouth, 
 so that it resembled a scar. 
 
 It came out of its hedgerow and stopped me, 
 as I walked along the road, and it asked for 
 money, in a steady practised manner, with a 
 whining intonation, and all the time it spoke 
 to me, it did not look at me, but looked far 
 off. It said : 
 
 " Gawd bless ya, kind gentleman. Spare 
 a copper, kind gentleman. It's very wet 
 very rough very cold kind gentleman. 
 Spare a copper, kind gentleman." 
 
 There happened to be a few pieces of copper 
 in an inner pocket of my oilskin, and these I 
 bestowed upon its dirty little outstretched 
 palm. It immediately resumed the whine. 
 
 " Gawd bless ya, kind gentleman. Good 
 luck to ya, kind gentleman."
 
 164 Moby Lane 
 
 I nodded, uncomfortably, as one does, and 
 started to walk away, but it suddenly looked 
 at me with its eyes and told me to stop. 
 
 ' Wait a minute, kind gentleman," it said : 
 " I got somethink for ya." 
 
 It fumbled amid the sackcloth and the 
 carpeting and produced a small blue object, 
 which it held towards me. 
 
 " 'Old out yar 'and," it said. 
 
 I did as I was told, and received in my hand 
 a cold, wet thrush's egg misshapen, small 
 and muddy, like It itself, and like the February 
 daffodils that were blinking here and there 
 amid the slush. 
 
 " That's for you, me kind gentleman," it 
 said. 
 
 Now, at Eastertide, one is braced up for 
 this sort of thing, and carries it through with- 
 out embarrassment. But at the windy end 
 of February, one isn't and one can't. I felt, 
 and looked, confused. It therefore offered me 
 encouragement. 
 
 " That's for you," It repeated. " Take it 
 'ome an give it to yar little brother or yar 
 little sister. Y'are a kind gentleman, so I'm 
 givin' ya that." 
 
 The kind gentleman uttered his expressions 
 of gratitude. At the same time, he admitted
 
 It! 165 
 
 a flaw in his title to the thrush's egg, having 
 neither little brother nor little sister to whom 
 he could take home and give it. 
 
 "A sot of an orph'n gentleman, are you 
 then ? " suggested It. 
 
 " Not exactly that but " 
 
 " A sort of a bachelor gentleman, then ? " 
 
 I couldn't even advance that claim to its 
 commiseration. Without being precisely a 
 bachelor or precisely an orphan, I yet was 
 wholly destitute of little brothers and little 
 sisters. That, perhaps, was why I had odd 
 pennies to spare for Its. 
 
 " Well, kind gentleman, ya don't look 
 much of a jolly sort. Keep it yaself an' be 
 jolly. Ya ought to be jolly, now an' then. 
 Everybody kin be jolly now an' then, if on'y 
 their boots' 11 let ' em. Why don' t you be j oily, 
 kind gentleman ? " 
 
 I pointed out to It that February was not 
 just the psychological month in which to 
 expect people to be jolly. I also ventured to 
 remark that its own demeanour was, at best, 
 not one of high mirth. 
 
 " R ; but me boots is wore out," responded 
 It. 
 
 I looked at the massive, curly, sodden 
 things and rather hoped they were. And then
 
 1 66 Moby Lane 
 
 I looked at my own feet, which, if I may so 
 express it, were done rather neatly in tan 
 golfers. And then an absurd and osten- 
 tatious idea presented itself to me. I offered 
 to give It my shoes. 
 
 I could have thrown a stone at my own roof 
 from where we stood, and I could have 
 paddled to my doorstep across the wayside 
 grass, with no greater discomfort than that 
 involved in 60 seconds of wet feet. And 
 having reached home, I could conscientiously 
 have drunk hot whisky and gone to bed. 
 
 Let me tell you that to be able to do these 
 things from conscientious motives in Feb- 
 ruary is one of the most agreeable circum- 
 stances which can happen to one. And ever 
 afterwards to be respectfully pointed at as a 
 man who had given the boots off his feet to a 
 beggar, on a very wet afternoon ! That would 
 indeed be happiness, and a very solid sort of 
 happiness, too. For a man with a deed like 
 that to his credit could grow stomach on 
 stomach, and whisker on whisker, without 
 rebuke to the end of his days. And little old 
 ladies in Eastbourne would leave him con- 
 tinual small legacies in cash and kind 
 annuities, pony-carriages, cats. And the 
 Christmas numbers would celebrate him in
 
 multichromatic splendour : He that is I 
 would be presented, I hope, as a slender, 
 rather boyish person, with a scholarly stoop 
 and a lot of hair a sort of R. J. Campbell, but 
 dressed in knickerbockers and having a slight 
 sense of humour. I don't see the beggar-girl 
 very clearly, but I am sure she would have 
 crutches. I do see very clearly indeed 
 the letterpress with which this work of art 
 would be adorned. Above it, in large print, 
 would appear the words : " An Author's 
 Sacrifice" : and underneath, in letters only 
 one degree less large, an inscription having 
 reference to the speech which I certainly did 
 not utter. Thus : 
 
 " YOU POOR CHILD ! TAKE MY 
 BOOTS." 
 
 Anyhow, It did not accept the boots. It 
 thanked me very gravely, and It gave me 
 another thrush's egg, but It would not have 
 the boots. It said : 
 
 " Now, kind gentleman, Gawd bless ya, and 
 thank ya : Now, I wownt 'ave the boots. 
 There's no use two of us walkin' sore. I'd 
 rather 'ave a few more coppers, if you got any, 
 kind gentleman, thank ya. You keep yar 
 boots, an' be jolly. An' take this egg, too,
 
 1 68 Moby Lane 
 
 an' keep it along of the other, for a curiosity, 
 if ya ain't got no little sister to give it to. I 
 got a little sister of me own, and it's time I 
 went after 'er. Good-bye, kind gentleman." 
 ' Where is your sister ? " I said. 
 
 " Along of the van/' It replied. 
 
 " And where is the van ? " 
 
 " Along of my sister. . . . Good-bye, kind 
 gentleman. Be jolly." 
 
 It looked at me gravely and parted its lips, 
 and I knew that in spirit, if not in fact, it had 
 smiled at me. And then it stumped away, 
 and I came home, carrying very carefully in 
 each hand a wet, misshapen, premature 
 thrush's egg.
 
 XVIII 
 SPRING SCANDAL 
 
 THERE are persons in this world who possess 
 what I may call an early-morning mind : 
 persons who not only are alert and intelligent 
 at ten o'clock in the morning, but Who are 
 cheerful and talkative at that hour, and even 
 earlier ; persons who chat at the breakfast 
 table : persons who sing in their bath I Let 
 me begin this scientific discourse by stating, 
 very clearly, that I am one of these persons. 
 
 That is why my breakfast is, to me, not so 
 much a meal as an unquiet trance ; that is 
 why this morning, when sitting at the break- 
 fast table, I awoke, as one might awake from 
 a trance, to find that . . . people were talk- 
 ing. I had been pretending to eat from a 
 steaming vessel which, as I now know, con- 
 tained porridge : and I had been pretending 
 to read a " leading article " which, as I now 
 know, contained politics, and I had reached 
 the stage of gently wondering why the dish 
 was smoking, and what the gentleman was 
 
 driving at, when ... it occurred to me that 
 
 169
 
 1 70 Moby Lane 
 
 people were talking. On waving the steam 
 away I perceived that one of these people was 
 that lady the possessor of an outstanding 
 example of the early-morning mind who, 
 under matrimonial licence, is irrevocably 
 situated on the other side of the steam : and 
 that her companion was a seared and grimy 
 man, whose features were familiar to me. 
 
 This man was frowning at the lady. Only 
 a low sort of man would frown at such a lady, 
 particularly at breakfast time, when the dew 
 is sparkling in her eyes. I accordingly looked 
 carefully at the man, and recognised in him 
 that ignoble parasite, Mr. William Tracey. 
 Mr. Tracey is an old and uncultivated person 
 of the working class, one of those sordid 
 beings who can be tempted with money to 
 stand out in the rain and dig. And as I 
 looked at Mr. Tracey Mr. Tracey opened his 
 mouth and uttered an extraordinary speech. 
 Said Mr. Tracey : 
 
 " Queen Alexandra is all right, and King 
 Edward is all right, and Earl Spencer is all 
 right, and I won't say naarthun wrong about 
 Mrs. Townsend. And if you must have 
 Maude Holmes yere, I'll find a corner for 'er ; 
 but undestand this, marm : I will not pinch 
 Maude Holmes. The more you pinch 'er, the
 
 Spring Scandal 171 
 
 worse she spread. So that's tallin' you. As 
 for the Queen o' Spain, she's one o' these here 
 deceivin' ones. If you want moi opinion of 
 the Queen o' Spain, she " 
 
 But I did not hear Mr. Tracey's opinion of 
 the Queen of Spain. No self-respecting 
 Englishwoman stands this sort of thing from 
 menials, and this one, performing a decisive 
 gesture, quelled the Socialist. 
 
 " I can't allow you to insult the Queen of 
 Spain, Mr. Tracey," said the lady, looking 
 extraordinarily decisive, even through the 
 steam. " I know that she was badly sun- 
 burnt last year, but that was your fault. 
 Look where you put her bed." 
 
 " She won't be sunburnt this yeer," said 
 Mr. Tracey, grimly ; "I'll make 'er bed up 
 somewheres out o' sight. That be a pore 
 creature, the Queen o' Spain, Oi rackon. 
 No flesh. No substance. No curl. If " 
 
 " Oh, never mind," interpolated the lady. 
 " Don't let's argue, Mr. Tracey. The poor 
 thing can't help her flesh and substance being 
 wrong. Besides, I don't profess to love her 
 for her substance. It's her colouring I like. 
 It lights up well. Now . . . about Arthur 
 Unwin. Where are we going to find room for 
 Arthur Unwin ? You haven't got anything
 
 172 Moby Lane 
 
 unpleasant to say about Arthur Unwin, I 
 hope, Mr. Tracey ? " 
 
 " Areun't I though ? " responded Mr. Tracey. 
 " There's a great, greedy, ugly-mannered old 
 object, if ever there was one. Feed ? Talk 
 about feed why, you could fatten a 'og on 
 the stuff I give that chap last yeer. Proper 
 good food, too. None o' yere soot and 
 soapsuds. 'E fair eat the stuff. And ser 
 ugly-mannered with it all ! All over the place 
 'e is. 'Im an' that Maude 'Olmes, they'd 
 make a proper pair. I ' ate they ' eavy feeders. 
 What other names are you got wrote down 
 there ? " 
 
 " There's Mrs. Townsend," replied the 
 Lady of the Mist. " She's going to be very 
 popular this year, I believe. Everybody's 
 talking of her. She's Phenomenal, really ; 
 but massive, and waved all over, with a fringe 
 of- 
 
 " I see," interjected Mr. Tracey. " Another 
 o' they fancy pieces. Ye areun't got e'er a 
 straightforward name wrote down on that 
 bit o' paper, I spoose ? " 
 
 "Well," replied the lady, "there's Clara 
 Curtis." 
 
 By this time the steam had subsided, by 
 reason of my porridge having cooled, and
 
 Spring Scandal 173 
 
 the lady could now be clearly focussed. It 
 seemed to me that her manner was hesitant, 
 and her expression timid. 
 
 Mr. Tracey laughed harshly. " Clara 
 Curtis!'' he repeated. "No fear o' me 
 leadin' a lazy life, then not with Clara 
 Curtis about the place. Clara Curtis be a 
 very straightforward one I don't think. Ye 
 mean to find me some employment, then, I 
 can see. Why, she want dressing six times 
 a day, Clara do, if there's any wind about." 
 
 The lady opposite put down her teacup 
 with a bang, and regarded Mr. Tracey with a 
 flushed countenance and indignant eyes. 
 
 " I simply don't believe it," she exclaimed. 
 
 " Don't ya ? " said Mr. Tracey. He ap- 
 proached her in a stealthy manner, putting 
 a hand to his mouth, and . . . whisper- 
 ing .... ! 
 
 This scandalous breakfast table was evi- 
 dently no place for me. I therefore left it, 
 and repaired to the garden. 
 
 Here, regardless of the month of March, 
 which was extremely prevalent, I sought the 
 contemplative quiet of an arbour, and there 
 I indulged myself in calm and ordered 
 thought. 
 
 I suppose that my reader knows as well as
 
 174 Moby Lane 
 
 I do what it feels like to receive a shock to 
 one's moral senses ? It is a dreadful feeling, 
 isn't it ? No wonder that clergymen, who 
 are particularly subject to this trouble, have 
 that look of frailty and discomfort. 
 
 My shock soon passed, however, the truth 
 being mercifully vouchsafed to me during 
 an inspired phase of the thinking process. 
 That ill-assorted couple at the breakfast 
 table were neither mad nor bad. They 
 were merely talking business : Mr. Tracey's 
 business. In short, and in fact . . . the 
 Sweet Pea season had begun !
 
 XIX 
 MR. BLURR AND THE BLOOD-OAF 
 
 MR. BLURR, a builder and contractor, is the 
 allegorical hero, and young Bill, a common 
 blood-oaf, is the allegorical villain of this 
 allegorical piece. 
 
 If you are a Norfolk, a Suffolk, or an Essex 
 man, or even a fellow from the eastern part 
 of Kent, you will not require to be told what 
 a blood-oaf is. But if you happen to be 
 stuck in some more remote part of this island, 
 you will perhaps feel grateful to me for 
 mentioning that a blood-oaf is a bullfinch. 
 
 There may even be persons persons living 
 in Lancashire or in the heart of Middlesex 
 who don't know what a bullfinch is. I may 
 inform such persons that a bullfinch is a bird : 
 a little, square-set, bullet-headed bird, in 
 red facings, who sits on the early plum trees, 
 destroying all the buds and making absurd 
 noises cricky noises, like winding your watch 
 up. 
 
 This, with a few similar performances, 
 constitutes the natural occupation of the 
 
 175
 
 176 Moby Lane 
 
 blood-oaf. He is a cheerful bird, of broad ideas 
 and liberal sentiments. If there are no plum 
 trees about your garden from which he can 
 strip the fruit buds, he'll make himself happy 
 in the shrub plot. He's a bit of a humani- 
 tarian, too. No long-suffering worms or help- 
 less slugs for him. The run of a few apple 
 orchards is all he requires to sustain him in 
 health and cheerfulness. He likes a dust- 
 bath now and then, and plenty of sunshine, 
 and he likes to look at butterflies, and in his 
 graver moments he appreciates a bout of 
 conscientious effort among the currant bushes. 
 
 He is a jolly, bourgeois, contented, demo- 
 cratic bird : a bird utterly without ambition 
 or vanity. But he is also a bird who, for no 
 fault of his own, has been gifted with a peculiar 
 talent or accomplishment. This does not 
 bring him any luck. 
 
 The blood-oaf's special gift consists in the 
 ability, under certain circumstances, to whistle 
 like a man like a man who whistles very 
 badly. The blood-oaf, in respect of his unusual 
 accomplishment, has his human counterpart ; 
 for there are, among men, certain rare speci- 
 mens of the race of men who have equivalent 
 accomplishments. Such men can cheep like 
 a robin, bark like a dog, or moo like a calf.
 
 Mr. Blurr and the Blood-Oaf 177 
 
 And this gift does not bring luck to such men, 
 any more than the gift of reproducing rag- 
 time brings luck to blood-oafs. The same 
 form of disaster overtakes both man and bird 
 a disaster in side whiskers and a black hat, 
 named Mr. Blurr. 
 
 Mr. Blurr (who has built all the newest and 
 reddest chapels in my country, which is 
 remarkable for the newness and redness of 
 its chapels) made up his mind about blood- 
 oafs many years ago. He made up his mind 
 that blood-oafs were all right in their place. 
 And the place which Mr. Blurr proposed and 
 denned as being proper for blood-oafs was 
 his cellar. In this place these birds are 
 privileged to minister to the entertainment 
 and prosperity of Mr. Blurr. 
 
 Mr. Blurr is exceedingly intimate with the 
 habits and customs of blood-oafs. He is 
 accustomed to say that nobody can teach him 
 nothing concerning blood-oafs. But young 
 Bill taught him something. He taught how 
 important it is to repair one's cellar-flaps. 
 
 Young Bill was an orphan bird. He there- 
 fore inhabited the smallest of Mr. Blurr' s 
 three cellars and had a cage to himself. Mr. 
 Blurr, who had studied blood-oafs, who had 
 
 read and, for all I know, written much about 
 
 M
 
 178 Moby Lane 
 
 them, knew all the rules. He knew that a 
 single blood-oaf has got to be kept in a single 
 cage and must not be allowed to mix with 
 other boys of his unhappy race. 
 
 Young Bill entered Mr. Blurr' s household 
 so soon as his feathers began to sprout. For 
 Blurr knew the rules, and is it not written 
 that : 
 
 When it is wished to bring up bull- 
 finches by hand, the young must be 
 removed from the nest as soon as their 
 feathers begin to sprout, when they are 
 easily reared on bread-and-milk and 
 soaked rape seed. Be careful that both 
 seed and bread-and-milk are perfectly 
 sweet ... or the birds will die very 
 quickly ? 
 
 Mr. Blurr took extraordinary pains to 
 ensure the cleanliness of young Bill's bread- 
 and-milk and pips. He did not wish young 
 Bill to die very quickly. He viewed with 
 horror the thought of blood-oafs dying young. 
 
 When young Bill first entered the house- 
 hold of Mr. Blurr that gentleman fed the bird 
 himself, with great frequency and regularity. 
 He fed him every two hours from early morn- 
 ing until dusk, employing for the purpose a
 
 Mr. Blurr and the Blood-Oaf 179 
 
 pair of silver-plaited tweezers. You see, there 
 was nothing paltry about Mr. Blurr. He 
 spared no expense. 
 
 In order to ensure the safety and comfort 
 of young Bill, Mr. Blurr put him into a little 
 hair-lined box, which box he put into another 
 and a larger box, having a lid and air holes. 
 The lid of this box was kept tightly shut, and 
 most of the light which might have reached 
 young Bill through the air holes was inter- 
 cepted by a thick piece of flannel, which 
 served the double purpose of keeping Bill 
 warm and blocking the intrusion of actinic 
 rays. For it is written thus : 
 
 These birds will feed better if kept 
 almost but not quite in the dark. . . . 
 If they do not hear the songs of other 
 birds, they will learn a tune whistled to 
 them or played to them on a flageolet. 
 
 Being thus protected from the inclemencies 
 of light and air and from the moral and 
 artistic dangers of freedom, young Bill grew 
 up splendidly. That is to say, he grew up 
 into just the sort of bird which the unsparing 
 efforts of Mr. Blurr Were designed to create. 
 He grew big enough to be put into a larger 
 cage, to walk about on grit and sand, and to
 
 180 Moby Lane 
 
 be fed upon canary seed and hemp, with 
 apple-pips for dessert. Finally, he grew big 
 enough to go down unto the cellar and be 
 educated. 
 
 The cellar was almost perfectly dark 
 almost, but not quite, as the written instruc- 
 tions direct. The modifying factor a single, 
 narrow, jagged ray of light, which looked like 
 a quivering icicle dependent from the black 
 vault which young Bill imagined to be the 
 sky came through a crack in the cellar-flap. 
 All day long, between his periodical feasts of 
 hemp and canary seed, young Bill stood on 
 one leg and looked at this icicle. But there 
 were interludes of pleasantry, during which 
 good old Mr. Blurr would visit young Bill and 
 entertain him with a tune upon the flageolet. 
 On these occasions young Bill stood on both 
 legs, shut his eyes, and listened. 
 
 I say "a" tune advisedly. For Mr. Blurr 
 had apparently lost all the tunes in his 
 repertory save one, which he repeated con- 
 tinuously, hour after hour, day after day. 
 It was not a long tune, as we count tunes, 
 but young Bill, whose faculties of comparison 
 and deduction had not been carefully de- 
 veloped, regarded it as the longest tune in 
 the world. He also thought that it was an
 
 Mr. Blurr and the Blood-Oaf 181 
 
 extraordinarily complicated tune. This was 
 the tune : 
 
 " Of all the girls that are so smart, 
 There's none like pretty Sally. 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 And she lives in our alley." 
 
 When he had heard this tune for the one 
 thousandth six hundredth and forty-first time 
 it suddenly occurred to young Bill that the 
 tune was not so difficult and complicated as 
 he had at first imagined it to be. And, in 
 order to emphasise and give expression to 
 this idea, young Bill put up his beak that 
 little beak which was so perfectly adapted 
 for destroying plum trees and whistled two 
 little bits of the tune two quite unrelated 
 little bits. 
 
 At this the great Mr. Blurr became ex- 
 ceedingly elated, and ran from the cellar, 
 calling " Maria ! Maria ! " And when Maria, 
 who was matrimonially allied to Mr. Blurr, 
 appeared before that happy gentleman, he 
 said to her, waving his flageolet trium- 
 phantly : 
 
 " The young 'un has begun. He's give me 
 a ' return ! ' " 
 
 From that day onwards, young Bill 
 gave many returns to this kind instructor.
 
 1 82 Moby Lane 
 
 Sometimes he gave them quickly, sometimes 
 not. He has been known to keep Mr. Blurr 
 down in that cellar for so long as two hours 
 before vouchsafing to Mr. Blurr the snatch of 
 melody for which he craved. But, as time 
 went on, young Bill became more ready with 
 his snatches. Moreover, these outbursts of 
 melody grew gradually longer, more sustained, 
 more intelligible. I am not going to flatter 
 young Bill and say that there was anything 
 particularly attractive about the manner in 
 which he whistled these man-noises. There 
 was a certain artificiality about the perform- 
 ance. It bore about the same relationship 
 to real whistling which the official poems of 
 a Poet Laureate usually bear to real poetry. 
 The offering was not spontaneous. 
 
 Still, it was not bad considering ! And 
 every day it grew better : more confident, 
 more loud, more consecutive. Mr. Blurr was 
 extremely pleased about it. He said that 
 when young Bill had got over certain diffi- 
 culties in the third line the performance 
 would be perfect. 
 
 But alas for the hopes of mortality ! Young 
 Bill quite failed to accomplish this final fraction 
 of the task demanded of him. Something 
 happened to stop him.
 
 Mr. Blurr and the Blood-Oaf 183 
 
 This something was a small bird in snuff- 
 coloured vestments, and of undistinguished 
 appearance, who happened one evening, to 
 alight by accident on the exterior surface of 
 the wooden cellar-flap which emitted that icicle. 
 
 The snuff-coloured bird had neither voice 
 nor method, nor, indeed, had he " parts " of 
 any kind. But he had assurance. And he 
 knew a song. It was not, really, a good song ; 
 but it was longer than Mr. Blurr' s song, 
 whilst being decidedly less complicated. The 
 snuffy bird hopped about on the cellar-flap 
 and sang it. He sang it all through, insis- 
 tently. He sang it in a thin voice and an 
 indecisive manner, except when he came to 
 the last word in each verse, when he rather 
 shouted. The song had three verses, which 
 I vvill print in full : 
 
 I 
 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a PIT I 
 
 II 
 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a PIT 1
 
 184 Moby Lane 
 
 in 
 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a PIT 1 
 
 Young Bill was looking moodily at his 
 icicle out of one eye when this thin stuff 
 came treacling down it. Young Bill then 
 opened the other eye, and looked and listened 
 hard. 
 
 I cannot tell you why young Bill should 
 have enjoyed this noise, but he undoubtedly 
 did enjoy it. I suppose that Mr. Blurr had 
 not succeeded wholly in eradicating all the 
 hereditary blood-oaf instincts of young Bill. 
 Anyhow, this abandoned bird listened to this 
 song and, what is more, committed it to 
 memory. Although it was a long song, it 
 was not a complicated one, as you perceive. 
 And having learned this snuffy little snatch, 
 he never again would sing a line of Mr. Blurr' s 
 fine ballad. 
 
 For days after the snuff-coloured bird had 
 flown away from the cellar-flap, Mr. Blurr sat 
 tight in his cellar, blowing hard at his flageolet 
 and perspiring freely. He played his ballad 
 in a high key and in a low key and in two 
 keys at once. But young Bill could not be
 
 Mr. Blurr and the Blood-Oaf 185 
 
 coaxed or stimulated or vexed into offering 
 a " return." 
 
 At last, after seven days of fruitless effort 
 the maestro lost his temper, and striking a 
 match, so that young Bill could clearly see 
 that menacing performance, he threatened 
 the bird with his flageolet. 
 
 Then young Bill, blinking furiously at the 
 bright glare which illumined his cellar, put 
 up his beak and gave forth the " return." 
 And this was it : 
 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a pit 
 Tit a PIT
 
 XX 
 
 THE OLD MAN OF ALFRISTON 
 
 HE stood on a neat little footbridge, which 
 was made of painted wood, and stared 
 reminiscently into the soupy shallows of the 
 Cuckmere. He was an Oldest Inhabitant of 
 unimpeachable quality, with crow's feet, 
 toothless gums, pneumatic mouth, and all 
 other appurtenances complete. So I said to 
 him this being, as every traveller knows, 
 the opening move in any game with an Oldest 
 Inhabitant : 
 
 " I suppose you have lived here a longish 
 time ? " 
 
 " Four and eighty yeer come Jewly," 
 responded the Oldest Inhabitant, performing 
 figures of eight with the pneumatic mouth. 
 Whereupon (Move 2) I ventured to suppose 
 that he had witnessed many changes in the 
 town and neighbourhood of Alfriston during 
 that period. 
 
 The Oldest Inhabitant threw up his hands 
 and uttered a series of pneumatic sounds, 
 expressive of astonishment. " Oh dear, yes ! ' : 
 
 1 86
 
 The Old Man of Alfriston 187 
 
 he exclaimed, alternately inflating and de- 
 flating the mouth : " Changes areun't the 
 word for it. Why, I can remember the time 
 afore this here bridge was built ! " He softly 
 patted its slender hand-rail. 
 
 ' That was many years ago ? " I surmised. 
 
 " Many, many yeers ago," assented my 
 venerable instructor. " That was afore I'd 
 turned sixty, anyways. That was in the 
 time of Queen Victoria." 
 
 I closed my eyes for several minutes, and 
 when I opened them, I had counted back to 
 the old gentleman's birthday. 
 
 " You were born in 1828 ?" I suggested. 
 
 " Oh, before then," replied the old man, 
 blowing up his mouth stone tight. " I be 
 eighty-four, ye see." 
 
 " In that case, no doubt you can remember 
 Queen Victoria's predecessor ? " 
 
 " No doubt ! " replied the Oldest Inhabi- 
 tant, after a thoughtful pause. " That was 
 just after they crowned 'er, I fancy. They 
 said prayers in the church yere." 
 
 I began again. " You can remember King 
 William ? " 
 
 " Bless ye, yes," replied the aged man. 
 "And Queen Victoria, and King Edward, 
 and George the Fifth, and and one or two
 
 1 88 Moby Lane 
 
 others as well. I can remember pretty nigh 
 all 'on em." 
 
 " Battles ? " I inquired (Move 3) ; " The 
 Crimea ? The Indian Mutiny ? " 
 
 ' Why, certainly, sir," assented the Oldest 
 Inhabitant. " I can remember the Battle of 
 Trafalgar, too, and the Franco-Prussian and 
 Spion Kop, and Maf eking, and the Bo-er War. 
 I can remember all the wars." 
 
 I congratulated my companion upon the 
 excellence of his memory, and proceeded to 
 Move 4. "I expect that all sorts of men and 
 women have lived in this town during your 
 time ? " 
 
 "Yes," assented the Patriarch: "that's 
 gen'ly been pratty full." 
 
 " I dare say," I continued, in a laborious 
 effort to define the scope of my inquiry, " that 
 some of them were very pleasant people and 
 some were unpleasant, and that they were 
 all remarkable in their different ways ? " 
 
 " Remarkable," echoed the seer ; "re- 
 markable ? Ah ! I believe you. There was 
 old Job Burtenshaw, for one." 
 
 Ha ! A goal at last. I invited the veteran 
 to record the deeds of Mr. Burtenshaw. 
 With a prodigious bubbling of the pneumatic 
 department, he complied.
 
 The Old Man of Alfriston 189 
 
 "Job Burtenshaw," said the Oldest In- 
 habitant, " he have a wonderful secret way 
 about him. He live in a little, dark house, 
 all among they thorns aside of the 'ill there. 
 'Tis pulled down, now, is Job's 'ouse. They 
 had used to call it Deadman's Hovel, I re- 
 member. 
 
 " Well, sir, this old Job Burtenshaw, what 
 I be speakin' of, he lived in this place all 
 alone, he did. He was a misshapen man, he 
 was, with red hair and crooked shoulders 
 and a sort of a lump under the chin. The 
 schoolboys didn't 'arf look at 'im, whenever 
 he come down from 'is 'ill. They had used 
 to throw cinders and dirt and so forth at 'is 
 'ead. You know what schoolboys are for 
 actin' merry. The young chaps used to laugh 
 at 'im, too, whenever they seed 'im about. I 
 well remember as one on 'em once thro wed 
 a glass of beer at 'im, when 'e went into the 
 Goat to 'ave a drink. And even the old men 
 had used to hit 'im. 
 
 " Well, sir, this Job Burtenshaw, 'e lived 
 alone in this little dark cottage up among 
 the thorns on the side of the 'ill. And he 
 kept no company. He never went nigh 
 nobody, and nobody never went nigh him. 
 He was strange in his fancies, was Job, and
 
 190 Moby Lane 
 
 he didn't seem to have no liking for the other 
 old chaps of the place, nor yet no liking for 
 the lads or the children. He was a strange 
 man. 
 
 " Well, sir, one day the fancy took me for 
 to goo and 'ave a look at Job Burtenshaw, 
 livin' up theer all alone, in 'is dark little 
 cottage aside of the 'ill, among the thorns. 
 And as I fancied, so I done. I went to the 
 cottage and I knocked at the door, and Job 
 he come, when I knocked, and he opened the 
 door and in I walked. He didn't seem 
 partickler glad to see me, nor he didn't seem 
 partickler sorry. Just so-so. 
 
 " Well, sir, to cut a long story short, time 
 we'd been talkin' there a few minutes, Job 
 'e arst me if I'd like to look at a curiosity. 
 
 " ' Certainly,' I tells 'im ; ' By all means/ 
 So Job e' tells me to f oiler 'im, and so I doos, 
 until we be come to a regular underground 
 cellar, all wet and moist like, and darker nor 
 night. And Job, 'e strike a light, and 'e 
 catch a-holt o* moi airrm and 'e lead me to a 
 corner the darkest and the wettest place 
 of all, that be and 'e 'old up a light, so's 
 I can see what lie there, and I look and sees 
 a bit of old sacking what lays across a lump 
 on the floor. Well, sir, Job Burtenshaw, 'e
 
 The Old Man of A If r is ton 191 
 
 lifts this bit o' sackin', and what do you think 
 he show me ? " 
 
 I looked at the foam-flecked pneumatics 
 which were bouncing about before me, and 
 feared the worst. " Something dead ? " I 
 hazarded, at last. 
 
 The Oldest Inhabitant, softly smiling, shook 
 his head. " That warn't ezackly dead,"- 
 he replied. "Nor yet" musingly "you 
 couldn't ezackly call it alive. To tell you the 
 truth, sir, and to cut a long story short, that 
 was a onion ! " 
 
 " A what ? " I demanded. 
 
 " A onion," repeated the Oldest Inhabitant j 
 " a onion as large as a melon. Believe me, 
 or believe me not, 'tis true, sir. A onion as 
 large as a melon ! 'Twas the most remarkable 
 thing ever I seen. I could 'ardly believe me 
 eyes. 
 
 " So you see, sir, old Job Burtenshaw, 'e 
 warn't no fool, even though e' did live alone 
 up there in that dark little cottage among 
 the thorns. He larned to grow onions, any- 
 ways. Lord bless me, that warn't arf a 
 onion. I could 'ardly believe me eyes ! 
 
 " Oh yes, sir ! I have seen some re- 
 markable things in me time."
 
 XXI 
 
 PUCKLEFIELD MANOR 
 
 AN extraordinary sort of dog, with black and 
 yellow blobs on a white background, came 
 into my garden this morning and behaved 
 in a manner which was detrimental to my 
 early narcissus. (Not "us" " i." I beg 
 everybody's pardon.) He behaved in a 
 manner which was detrimental to my early 
 narcissi. 
 
 It was V.I.M.D.T. who directed my at- 
 tention to the advent of this horticultural 
 critic. V.I.M.D.T. (Victoria Isabella Marion 
 Drucilla Tunks) was hanging out cambric. 
 Victoria Isabella Marion Drucilla Tunks is 
 Commander-in-Chief of the household in which 
 I happen to reside. She doesn't often hang 
 out cambric. A steam-laundry, situated six 
 miles away and employing an insistent motor- 
 lorry, usually puts the perforations into my 
 cambric. But this morning was one of those 
 bitter cold mornings which are thought to 
 be beneficial to cambric, so Victoria Isabella 
 
 Marion Drucilla hung it all out, when the 
 
 192
 
 Pucklefield Manor 193 
 
 action of the frost caused it to become 
 rigid, and it dangled and clattered like 
 a large collection of curiously-shaped tin 
 trays. 
 
 It became evident that this was the sort 
 of dog which I have heard described as a 
 " Rather " dog. He would rather do any- 
 thing than respond to the human voice. 
 One shouted at him, one swore at him, one 
 murmured at him, and V.I.M.D.T. made 
 breathy noises. But he continued to linger 
 fondly among my narcissi and to gaze with 
 steadfast, earnest eyes in a direction geo- 
 graphically opposite to that from which our 
 shouts and swears proceeded. 
 
 Even the somewhat erratic application of 
 half-bricks failed to unsettle this dog. He 
 seemed to regard them as a sort of " daylight 
 fireworks" especially let off for his enter- 
 tainment. He came at twelve o'clock, and 
 at two o'clock he was still with us still 
 among the narcissi ! 
 
 Something had to be done about it, and I 
 engaged in consultations with V.I.M.D.T. 
 That lady first of all examined the dog. 
 Having studied the specifications, she pro- 
 claimed him to be a " hunting dog." 
 
 " Surely not a foxhound ! " I exclaimed, 
 
 N
 
 194 Moby Lane 
 
 remarking his elongated wheel-base and narrow 
 track. 
 
 "Well," responded V.I.M.D.T., "some 
 people might call him a foxhound, and then 
 again they mightn't. He's what I calls a 
 hunting dog." 
 
 " Not ' dog,' Victoria," I said" ' hound.' 
 If he hunts, he's a hound. Even I know 
 that." 
 
 " Perhaps you're right," assented Victoria 
 Isabella Marion Drucilla Tunks. ' Though 
 some people calls 'em be a name of their own. 
 A name in the nature of a bird's name. 
 1 Beagle,' ain't it ? That's it' beagle.' j: 
 
 " Dear me ! " I exclaimed, " is that a beagle ? 
 That blobby little chap ! That free-and-easy 
 little fellow, with the map-like markings and 
 the natural manners is a beagle, eh ? A 
 beagle. Oh ! Well, Isabella, what are we 
 going to do about him ? " 
 
 " I scarcely knows," said Isabella. " I've 
 no doubt he's got hisself lost, away from his 
 mates, so to speak, because this here frorsty 
 weather is a bit of a detriment to their smell, 
 I've no doubt as the rest of his mates, like, 
 are been took back home. No doubt, he 
 belong to Mr. Toovey-Turner, over at Puckle- 
 field. He do go huntin' with a set o' these
 
 Pucklefield Manor 195 
 
 here beagles. Only the weather turning 
 frorsty, I've no doubt but what he've took 
 'em home again. They was meetin* to-day 
 at the Cock and Cony. But no doubt he've 
 took 'em home again all exceptin' Riggie 
 here." 
 
 "Not Reggie," I protested " Ranter, or 
 Ringwood. What are we going to do about 
 Ringwood ? " 
 
 ' Take him home where he belong," sug- 
 gested Marion. 
 
 " Pucklefield," I mused. " Well, why not ? 
 It's a nice day for a brisk walk. Pray secure 
 a piece of twine, Drucilla, and then secure 
 Ringwood, and then affix the former to the 
 latter. In the meantime, I will put on boots 
 and mittens and things. When Ringwood 
 is well and truly leashed, just let me know." 
 
 If I told the reader that I enjoyed the 
 experience of leading this " Rather " dog 
 about on the end of a piece of twine, I should 
 be deceiving the reader. I did not enjoy the 
 experience. It was an altogether painful and 
 unpleasant experience, and it lasted for five- 
 and-a-half miles. 
 
 The village, or hamlet, of Pucklefield, to 
 which this hound was said to appertain, is 
 one which I don't very often use. They
 
 196 Moby Lane 
 
 fatten chickens at Pucklefield, and although 
 the surrounding landscape is extremely beau- 
 tiful, the places where they fatten chickens 
 are not so. Also, their chicken-fattening has 
 prospered, with the result that they have 
 been able to afford an extraordinary number 
 and variety of religions, with the result that 
 seven different makes of galvanised iron and 
 seven different species of harmonium have 
 now been introduced into Pucklefield. 
 
 Pucklefield itself, however, is not an im- 
 portant feature of this narrative. I merely 
 state the above facts in order to explain 
 why I am not a constant visitor to Puckle- 
 field, and to offer an intelligible reason for 
 geting lost on the way to Pucklefield, to- 
 gether with the dog * Ringwood.' Not that 
 Ringwood, either, is important to this story. 
 It is what he led up to that matters sort of 
 matters. 
 
 We arrived in the vicinity of Pucklefield 
 about an hour later than we ought to have 
 arrived in that vicinity, having been much 
 delayed by natural obstacles such as tree 
 stumps. However, we did get within hail 
 of the place at last, and a good job too, 
 because the twine surrounding Ring wood's 
 throat had become exceedingly constricted
 
 Pucklefield Manor 197 
 
 and Ringwood' s tongue was protruding from 
 Ringwood's throat in a manner calculated to 
 suggest that Ringwood had had enough of 
 it. So had I. 
 
 And, then, all of a sudden and quite without 
 warning, our journey and our troubles came 
 to an end. A twist in the road brought us 
 within view of what is called a "stately pile," 
 a building, an edifice, which I rightly con- 
 jectured to be none other than Pucklefield 
 Manor, the home of Ringwood. What lent 
 point to my conjecture and, in a sense, pro- 
 voked it, was the fact that a compound or 
 enclosure adjoined the building in question, 
 which compound or enclosure was filled with 
 dogs, or hounds, of a type identical with 
 that of Ringwood. Associated with these 
 quadrupeds was an aged person in a pink 
 jacket. 
 
 This veteran, espying us from afar, at once 
 advanced towards us at a fast stagger, 
 evincing palpable signs of recognition and 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 " So so you brought back little Dot, 
 then ! " he exclaimed, in a rather gaspy voice. 
 " I'm sure we're very much obliged to you, 
 sir. Master Willie will be pleased ! " 
 
 I said, rather coldly : " If the word ' Dot '
 
 198 Moby Lane 
 
 happens to be your name for this enter- 
 prising fellow here, I can only admit that I 
 have brought him back. But, then, why 
 Dot ? And, on the other hand, why not ? 
 Everybody has heard of ' Dot and carry 
 
 one/ 
 
 " Just so, sir," replied the elderly person 
 in pink. 
 
 " We shoulden' ha' liked to lose old Dot," 
 continued this veteran. " Master Willie will 
 be oncommon glad to hear as he've come 
 home again. And so will Miss Murrl." 
 
 Not knowing anything about Master Willie 
 or Miss Muriel, I naturally wondered where 
 the} 7 came in. The aged one informed me 
 that they were the joint owners of Dot and 
 of Dot's innumerable replicas, or replici, as 
 the case may be. 
 
 " 'Tis a jint pack," explained the veteran. 
 " Miss Murrl and Master Willie, they be jint 
 Master and jint Mistress. ... If you will 
 have the kindness to wait here for half a 
 throw, I'll go fetch Master Willie. I feel sure 
 as he, and likewise Miss Murrl, will be wishful 
 for to thank you for all your kindness in going 
 to all the trouble o' walkin' all the distance, 
 in this cold weather, with the going so hard, 
 along o' the dog Dot here."
 
 Pucklefield Manor 199 
 
 I expressed my willingness not only to wait 
 " half a throw " but for a multiple, or several 
 multiples, of that chronological moiety. For 
 it occurred to me that Master Willie could not 
 do less than "exhibit" the drug Alcohol. 
 And, after walking five-and-a-half miles at 
 the other end of a string attached to a bounding 
 beagle, I felt myself to be a suitable subject 
 for experiment with the drug Alcohol. 
 
 Master Willie then appeared. But he did 
 not produce any alcohol. What he did do 
 was to invite me to tea in the nursery ! 
 
 Neither did Miss Muriel, who likewise ap- 
 peared, refer even indirectly to this artificial 
 stimulant the curse of the country, God 
 bless it ! But she also invited me to take tea 
 in the nursery. 
 
 Now, I'll own that a nursery tea was not 
 exactly what I had been halving throws for. 
 Not one little bit. On the other hand, tea, 
 though not constituting what I call a drink, 
 is perhaps less detrimental to the heart than 
 other boiled beverages. And I am believed 
 to have a weak heart. Besides . . . 
 
 I will confess that Master Willie and Miss 
 Muriel amused me, and I wanted to see more 
 of these surprising juveniles. 
 
 Master Willie was a young fellow of about
 
 2oo Moby Lane 
 
 forty-three, and a very fat young fellow, six 
 feet tall, clean shaven, bald, and having no 
 eyebrows. He had likewise lost the use of 
 his letter " R." He said to me : 
 
 ' You know, upon me word, you know, 
 this is weally most awfully good of you. It 
 would have been a tewible misfortune to lose 
 poor Dotty. He wuns a bit wild at times. 
 The last we saw of him, he had sepawated 
 fwom the main gwoup, and he was wunning 
 wound and wound those wocks in Wocky Lane. 
 We are most awfully obliged to you, you know, 
 we weally are. Now you have come so far, 
 you weally must stop and have some tea with 
 us. We have tea in the nursery." 
 Miss Muriel then spoke. She said : 
 " You've behaved like a sportsman, and 
 that's all there is about it. You'll have to 
 stop to tea. We insist. Buns and bannocks 
 and things in the nursery. We always have 
 tea in the nursery." 
 
 Miss Muriel was younger than her brother 
 a tom-boyish, bouncing young creature of 
 about thirty-seven. Like her brother, she 
 was constructed on massive lines. Nature 
 had created her regardless of expense. She 
 was dressed in a broadly checked skirt, with 
 a tail-coat to match, A tall collar, a tall
 
 Pucklefield Manor 201 
 
 white stock, a gold pin and a striped waistcoat 
 enshrouded her bosom and its environs. A 
 black bowler hat, with a wide, flat brim sur- 
 mounted her round, pink face and gilt hair. 
 
 We then walked into the house, Miss Muriel 
 leading the way. 
 
 " First of all," said Miss Muriel, " you must 
 say ' How-do-ye-do ' to papa." 
 
 I did so. Papa, who appeared to be about 
 one hundred and twenty years of age, in- 
 habited a dark oak chair in a dark corner of 
 a dark room. He wore a dark coat and a 
 dark skull-cap. He was deaf, but grasped 
 the words " hound " and " friend." He said : 
 
 " Glad to see you. Glad to see all their 
 young friends. Splendid puppies, eh ? Said 
 to be the best pack in the county. Splendid 
 sport ! Good for the children. Keeps 'em 
 away from barmaids and curates. Run along 
 to tea now. Tea in the nursery. Always 
 keep up nursery tea. Always have kept it 
 up. Two nurses. Can't discharge 'em. 
 Eatin' their heads off. Must find 'em em- 
 ployment. Besides, it keeps the children 
 young keeps 'em modest. Glass of sherry 
 and cigar here afterwards. None of your 
 whiskey. None of your cigarettes." 
 
 After which the nursery did not tremendously
 
 2O2 Moby Lane 
 
 surprise me. A long, high room, with many 
 cupboards. Large fireplace. Netted fire- 
 guard as large as a chicken-run. Long table, 
 at the head of which was seated an old, 
 old lady in a starched cap and wristbands. 
 At the opposite end of the table sat another 
 lady, similarly uniformed and one degree less 
 aged. The table was well spread with every 
 kind of stomach-aching substance. Places 
 were set for five or six. The crockery, I 
 perceived, was of a suitable description, 
 heavy and old, but of an entertaining nature, 
 for it exhibited the adventures of Jack the 
 Giant Killer, the Babes in the Wood, Little 
 Red Riding Hood and The Sleeping Beauty, 
 all of which historical personages were faith- 
 fully portrayed in Liverpool transfer, wearing 
 Chinese hats and pigtails. 
 
 The lady who presided at this refection was 
 called "Nannah." Her ''Mr. Vice" was 
 called " Nurse Charlotte.' 1 Nannah always 
 spoke first, but Nurse Charlotte always spoke 
 second, confirming Nannah' s utterances. 
 Nannah now said : 
 
 "It is your turn to say grace, Master 
 Willie." 
 
 Nurse Charlotte said, " Yes. It is Master 
 Willie's turn to say grace."
 
 Pttcklefield Manor 203 
 
 Master Willie accordingly spoke these words: 
 
 " For what we awe about to weceive may 
 the Lord make us twuly gwateful. Amen. 
 No tweacle when it comes to my turn for 
 cwumpets, Nannah, please." 
 
 Nannah then addressed herself to Miss 
 Muriel, accompanying her speech with an 
 oblique look at the humble historian of this 
 event. 
 
 "Ask the young gentleman, Miss Muriel/' 
 she said, " whether he would like some milk 
 and sugar with his tea." 
 
 The young gentleman having voted for 
 both of these ingredients, was handed his 
 tea by Nannah, who, while performing the 
 act of transfer, looked very hard at him 
 or, rather, at his hands. The young gentle- 
 man became embarrassed. He put them 
 quickly into his pockets, but realising that 
 this was not genteel, he hid them under the 
 table, but realising that this was not practical, 
 he tried to do conjuring tricks with a napkin. 
 At length, realising the futility of all these 
 expedients, and feeling that the eye of Nannah 
 was unfalteringly upon him, burning a hot 
 place all through him and making cinders of 
 his spine, he relinquished all subterfuge and 
 spoke up, as in days of yore. He said :
 
 204 Moby Lam 
 
 " If if you please, Nannah, may I leave 
 the table for a minute ? I I I think my 
 hands are rather grubby. I I have been 
 walking about with a dog. And I I think 
 I would like to wash them." 
 
 Nannah signified her consent to my petition 
 by a grave nod of the head. " At the same 
 time," she said, " you might give your hair a 
 brush. It wants it." 
 
 The rest of that repast was spoilt for me. 
 I felt that I had disgraced myself, and not 
 only myself but my family, and not only my 
 family but my own, old, private Nannah, who 
 was more particular about hands and hair 
 than about anything else. 
 
 I lost my nerve so badly that this Nannah, 
 loudly seconded by Nurse Charlotte, had to 
 speak three times before I realised that she was 
 speaking to me, and that I was being offered 
 the honour of returning thanks for my good 
 tea. This feat I then performed, in a some- 
 what faltering manner. 
 
 Still in imperfect possession of my faculties, 
 I permitted Miss Muriel and Master Willie to 
 lead me out of the nursery and back again 
 into the dark oak room, where Papa again 
 received me with kindness, directing me to a 
 sideboard where the cigars and the sherry
 
 Pucklefield Manor 205 
 
 were in waiting. Proceeding dumbly to this 
 place, I again lost touch with the realities, 
 and, ignoring the wine and tobacco, went 
 straight to the fruit dish, from which I 
 abstracted an orange and a brazil nut, which 
 I stuffed into my trousers pocket. 
 
 I thought that the old gentleman looked 
 a little bit surprised at this, and so did Miss 
 Muriel, and so did Master Willie. But they 
 naturally did not express this sentiment in 
 words. Indeed, the sentiments which they 
 did utter were those of kindness and hospi- 
 tality. They asked me to come again to 
 Pucklefield Manor and again to take tea 
 in the nursery an invitation which I very 
 eagerly accepted, for I like Pucklefield Manor : 
 I like having tea in the nursery. Also . . . 
 
 Well, also, I have my character to redeem, 
 and that of my family, and that of my own, 
 old Nannah. Next time, I will take care 
 that my hands and hair are quite all right. 
 And I will wear a better suit something in 
 black velvet, I think, with a wide lace collar. 
 And I will learn up " The Wreck of the 
 Hesperus" again. I always used to recite 
 this poem in other people's nurseries. In 
 our own they barred it.
 
 XXII 
 A TOY TRAGEDY. 
 
 LAST year I organised a Christmas tree in 
 this my native village. This year I am 
 organising no Christmas tree. Our vicar 
 wonders why. 
 
 I did not pay for the Christmas tree. 
 Simon paid for it. Simon is a fat and simple 
 man, who comes from Nicaragua, and who 
 used to know my Uncle Benjamin. That is 
 why he stayed with me last Christmas-time. 
 That is why he thought it would be nice to 
 entertain the village children. That is why 
 he had to find out for himself how impossible 
 it is to do such things in England. 
 
 Of course, when Simon gave me twenty 
 pounds and asked me to arrange the thing, I 
 could hardly refuse him. He used to know 
 my Uncle Benjamin. So I wrote a letter to 
 the vicar. I had to write a letter to the vicar 
 because we had to borrow the village school- 
 room. It was rather awkward, writing to 
 
 the vicar, because I don't happen to be a 
 
 206
 
 A Toy Tragedy 207 
 
 member of his flock, and he doesn't recognise 
 the existence of stray sheep. However, I 
 told him where I lived (about fifty yards from 
 the vicarage), and what my name was, and 
 what I wanted. As I had then lived in the 
 village eight years, I felt justified in adding 
 that almost any common person would be 
 able to show him my house. I thought, 
 perhaps, he would care to come and discuss 
 the matter with me. He did care, and he did 
 come. 
 
 He came on Saturday morning, looking 
 like a man who had received a shock, but is 
 determined to keep calm. 
 
 " I understand/' said the vicar, " that 
 you are anxious to be allowed to send some 
 toys and sweetmeats to the schoolroom to 
 be distributed to the children. You would 
 wish us to do this, I presume, on the occasion 
 of our usual Yuletide festival ? " 
 
 The reverend gentleman's understanding 
 required correction. I explained to him that 
 my position was that of an intermediary ; 
 that I was personally quite without anxiety 
 on the subject ; but that my friend, Mr. 
 Simple Simon whom I now presented to 
 him did indeed seek permission to borrow 
 or hire the schoolroom.
 
 2o8 Moby Lane 
 
 " I understand," said the vicar, turning 
 his back on Simple Simon, " that you are the 
 writah of the lettah which I received this 
 morning ? I should, therefore, prefah to 
 discuss the matt ah with you. It is my in- 
 variable practice to limit, so far as possible, 
 the intrusion of extraneous counsel into 
 questions relating purely to my parish work. 
 I understand that you would like these toys 
 to be distributed in our schoolroom ? " 
 
 " We would like/' I replied, " to borrow or 
 hire your schoolroom, and to invite the 
 children to tea there all the children, you 
 understand, good and bad alike. We want 
 the thing to be as little like a ' function ' as 
 possible ; just a simple jollification, you 
 know tea and blind man's buff and a Christ- 
 mas tree and crackers." 
 
 " I understand," said the vicar, " that my 
 co-operation in this mattah will not be re- 
 fused, although I perceive that it has not been 
 distinctly invited." 
 
 We begged the reverend gentleman to co- 
 operate with all his might. 
 
 " Exactly," remarked the vicar : " exactly. 
 Then I understand that you will not be averse 
 to my offering a few suggestions with a view 
 to placing the mattah upon such a footing
 
 A Toy Tragedy 209 
 
 as will enable all classes in the parish to unite 
 and make your little charity the success which 
 it deserves to be." 
 
 The silent Simon here broke into speech. 
 " Please don't call it a charity, sir/' he said. 
 " We don't want the kiddies to look at it in 
 that light." 
 
 Our reverend visitor turned his head, and 
 with the aid of a pair of eyeglasses endea- 
 voured to see the author of this imperti- 
 nence ; but, failing to achieve success in that 
 menial task, removed the eyeglasses, and 
 resumed his speech. 
 
 " Then I understand," said the vicar, 
 " that I am to consider myself entrusted with 
 the preliminary arrangements of this enter- 
 tainment. It seems to me, speaking, as it 
 were, without reflection or inquiry, that the 
 idea is one which might well be identified 
 with our own little festival on the loth of 
 January. I will endeavour to enlist the 
 services of a suitable committee of ladies, and 
 I may even hope, although I cannot promise, 
 that Mr. Quickly will be present. Good-day, 
 gentlemen." 
 
 " Who may Mr. Quickly be ? " demanded 
 Simple Simon, when our good vicar had really 
 
 gone. 
 
 o
 
 2io Moby Lane 
 
 " He is a Parliamentary candidate," I 
 replied. 
 
 " Why has he got to be invited to my 
 party ? ' ' inquired Simple Simon. 
 
 " I don't know," I answered ; " but the 
 local feeling is that he is indispensable." 
 
 " Dear me," said Simple Simon. 
 
 Two days later I received a letter from the 
 vicar. It was a short epistle, merely calling 
 my attention to " the enclosed card of in- 
 vitation," which, said the vicar, he proposed 
 sending forth to " some few friends and 
 sympathisers." These favoured persons were 
 invited to support " our friend and neighbour," 
 Mr. Thomas Randolph Quickly, prospective 
 Imperialist candidate for the Blowfield 
 Division of Sussex, when upon Saturday, the 
 loth instant, he would make his first public 
 appearance in this parish, and would preside 
 at a " Yuletide festival and temperance 
 fete, to be held in the schoolroom at four 
 o'clock p.m." Upon the base of the card 
 in small italic type appeared the following 
 additional notification : " A number of toys 
 and sweets will, by the kindness of a local 
 gentleman, be presented to the scholars in 
 attendance." 
 
 When the appointed day arrived we went
 
 A Toy Tragedy 211 
 
 round to the schoolroom prepared for scenes 
 of revelry. A youth called " Muffin," and 
 another youth called " Puggy," two high- 
 spirited young friends of mine, came with us, 
 having been invited to see the fun, and to 
 make themselves useful by handing out the 
 toys, walking round with cakes, doing " blind 
 man," and all that sort of thing. 
 
 We got inside the hall, to find the " com- 
 mittee of ladies" in possession with a lot of 
 hammers and red baize and Union Jacks. 
 One of these ladies Mrs. Tollemache, by 
 name came forward and very politely in- 
 quired what she could do for us. 
 
 We thanked her, and explained that we had 
 invited ourselves to the party. 
 
 " In that case," said Mrs. Tollemache, 
 " you will be so kind as to take seats at the 
 end of the halL We are rather behindhand 
 with the arrangements ; and people moving 
 about the platform do interfere so." 
 
 Then we further explained that we con- 
 sidered ourselves as forming part of the 
 arrangements. We had come to administer 
 the Christmas tree. 
 
 "That matter," Mrs. Tollemache assured 
 us, " has already been attended to. The 
 vicar has made most careful plans. You
 
 212 Moby Lane 
 
 will excuse me now, won't you ? Mr. Quickly 
 will be here in less than half an hour." 
 
 A little later Mr. Quickly did arrive, in 
 company with the vicar and a large number 
 of ladies and gentlemen, who proceeded to 
 group themselves round the Christmas tree 
 upon a raised dais. Later, some of the ladies 
 and gentlemen kindly made room for Simple 
 Simon and his party. 
 
 Then a few more people arrived and came 
 on to the platform, and then the party was 
 complete excepting, of course, for the 
 children. 
 
 ' They'll be bursting in on us pretty soon 
 now, I suppose," suggested Simple Simon to 
 the vicar. That gentleman replied that the 
 children were even then awaiting a signal from 
 him to enter. At the same moment he seized 
 a bell-rope which depended from the roof of 
 the schoolroom. 
 
 " Now for the rush," cried Simple Simon, 
 in tones of delighted anticipation. 
 
 The big school bell boomed out. The big 
 doors of the school, controlled by the unseen 
 hand of the sexton, flew open. Then there 
 burst in upon us a solitary, diminutive, 
 stout little man, who held in his hand an 
 enormous cab whistle. The conscientious
 
 A Toy Tragedy 213 
 
 calm of a certificated teacher was written 
 large all over him. 
 
 This person, having first bowed to the pro- 
 spective honourable member for this division, 
 and having then bowed to the vicar, turned 
 his back upon the platform, and having pro- 
 duced an imperative scream from the cab 
 whistle, addressed himself to an invisible 
 audience beyond the doors. 
 
 "Now, children/* exclaimed their little 
 schoolmaster in a loud and unpleasant voice ; 
 " now, boys and girls, behave yourselves. 
 When I blow one on the whistle you come to 
 attention. When I blow two, quick march. 
 When I blow loud and long you halt ! Now 
 then are you ready ? " Toot ! 
 
 A shuffle of feet on the pavement without. 
 
 Toot! toot! 
 
 An orderly and dignified scrunching of feet. 
 An orderly and dignified irruption of white- 
 faced, round-eyed, over-washed children. A 
 snarl from Simple Simon. 
 
 Simple Simon had broken out. " What is 
 the meaning of all this tomfoolery ? " he de- 
 manded of the vicar. 
 
 " All of which tomfoolery ? " inquired the 
 vicar. 
 
 " This that ! Marching in my guests
 
 214 Moby Lane 
 
 under escort, as if they were a gang of 
 convicts ? " 
 
 " The children," responded our vicar, " have 
 been marshalled in this manner with my full 
 approval." 
 
 The face behind the cab whistle began again. 
 " Now, boys and girls, listen to me. When I 
 blow one, file off in twos and take your places 
 at the forms beside the tea-table. Boys to 
 the right of the room, girls to the left." 
 Toot! 
 
 The children began to march off as directed. 
 But one ill-mannered infant happened to laugh, 
 whereupon the whole procession was tooted to 
 a halt. " Children," cried the little man in 
 a mournful voice, " behave yourselves. Re- 
 member I rely on you." Toot ! 
 
 Having thus re-established decorum, and 
 got the children to their places, standing 
 at attention, the little man began again. 
 
 " Now, children, listen to me. When I 
 blow one, sit down. When I blow two, sit 
 up. When I blow two one, hold out your 
 mugs. Pupil-teachers, fall in with tea-cans. 
 When " and so forth. 
 
 ' That chap thinks he's taming something," 
 reflected my young friend Muffin in a subdued 
 voice.
 
 A Toy Tragedy 215 
 
 The tooting continued on and off for about 
 an hour. The little round man tooted them 
 up while the vicar said grace, and down when 
 he had finished it, and up again to an address 
 on " The Truer Patriotism " from Mr. Quickly, 
 and down again when their tea was cold, and 
 up again because they didn't sit down smartly. 
 
 He tooted them in single file up to the 
 Christmas tree. He tooted them into quarter 
 column formation at the back of the hall, and 
 demanded three cheers for Mr. Quickly. 
 He then tooted them into silence while Mr. 
 Quickly returned thanks, and the vicar ex- 
 tolled Mr. Quickly, and Mr. Quickly extolled 
 the vicar, after which the children were tooted 
 to attention, and commanded to utter three 
 further cheers in favour of the vicar. They 
 were then tooted into fours and marched 
 out of the hall. 
 
 Then the vicar pointed out to Simple Simon 
 that a large quantity of toys on the Christmas 
 tree still remained there. " Since you have 
 provided over-generously," said the vicar, 
 " may I suggest that we should retain the 
 residue for bazaar and raffle purposes ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," said Simple Simon. 
 
 ' There is no objection, I presume," added 
 the vicar, " to Mrs. Tollemache taking home
 
 216 Moby Lane 
 
 an engine for her little boy. The poor 
 child has such a cold." 
 
 We followed the vicar and Mr. Quickly out 
 of the hall. Just outside the door we came 
 upon a crowd of very hungry, very dirty little 
 children, who had had no toys at all. 
 
 Simple Simon broke out again. ' What 
 the devil does this mean ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 The vicat said : "I conceive you to have 
 addressed some observation to me, sir." 
 
 " You conceive me to be inquiring why 
 these little beggars, these dirty, uncouth 
 little beggars, were not invited to my party. 
 The arrangements were in your hands." 
 
 " These children," explained the vicar, " are 
 the children of undesirable parents. They 
 have been excluded upon moral grounds."
 
 XXIII 
 SUETRY 
 
 IN the part of England where I live the 
 custom still survives among the native popu- 
 lation of offering Christmas wishes by word 
 of mouth and Christmas gifts by deed of 
 hand. 
 
 Thus, Mr. Daniel Purkis, of Blowfield, came 
 recently to my threshold bearing a pigeon on 
 a plate. " With the compliments of the 
 season, sir," said Mr. Purkis. 
 
 I am told by persons acquainted with the 
 profounder mysteries of the Christian faith 
 that the pigeon is an emblematic bird signify- 
 ing that which is invisible and incompre- 
 hensible, but at the same time fundamental. 
 This being the case, I have no doubt that 
 spiritual as well as artistic motives governed 
 Mr. Purkis in his choice of meat. 
 
 " Meat/' I say ; for Mr. Purkis' pigeon was 
 now definable as such, having been slain. It 
 lay in the middle of the plate, moist and pink 
 
 and naked or nearly naked. The garment 
 
 217
 
 218 Moby Lane 
 
 of down and feathers which enables live 
 pigeons to support an appearance of decency 
 had been stripped from this bird, but the 
 resultant bleakness was partly relieved by a 
 narrow red ribbon of silk, which had been 
 tied across the chest of the deceased, who was 
 further decorated with a sprig of holly, a sprig 
 of mistletoe, and oh, deft touch ! a sprig 
 of maidenhair fern. 
 
 I took this offering from Mr. Purkis, bowing 
 my acknowledgments. At the same time, I 
 observed, as I always do, the fleshy, red 
 thumb of Mr. Purkis, and I shuddered, as I 
 always do, at this feature of Mr. Purkis' 
 personality. 
 
 My objection to Mr. Purkis' thumb is a 
 purely spiritual one. I can't define it in 
 words. Mr. Purkis is a butcher. 
 
 If I didn't know that Mr. Purkis was a 
 butcher, I probably shouldn't know that he 
 had a thumb. But, having this know- 
 ledge of Mr. Purkis' vocation, I am unable 
 to avoid his thumb. To my biassed vision, 
 he consists exclusively of a thumb. 
 
 Having received the pigeon and averted 
 my gaze from the thumb, I called for One who 
 is kind enough to share my solitude when at 
 home. I said to her :
 
 Siietry 219 
 
 "Come here, and look what Mr. Purkis has 
 given us ! " 
 
 She came. She looked. She smiled at 
 Mr. Purkis. She regarded your servant. She 
 opened her mouth, as if to utter becoming 
 sentiments of gratitude. But, at that moment, 
 the young lady to whom I refer with such 
 masterly reticence, became suddenly and 
 unaccountably afflicted with a paralysis of 
 the organs of speech. In place of the becom- 
 ing sentiments, there issued from her mouth a 
 series of unbecoming noises, mingled with 
 faint sobs and a distressing cough. She 
 then turned her back on Mr. Purkis, uttering 
 what sounded like a cry for help, and I sup- 
 ported her staggering form to a doorway and 
 deposited it, inert and helpless, on the floor 
 of an adjacent chamber. 
 
 And they ask one to admire the social 
 resource and tact of women ! 
 
 I returned to Mr. Purkis, a little shaken 
 from the effects of the painful scene which we 
 had both witnessed. Mr. Purkis offered me 
 a few well-chosen words of sympathy. I 
 thanked him. 
 
 " The plate comes back, if you please, 
 sir," added Mr. Purkis. 
 
 I offered Mr. Purkis innumerable apologies,
 
 22O Moby Lane 
 
 and, having caused other arrangements to 
 be made for the lying-in-state of the pigeon, 
 I gave him back his plate. 
 
 ' Thank you, sir ; much obliged, sir, I'm 
 sure, sir/' said Mr. Purkis. " I wouldn't ha' 
 took the liberty o' troublin' you for it, sir, 
 only my wife she tal me very particler to 
 make sure and bring the plate back." 
 
 ***** 
 
 I remember experiencing a sense of shock 
 when Mr. Purkis mentioned his wife. It 
 had not occurred to me that that red thumb 
 might be married. And yet, of course, one 
 knows that butchers do have wives. You see 
 them on Sundays, heavy women with ear- 
 rings, being driven abroad by the thumbs 
 in diminutive " governess cars," which are 
 drawn by quick and agitated ponies. 
 
 It was Mr. Purkis' wife, no doubt, who laid 
 out the pigeon. The nice adjustment of that 
 sprig of fern was a feat beyond the arts of 
 thumbing. 
 
 A little later, at luncheon, I said to one 
 who is sometimes kind enough to share that 
 repast with me : 
 
 " I suppose we shall have to return Mr. 
 Purkis' present." 
 
 " Don't be absurd," replied the person to
 
 Sue fry 221 
 
 whom this question was addressed. " The 
 best return you can make him is to pay his 
 bill." 
 
 " Right ! " I replied, making a note 
 in my pocket-book. 
 
 " What have you written ? " demanded my 
 companion. 
 
 I replied that I was merely reminding 
 myself to write a little story about Mr. Purkis, 
 in settlement of his account. I then explained 
 to the lady who shared these deliberations 
 with me that the mere payment of Mr. Purkis' 
 bill would not satisfy my extremely scrupulous 
 sense of fairness. Mr. Purkis had come 
 voluntarily to my house, bearing gifts. As 
 an honourable man and a democrat, I felt that 
 he had thus placed me under an obligation 
 which could only be repaid in kind. 
 
 " What is the usual Christmas present for 
 a butcher ? Let it be something inanimate : 
 something he can't " 
 
 My counsellor, interrupting my speech, 
 replied that there was no such thing as a 
 recognised present for a butcher. The only 
 person in the world who ever gave presents 
 to a butcher was a butcher's wife, and 
 she gives him striped aprons. If I insisted 
 on making myself conspicuous by giving
 
 222 Moby Lane 
 
 Christmas presents to a butcher, then my coun- 
 sellor could only implore me, for the butcher's 
 sake, not to make it aprons, and for her 
 sake, not to make it cigars. No butcher 
 ought to be encouraged to smoke. 
 
 " But," I submitted, " if you can't give 
 aprons to a butcher and you can't give him 
 cigars, what, in Heaven's sake, can you give 
 him ? Butchers don't play hockey, or hunt, 
 or take photographs, or anything." 
 
 " You could give him a nice book," sug- 
 gested the counsellor. 
 
 After thoroughly considering this suggestion 
 I decided to accept it. I remembered that 
 Mr. Purkis possessed a wife, and I accordingly 
 took down from its shelf an attractive little 
 volume called " An Ideal Husband," being a 
 play by Oscar Wilde. I then mounted my 
 bicycle and rode to Blowfield, where I gave 
 Mr. Purkis this book and a small cheque, 
 together " with the compliments of the 
 season." 
 
 Mr. Purkis received the book with reverence, 
 having previously applied the apron to both 
 thumbs. 
 
 Having piously examined the volume, he 
 looked up, exhibiting a countenance all shiny 
 with lard and emotion. " Sir," he said,
 
 Snetry 223 
 
 rather unsteadily, " I thank you : I thank 
 you very much indeed. If there be one thing 
 what pleases my wife, 'tis a pretty little story 
 book to look at Sunday afternoons. I wonder 
 I wonder if you would allow me to ask you 
 to shake 'ands with my wife ? " 
 
 I readily assented to this charming 
 suggestion, and at once walked to the small 
 glasshouse, marked " CASH," situated at the 
 end of the shop. It was one of those con- 
 servatories in which butchers always keep 
 their wives, and I was surprised to find it 
 empty. 
 
 " Ah, sir," exclaimed Mr. Purkis "'tis 
 useless for to seek in there : quite useless. 
 My wife, she've never set a foot in this shop 
 since the day I married her ! " 
 
 Mr. Purkis uttered this statement with 
 dramatic emphasis. His voice became 
 charged with a strange, new quality : a quality 
 of emotion. 
 
 Mr. Purkis then conducted me to an upper 
 chamber, wherein a very plump lady, having 
 golden hair and a contented smile, sat 
 enthroned amid wickerwork and ferns. 
 
 " This," exclaimed the thumbs, " is Mrs. 
 Purkis. The gentleman is one of our cus- 
 tomers, my dear : him what I've spoken of,
 
 224 Moby Lane 
 
 as always have the shoulder halved. Mrs. 
 Purkis has been married to me for nine years, 
 sir, and I'm proud to say that, in all that 
 time, she has never so much as set foot in the 
 shop. No, sir : never so much as peeped 
 into the place. I'm one of those men as be- 
 lieves in keeping the wife away from the meat. 
 Purkis is a butcher : Mrs. Purkis is a lady. 
 Since the day she married, Mrs. Purkis has 
 never done an hour's work : not so much as 
 to lift a needle, sir. We got a little daughter, 
 what I'm bringing up to be a lady, likewise. 
 And we got a little son what I'm bringing 
 up to be a butcher. Mother, show the 
 gentleman the Christmas photo of our Willie. 
 
 Stretching forth a languid arm, Mrs. Purkis 
 selected a card from among several which 
 lay on the adjacent table. It was a large and 
 expensive card, embellished with golden horse- 
 shoes and scarlet berries. But that with 
 which it was most signally embellished was a 
 photographic reproduction, representing the 
 exterior of Mr. Purkis' shop. In the fore- 
 front of the picture lay a large dead pig, 
 which had been deprived of its outer skin. A 
 triumphant small boy, clad in his Sunday 
 clothes, sat astride the pig, as one enthroned 
 upon an accomplishment of art.
 
 Suetry 225 
 
 I looked at Mr. Purkis, after looking at this 
 picture, and perceived that the eyes of that 
 stout fellow were filled with tears. 
 
 I then perceived that the soul of Mr. 
 Purkis had a kind of sub-soul which was 
 illumined by a kind of a glow the glow of 
 "Suetry." ' 
 
 " Suetry " a word which I have invented, 
 thus enriching the English language is the 
 rich, fat brother of poetry. It is poetry 
 without hunger.
 
 XXIV 
 UNCLE ALF 
 
 " PEOPLE'S right/' said Mrs. Piper Mrs. 
 Tom Piper : her what married the wheel- 
 wright. " People's right : this Fair ain't 
 'arf the ' go ' it used for to be." 
 
 I looked at Mrs. Piper, who was surrounded 
 by all her young, and by her old mother and 
 by her sister Kate and by her cousin Annie 
 from Croydon, and by a boy who had donkey 
 rides for disposal and by another boy who 
 canvassed for custom in the interest of 
 roundabouts and by steam organs and by 
 fried fish and by sticky, freckled men, in the 
 " familiar " stage of gin and cider. I looked 
 at Mrs. Piper, and decided that Mrs. Piper 
 was right. Mrs. Piper looked at me, and 
 blinked apologetically, for the sun was in her 
 eyes. She dabbed at her harassed coun- 
 tenance with the end of a warm feather boa, 
 which encircled her neck, and addressed a 
 shrill and comprehensive rebuke to her 
 young : 
 
 " Steady on, the lot o' you : 'old yere nise 
 
 226
 
 Uncle Alf 227 
 
 now, do ! " cried Mrs. Piper. " What'll 
 Uncle Alf say ? " 
 
 ' Where be Uncle Alf, mo'er ? " piped a 
 little Piper. 
 
 " He won't be long a-comin' now, Willie, 
 so hold yere nise," replied his mother. 
 ' Yere Uncle Alf s what's wanted, 'ere. 
 Per'aps this Fair' 11 begin to look like a Fair 
 when yere Uncle Alf comes. Yere Uncle 
 Alf '11 liven things up." 
 
 ' Yes, mo'er," assented Willie, nodding 
 wisely. 
 
 And, on thinking things over, it occurred 
 to us that this was exactly what was wanted 
 here an Uncle Alf. A rubicund, jolly, 
 prosperous, open-handed, bow-fronted Uncle 
 Alf. 
 
 Suddenly he came. " There 'e be, mo'er ! " 
 called out all the articulate specimens of Mrs. 
 Piper's young. "There's oold Uncle Alf." 
 And there he was, quite positively. 
 
 But we should be deceiving you if we pre- 
 tended that the Uncle Alf of fact corresponded 
 exactly with the Uncle Alf of our vision. The 
 Uncle Alf of fact was well, different. He 
 was not rubicund ; neither was he rotund, 
 nor was he manifestly jovial. 
 
 On the other hand, he was Uncle Alf, and
 
 228 Moby Lane 
 
 seeing how urgently we needed an Uncle 
 Alf, we decided to welcome him, even though 
 he did happen to be an odd pattern. 
 
 He shambled up to Mrs. Piper, and made 
 his salutations : a tall, uneven, undulating, 
 beardless youth, with bad teeth and a 
 chequered complexion : An ironmonger's ap- 
 prentice type of youth, in tight blue suiting, 
 yellow boots, a wide-brimmed hat, and a 
 
 NECKTIE ! ! ! 
 
 An intensely earnest, very awkward youth, 
 who was smoking a thin Virginian cigarette, 
 with an air of not minding who noticed it. 
 A youth with large red ears. 
 
 Well, there he was : such as he was. We 
 raised three fingers and carefully blessed 
 him. 
 
 " 'Ere, mo'er d'year that ? " demanded 
 the combined young, in ecstasy. " Gold 
 Uncle Alf be gooiner J ave a goo at they 
 cocoa-nuts ! " 
 
 Sensation ! 
 
 Uncle Alf walks very deliberately, very 
 calmly, up to the cocoa-nut man. Uncle Alf 
 deposits sixpence. Uncle Alf receives in ex- 
 change an armful o' wooden balls, seven in 
 number.
 
 Uncle Alf 229 
 
 " I'll oold yere 'at, uncle," exclaims his 
 eldest nephew. 
 
 "'Ush ! " commands that young gentle- 
 man's mother. 
 
 She and her young, the grandparent, the 
 aunt, the cousin, dispose themselves fanwise 
 in the immediate rear of Uncle Alf. That 
 gentleman breathes hard. 
 
 He then throws a ball in the direction of a 
 cocoa-nut. Nothing happens to the cocoa-nut, 
 but the man who commands the cocoa-nuts 
 starts back and regards Uncle Alf with an 
 expression of deep and genuine sympathy. 
 ' 'Ard lines, sir ! " he exclaims. 
 
 Uncle Alf essays again (and again and 
 again !) to dislodge the cocoanut. At last, 
 he has used up all his balls and the cocoa-nut 
 man has uttered seven times his cry of sym- 
 pathy and encouragement. But the cocoa- 
 nut remains untouched. 
 
 " I was as near to it as this, that last time," 
 says Uncle Alf to Mrs. Piper, tapping his 
 finger-nail. 
 
 He then proceeds, amid an awe-stricken 
 hush, to a little tent, where an Eastern 
 gentleman, of extreme urbanity, conducts a 
 little game of skill and patience called 
 " Covering the Spot." The Eastern gentleman,
 
 230 Moby Lane 
 
 smiling softly, obliges Uncle Alf with a brief, 
 but lucid, exposition of the principles of the 
 game. 
 
 Within the Eastern gentleman's little tent 
 there stands a little table, which is covered 
 by a cloth, in the centre of which is painted 
 a big red spot. The object of the game is to 
 cover this spot with certain discs, identical 
 in shape and size. The Eastern gentleman 
 himself performs this feat with certainty and 
 ease. He is willing, however, to pay you 
 five shillings if you can do likewise. He 
 exacts a nominal entrance fee of twopence for 
 each attempt. 
 
 Uncle Alf proves six times that he can 
 nearly do it, and pays a shilling for the 
 privilege of demonstrating this fact. 
 
 " I jolly nigh 'ad 'is oold fi' bob that larst 
 toime," he says to Mrs. Piper, at the end of 
 the ceremony. And the eldest nephew hastens 
 to communicate this item of intelligence to 
 his grandmother, crying : " D'year that, 
 gran' -mo' er ? Oold uncle, he jolly nigh 'ad 
 the oold fi' bob that larst toime." 
 
 " Did he, now the wicked lad ! " exclaims 
 the old lady, gazing at Uncle Alf with eyes 
 which are illumined by the light of pride and 
 love.
 
 Uncle A If 231 
 
 Uncle Alf then purchases a shilling's worth 
 of wooden rings. He flings them away from 
 him with alarming celerity, aiming at all 
 sorts of difficult targets ; at marble clocks, 
 tobacco-jars, and butter-dishes. One two 
 three Pff ! It is over. 
 
 " I nearly 'ad that pickle jar ! " cries 
 Uncle Alf. 
 
 " 'Ard lines, sir ! " exclaims the man who 
 has had the shilling. 
 
 " Ah, well," says Mrs. Piper, hopefully, 
 " there's still the dart board." 
 
 It seems to us that Uncle Alf has done 
 enough : but Uncle Alf is bent on enjoying 
 himself. 
 
 The dart board costs him eighteenpence. 
 But mark you this ! it does the trick for 
 him. For, with his last throw, he hits the 
 yellow spot and wins a stick of chocolate ! 
 
 " Well done, sir ! " cries the dartman : 
 " a very good throw ! " 
 
 " 'Ow's this ? " cried Uncle Alf, exhibiting 
 the stick of chocolate to his aged mother. 
 
 "'Ow's that, grannie?" cry the little 
 nephews. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " cries granny, looking very 
 tenderly at Uncle Alf : " Ya're a wicked 
 lad."
 
 XXV 
 
 THE CRAMMING SHED 
 
 MR. TIM GUMBRILL, the Chickun-fatter, of 
 Highfield, in Sussex, entertained me this 
 morning to an exposition of his art and his 
 philosophy. 
 
 The scene of this ceremony was the long, 
 low iron-roofed shed wherein Mr. Gumbrill 
 pursues his highly profitable craft. This 
 shed constitutes an admirable site for the 
 prosecution of metaphysical inquiry, being 
 dim and muggy. The dimness arises, firstly, 
 from the dirt on the windows of the shed, and, 
 secondly, from the smallness and fewness of 
 those illuminants. These factors also con- 
 tribute to the peculiar thermal quality of 
 Mr. Gumbrill' s shed ; but the characteristic 
 flavouring of the atmosphere is imparted to 
 it by the iron roof and the hens. 
 
 The hens inhabit coops, which are ranged, 
 tier upon tier, along the walls of this hot, 
 dark cabin ; and they are red-eyed, feverish, 
 watchful hens. They watch with outstretched 
 
 necks, their coops being so constructed as to 
 
 232
 
 The Cramming Shed 233 
 
 discourage an erect posture. They watch 
 the cracks of light which frame the doorway 
 of Mr. Gumbrill's shed ; and when this door 
 is opened to admit Mr. Gumbrill, their out- 
 stretched necks stretch out a little farther, 
 their eyes flame still more hotly, as they strain 
 towards the light and air beyond the opened 
 door. 
 
 Then Mr. Gumbrill enters his shed, leaving 
 the door wide open, to illuminate the scene, 
 and walks towards the centre of the shed, 
 where his bench, his table, his baskets, and 
 other appliances are kept. And then all the 
 hens avert their eyes from the doorway and 
 look at Mr. Gumbrill, twisting their necks with 
 a movement which is almost simultaneous, 
 holding their heads a little slantwise, and 
 uttering nervous noises. 
 
 The chief of Mr. Gumbrill's appliances is 
 his " cramming machine," an object con- 
 structed of iron and shaped, roughly speaking, 
 like a kitchen pump. A wooden treadle is 
 attached to the base of this ingenious con- 
 trivance, and its upper works are provided 
 with a length of rubber tubing. In front 
 of his cramming machine, and in close 
 proximity to the mouth of the tube, Mr. 
 Gumbrill has caused a wooden trough to be
 
 234 Moby Lane 
 
 erected ; and this trough is invariably occupied 
 by deceased hens headless, featherless hens, 
 who lie in a row, all trussed and naked. 
 
 I followed Mr. Gumbrill into his shed this 
 morning at his invitation, Mr. Gumbrill 
 having expressed a wish to demonstrate the 
 art and mystery of chickun-fatting to me. 
 
 ' There's a book could be wrote about 
 chickun-fatting," said Mr. Gumbrill. " I've 
 orfen looked at the picture papers in hopes 
 to find some views of chickun-f attin' , but they 
 don't seem to 'a woke up to the beauty of it, 
 not yet. I wonder as some young fellar like 
 yo'self don't put them up to it. 'Tis a out-of- 
 the-way profession, but full of artfulness and 
 cleverness. Now, jist you watch me." 
 
 With these words, Mr. Gumbrill sauntered 
 up to one of the coops, and, withdrawing a 
 board from the front of it, lifted the lid and 
 grabbed at one of the three hens which it 
 contained. The hen came out unwillingly, 
 uttering a sort of confused stammer ; but all 
 the other hens were silent. The chosen hen 
 lapsed also into silence as Mr. Gumbrill tucked 
 her beneath his arm and carried her to his 
 work bench. She remained quiet while Mr. 
 Gumbrill made his preparations, eyeing the 
 stark and naked row of her late convives with
 
 The Cramming Shed 235 
 
 that air of silent apprehensiveness which is 
 cultivated by hens. But when Mr. Gumbrill 
 had completed his preparations and had 
 brought his piece of tubing to the " ready," 
 holding it firmly with his right hand and the 
 hen's neck with his left, that illogical creature 
 gave forth a single high-pitched squawk. Mr. 
 Gumbrill then inserted his tube in her throat, 
 thus disarming further utterance, and he then 
 put his foot to the treadle and stamped upon 
 it quickly, one two ! The tube was then 
 withdrawn ; the hen squawked huskily twice, 
 in a subdued voice, and was restored to her 
 coop, amid some clamour from the other 
 hens. 
 
 The whole entertainment was then repeated, 
 and went without a hitch, and was then again 
 repeated, and again went without a hitch, 
 conforming to precedent in every particular. 
 Mr. Gumbrill then spoke. 
 
 "It's simple enough to look at, ain't it ? " 
 he remarked, pausing, with his foot lightly 
 poised upon the treadle and a henful of tubing 
 in his hand. "It's simple enough to look at. 
 And yet there's a wonderful lot o' Art in it. 
 More than anybody would believe. If you 
 goos at it in the leastest shade too fearce, you 
 bursteth their crops."
 
 236 Moby Lane 
 
 " Ha ! Ha ! " I cried. " And then where 
 are they ! " 
 
 "Ha! Ha!" repeated Mr. Gumbrill. 
 "'Tis true, though, what I be telling you. 
 Many and many's the crop I've burst, when 
 first I started fattin', afore I gained ex- 
 perience." 
 
 " What did they say about it ? " 
 
 "Who? About what?" demanded Mr. 
 Gumbrill. 
 
 "The hens. About your ah inexpe- 
 rience ? " 
 
 " Ah ! I foller you now," said Mr. Gumbrill, 
 laughing gleefully. " Well, they didn't say 
 much. A hen, she areun't got a lot o' 
 breath left, not to 'oiler with, time you 
 bursteth 'er crop for 'er. They die, they do, 
 then, and then ain't no good for nothin' not 
 with a burst crop. We eats them ourselves 
 when the crop be bursted. It cause the flesh 
 to look un'olesome, and that won't do for my 
 customers. They want a properly fatted 
 chickun, white and 'olesome, for to sell to 
 their customers. 
 
 "It's a good trade," continued Mr. Gum- 
 brill, " but there's a wonderful lot of art in 
 it, and we got a lot to put up with. There's 
 people allus interfering with us or trying to.
 
 The Cramming Shed 237 
 
 They say 'tis cruel, this here fattin'. And so 
 they comes about here gawpin' at us, they 
 does, these here people. You know, Mister : 
 nosey people. Suffragettes and so forth." 
 
 " Of course, you tell them that it isn't 
 cruel ? " 
 
 " Of course I do. Why, the chickun likes 
 it arter a time. Everybody knows 'as they 
 likes it arter a time. ' Why it's the same 
 as some o' you ladies,' I tells 'em, some o' 
 these 'ere nosey ones these Sufferagettes. 
 ' They like it the same as you ladies do, what 
 goes to prison on purpose for to git the same 
 experience.' 
 
 " At the same time," pursued Mr. Gumbrill, 
 as his face grew redder, " I could larn 'em not 
 to like it, if I wanted to. Pity they don't 
 call me into some of their prisons me and 
 moi le'l crammer here. I wouldn't 'arf give 
 'em forcible feedin' moi God, I wouldn't ! " 
 
 As Mr. Gumbrill spoke he applied his foot to 
 the treadle, and he applied it very hard. The 
 creature which he grasped in his dirty hot hand 
 writhed convulsively, and blood oozed out of 
 her beak. 
 
 " Why, dammy if this 'un's crop bean't 
 bursted now ! " cried Mr. Gumbrill. " She's 
 a Suffragette, shoulden wonder. Silly fool."
 
 238 Moby Lane 
 
 r He threw her among the other corpses the 
 naked ones at which she had been privileged 
 to gaze during the long period which Mr. 
 Gumbrill had devoted to his preparatory 
 exordium. 
 
 Mr. Gumbrill then fetched another hen, 
 who performed the usual brief " squawk " as 
 Mr. Gumbrill shoved the tube into her throat. 
 
 Mr. Gumbrill was now very red indeed, and 
 blue veins showed prominently about his 
 throat. Again he stamped upon the treadle, 
 and again he stamped it hard. 
 
 " Why so and so, and thus ! " cried Mr. 
 Gumbrill. " Gawd strike me dead if this J un 
 beant gorn now. 'Tis thinkin' o' these here 
 women doos it. ... I seems to think ... I 
 got a woman here ! "
 
 XXVI 
 
 MILDRED'S SON 
 
 I COULD very reasonably begin this essay 
 in the orthodox classical manner, with re- 
 flections about the fleetness of Time and the 
 Melancholy which results from the irresistible 
 progress of that old monster. But the ortho- 
 dox and classical manner ought not to be 
 lightly worn by comic writers. Let me there- 
 fore state, quite baldly, that fourteen years 
 have passed (and passed like lightning) since 
 that starlight night at Wargrave when 
 Mildred put her hand in mine and swore to 
 wait for me. She was to wait indefinitely 
 while I carved out a career. And at this 
 distance of time I cannot remember precisely 
 out of what material I proposed to carve it. 
 Experience has shown me to be a poor carver, 
 anyhow. But Mildred swore that she Would 
 wait for me : wait indefinitely. She then 
 immediately married the son of a brewer, and 
 her son, aged twelve, or twelvish, has just 
 lunched with me. 
 
 I have known Mildred's son in all stages of 
 239
 
 240 Moby Lane 
 
 his earthly progress. I can remember him 
 in the days of his clammy infancy, when, at 
 Mildred's direct command, I presented him 
 with an expensive offering composed of gold 
 and coral, which he sucked and bubbled at 
 in a highly offensive manner. I can re- 
 member him as a sullen, heavy darling of 
 three, who wore a holland smock and 
 curls a la Litterateur, and who continuously 
 punched holes in everything with a miniature 
 reproduction (bell included) of a tram con- 
 ductor's forceps. I can remember him as a 
 manly little boy of eight, who played clock- 
 golf upon the drawing-room carpet with his 
 father's bat I mean " mallet " I should 
 say " club" and "I've been Roaming" on 
 the drawing-room piano with two fingers, one 
 of which was his mother's. I can also re- 
 remember Mildred's son's first separation from 
 Mildred, when he went away by train in pur- 
 suit of learning. Finally, I remember him 
 as he is now, or was yesterday, when he came 
 to luncheon by appointment, bringing with 
 him a friend and convive, Rupert Somebody, 
 who is acquiring culture at the same establish- 
 ment in which the process of cultivating 
 Mildred's son is being conducted. 
 
 Mildred's son has matured since Christmas,
 
 Mildreas Son 241 
 
 when I last saw him. His wrists and ankles 
 have lengthened considerably, while his 
 trousers and sleeves have shrunk. His features 
 have matured, and now wear an expression 
 of extreme solemnity and wisdom : his soul, 
 too, has evidently matured, as was proved by 
 the distinctive and emphatic character of 
 his tie. But it is the voice of Mildred's son 
 which has most noticeably altered. His 
 voice has acquired a sort of muffled quality : 
 it is a jugged voice, and a speckled voice at 
 that : bright alto spots on a background of 
 gloomiest bass. 
 
 Really, I devoted the tenderest, most 
 avuncular attention to Mildred's son, but I 
 failed to extract from him a single intelligible 
 utterance : only blue-bottle noises. And 
 this was particularly unfortunate in that 
 Mildred's son was the only articulate member 
 of his party. 
 
 Young Rupert Somebody a pleasant 
 youth enough, with red hair and freckles 
 was what is called " reserved," being either 
 extremely shy or extremely " breedy." It 
 appeared to be contrary to etiquette to ad- 
 dress any direct remarks to Rupert. You 
 conversed with him through Mildred's son, 
 who, having listened very gravely to your 
 
 Q
 
 242 Moby Lane 
 
 observations, then whispered hoarsely to 
 Rupert. The converse method was employed 
 upon those rare occasions when Rupert 
 thought it necessary to convey a thought 
 from himself to me. 
 
 The young gentlemen appeared and stood 
 before me in a very severe attitude, each 
 having the expression of being very much on 
 his guard. I naturally hoped that their 
 journey hither had been easily and agreeably 
 accomplished, eliciting a mumble of assent 
 from Mildred's son. I next ventured to 
 suppose that they must be eager for lunch. 
 At this point the process of cross conference 
 was applied, Mildred's son turning his head 
 to the right and young Rupert Somebody 
 turning his head to the left. What subse- 
 quently surprised me about Rupert was the 
 unerring accuracy with which he was able to 
 interpret the muffled utterances of Mildred's 
 son. At the conclusion of the conference, 
 Mildred's son addressed these words to me : 
 
 " Mum mum very much mum mum mum 
 all the same to you, mum mum mum 
 mum mum mum air-gun." 
 
 " Then you had better run and wash your 
 hands," I said not at all without reason. 
 
 " No ! " protested Mildred's son. " Mum
 
 Mildreds Son 243 
 
 mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum 
 mum mum mum air-gun." 
 
 Upon which, I said to Mildred's son, " What ? 
 Speak up, boy ! " 
 
 Mildred's son then said it all over again, 
 and by the method of checking him at every 
 other word, and guessing the intermediate 
 ones, I was at length enabled to understand 
 him to intimate that if it were all the same 
 to me they were not very hungry, and they 
 would rather go out and look at my air-gun, 
 he having described its quality and powers 
 to Rupert, but Rupert having questioned the 
 accuracy of that description. To this I 
 responded, with a decisiveness which, I hope, 
 is permitted to Courtesy Uncles : 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense ! There is a bird for 
 lunch. Run and wash your hands." 
 
 At this, the two young gentlemen again con- 
 ferred, at the conclusion of which conference 
 Mildred's son again addressed me, saying : 
 
 " Mum mum mum mum mum. It hurts. 
 Mum mum mum mum mum mum mum." 
 
 I again exhorted Mildred's son to speak up. 
 This time I elicited the confession that they 
 would rather not wash. It hurt. Their 
 hands were not dirty. What I had mistaken 
 for dirt was " chap."
 
 244 Moby Lane 
 
 " Fiddlesticks ! " I protested. " There's no 
 such thing as a chocolate-coloured ' chap.' ' 
 
 " There is," insisted Mildred's son, 
 " really, mum mum mum mum mum mum 
 mum. Mum mum mum mum mum gloves, 
 if you like. His mother always mum mum 
 mum mum gloves now." 
 
 This speech I understood to convey (i) an 
 assurance, (2) a suggestion, (3) a statement 
 of fact. Namely, (i) that their hands really 
 were chapped, (2) that they would be pleased, 
 if I thought it fitting, to put on gloves, and 
 (3) that Rupert's mother now always insisted 
 upon their wearing gloves at table. 
 
 Having again glanced hurriedly at their 
 hands, I was compelled to side with Rupert's 
 mother and to command that the gloves 
 should be forthwith put on. 
 
 " Righto ! " said Mildred's son, proceeding 
 at once to execute this order. Then, at a 
 sign from Rupert, a further conference took 
 place, at the close of which Mildred's son was 
 with difficulty understood to proclaim that 
 Rupert had lost one of his gloves, but that he 
 could easily conceal the other hand during 
 luncheon. It appeared also that Rupert was 
 an expert in single-handed trencher work, 
 having sprained a wrist at hockey last Easter.
 
 Mildreds Son 245 
 
 It was a severe and silent meal, varied only 
 by conferences when either boy was asked a 
 question and by the joint reply which was 
 invariably proffered by Mildred's son. 
 
 Thus when, at the close of the repast, I 
 hesitatingly pushed the decanter towards 
 Rupert, a prolonged discussion in committee 
 ensued, at the termination of which Mildred's 
 son said, indistinctly : 
 
 ' Thanks : we don't drink port." 
 
 Both young gentlemen then unanimously 
 rose from table and again conferred. Mildred's 
 son then performed another mumble, by which 
 I was led to infer that he proclaimed their 
 intention of going out to look for the air- 
 gun. 
 
 They went out. They remained out. At 
 the end of three hours they returned and held 
 out two chapped hands. And Mildred's son 
 said : 
 
 " Mum mum mum mum air-gun. Rupert 
 mum mum mum mum mum. Mum mum 
 mum mum mum. Mum mum mum to- 
 
 morrow." 
 
 Which, being interpreted, meant : 
 " It is a ripping good gun. Dreadfully 
 powerful. Rupert admits that what I said 
 was true. Goes clean through a deal board
 
 246 Moby Lane 
 
 at fifty yards. If you like, we'll come again 
 to-morrow and shoot with it. If you like, 
 we'll bring some bottles." 
 
 I regretfully answered that I should have 
 to be in London on the morrow. 
 
 " Oh, mum mum mum," answered Mildred's 
 son. " Mum mum mum mum mum mum ! " 
 
 The English of which was : " Oh, never 
 mind about that. We'll manage to amuse 
 ourselves." 
 
 The young gentlemen then conferred again, 
 and Mildred's son, speaking for them both, 
 said : 
 
 "Well: Pip! Pip!" 
 
 The young gentlemen then linked arms and 
 walked away, in close and mumbling con- 
 ference, like old, wise men.
 
 XXVII 
 ONE O' THE BOYS 
 
 IT is more than two years now since Mr. 
 Jonathan Dandy introduced himself to me. 
 He came to my cottage door at ten o'clock on 
 a hysterical March night, and sighed through 
 the keyhole. Failing to startle me by this 
 form of alarum (for I naturally confused it 
 with the chorus of the elements), Mr. Dandy 
 began to scratch the doorpost. This signal 
 also was misinterpreted. I mistook it for the 
 quince tree, which has a habit of tapping at 
 my window pane. Finally, a sharp, gruff 
 voice a voice which was not that of Mr. 
 Dandy at all, a voice which I rather badly 
 wanted to hear gave forth a quick, im- 
 patient summons. 
 
 We don't embarass ourselves, where we live, 
 with entrance halls, or vestibules, or lobbies, 
 or whatever they call them. There is a door, 
 and there is a parlour, and you walk right in. 
 At the sound of that deep, familiar voice, I 
 jumped to the door ; and when I had pulled 
 
 it open, the owner of the voice jumped in, 
 
 247
 
 248 Moby Lane 
 
 knocking down two chairs and a jar of daffodils. 
 His name is Pluto, and he is the largest boar- 
 hound in Sussex. 
 
 Pluto's arrival was heralded by more than 
 I cared for of the rude breath of Boreas, which 
 I tried to shut out. But the door refused to 
 close. Inquiry showed that a piece of stout 
 blind-cord was lodged between the door and 
 the jamb, and that one end of this cord was 
 attached to Pluto's collar. 
 
 My curiosity about the other end led me 
 quite into the garden, all among the violently 
 gesticulating quince boughs. I struggled on, 
 feeling my way along the cord, until suddenly 
 my fingers closed on something warm and 
 gritty. It was a human hand. I looked a little 
 higher, and then, by the light of a peep-bo 
 moon, I perceived a time-worn, expression- 
 less face, quite blue in colour, sparsely 
 whiskered and profusely wrinkled. This face, 
 I presently learned, belonged to Mr. Jona- 
 than Dandy. 
 
 " I are brought you back yeur le'l oold 
 darg, sir," said Mr. Dandy. 
 
 Mr. Dandy, being warmly entreated to 
 come inside and receive my thanks, at 
 length permitted himself to cross the thresh- 
 old. He stood with his back pressed very
 
 One d the Boys 249 
 
 tight against the door, holding his cap against 
 his mouth, and looking from side to side of 
 the room with apologetic and rather anxious 
 eyes. His right hand still grasped the other 
 end of Pluto's cord. 
 
 Pluto had been missing since daybreak. 
 There was no affectation about the gratitude 
 which I offered to Mr. Dandy for bringing 
 him safely home to me. 
 
 " That's all right," said Mr. Dandy, " he's 
 one of the boys." 
 
 " Where did you find him ? " I inquired. 
 
 Mr. Dandy, with a sly jerk of his head, 
 indicated the far north. " He knows his way 
 about," said Mr. Dandy. " I found 'im gone 
 to bed in the fowl 'ouse, along o' my chickun. 
 We should ne'er a knowed about it if 'twarn't 
 for our oold cat. It was 'er as give us the 
 alarm." 
 
 I asked if the dog had done any damage. 
 
 Mr. Dandy's sidelong glance became more 
 apologetic than ever. He uttered conciliatory 
 noises. 
 
 I insisted upon receiving a plain answer. 
 Mr. Dandy, stretching out the gritty hand, 
 stroked Pluto's ear. 
 
 " 'Tis of no consequence," said Mr. Jonathan 
 Dandy. " I don't justly know, sir, what
 
 250 Moby Lane 
 
 damage he did do. 'Tis of no consequence. 
 What breed do they call him, sir ? " 
 
 ' They call him a Great Dane," I answered, 
 " the English for xvhich is boarhound. What 
 damage did he do ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " mused Mr. Dandy. " We got the 
 rights of it now, at all events. Great Dane ! 
 That'll surprise young Amos when I tal him. 
 Young Amos Pranklyn, sir him what work 
 in the brick'ard. I see him this evenin' 
 outside the Cock and Coney as I come along. 
 He tal me as what this be a Japanese lap-dog. 
 I say to myself at the time, I say : ' Why, 'tis 
 a very funny thing/ I say, ' for 'tis surely a 
 larger dog than anybody would care to take 
 on their lap.' 'Ow did you learn 'un for to 
 pick up and kerry things the same as 'e do, 
 sir ? " 
 
 I said: "He wasn't 'learned' at all, so 
 far as I know. I suppose it's instinctive. 
 What damage did he do ? " 
 
 " Never learned at all, sir ? Oh dearr ! 
 Oh dearr ! That's a queer set-out," reflected 
 Mr. Dandy. " Larned it 'isself, I s'pose, o' 
 winter evenings when he'd naarthun else to 
 do. I see as he be a painstaking darg the way 
 he chawed into that rope the time we stood 
 outside here awaiting for the door to open."
 
 One d the Boys 251 
 
 " Waiting," I repeated. " How long were 
 you waiting ? " 
 
 " I don't justly know how long we did 
 wait," responded Mr. Dandy. " Perhaps it 
 weer ten minutes, perhaps it weer twenty. 
 'Tis of no consequence." 
 
 " Why didn't you knock ? " 
 
 " I scruffled, sir, and I whistled. But 'tis 
 of no consequence." 
 
 I remembered then. That mournful, 
 soughing noise those intermittent scratch- 
 ings. 
 
 'Tis not much of a whistle, I'll own, sir : 
 you see, I've lorst some of my teeth since I 
 weer young," explained Mr. Jonathan Dandy. 
 
 I asked him again to report the damages. 
 Again he evaded the question. 
 
 " A few shrubs an' that, a handlight or two 
 'tis of no consequence. You'd better see 
 the missus about it, sir. Here's your very 
 good health, and the same to the the young 
 gentleman there, sir (this was Pluto), and I'll 
 be saying good night." 
 
 I warned him as I held the door open that 
 " the missus " must expect a visit from 
 me. Pluto is not a negligible object at any 
 time. In a garden his presence is apparent, 
 and I might even say palpable. I insisted
 
 252 Moby Lane 
 
 upon a prompt and business-like statement 
 of accounts. 
 
 " Ah, well, "said Mr. Dandy, as he stepped 
 into the lively night, " damage or no damage 
 he's one o' the boys ! " The old man put 
 out his hand. 
 
 Pluto looked at it, yawned, and turned 
 away. 
 
 The cottage which Mr. Dandy is permitted 
 to inhabit is a single-storeyed structure of 
 daub and wattle. It stands in a clayey 
 hollow, which is situated amidst a trackless 
 expanse of gorse and bracken, to which the 
 name of " The Wilderness " has been suitably 
 applied. 
 
 I found the Wilderness with difficulty, and 
 with more difficulty I found the clayey 
 hollow. And then, with comparative ease, 
 I found the lop-sided habitation of Mr. 
 Dandy. 
 
 A wild plantation of briar and bramble 
 surrounds Mr. Dandy's residence, forming 
 a sort of hedge ; and a gap in the zareba is 
 occupied by a ramshackle arrangement of 
 barbed wire and nut stems, which forms a 
 sort of gate. Behind this gate a woman 
 stood and yawned, regarding with distaste 
 the gorse and bracken. She was a stout
 
 One d the Boys 253 
 
 woman, in the period of late middle age, 
 having thick red arms, a red face, a button 
 nose, and a determined mouth. The dog 
 Pluto, who, for obvious reasons, accompanied 
 me on this mission of Apology, saw this woman 
 and left my heel, and ran to her, and licked 
 her thick red arm. And the woman spoke. 
 She said : 
 
 " Oh dearr ! Here's Ugly back again. 
 I thought we had got rid of he. Goo 'way, 
 Ugly ! " 
 
 Ugly, whose great black tail Was wagging 
 to and fro, regardless of barbed-wire remon- 
 strances, continued to beslaver the thick red 
 arm. And having, by this time, approached 
 within shouting distance, I spoke to the red- 
 armed lady, saying : 
 
 " Good morning, Harm ! I have called 
 round with this bad fellow to apologise for his 
 behaviour, and " 
 
 " Take him away, then, the great Ugly/ ' 
 cried Mrs. Dandy for this evidently was she 
 interrupting me ; " we don't want no great 
 dargs here." Pluto licked her arm. 
 
 "I thought, perhaps," pursued your servant, 
 having now approached quite close to Mrs. 
 Dandy, " that ah well, I thought, perhaps, 
 you would allow us to offer you a little
 
 254 Moby Lane 
 
 compensation for the broken hand-lights, and 
 and " 
 
 " And the chickun," supplemented Mrs. 
 Dandy. "Two chickun. What he layed 
 down on. The great, clumbersome, ugly 
 thing. Gurr ! Goo 'way ! " Mrs. Dandy 
 shook her stout fist at Pluto. Pluto licked 
 it. 
 
 " Well," said I, extending a crude and 
 obvious hand to Mrs. Dandy, " this 
 ought " 
 
 " Fair is fair," responded Mrs. Dandy, 
 putting her hand in mine, and removing it 
 with a quick and accomplished jerk. 
 
 "I'll thank you," she added, " not to leave 
 that darg goo loose agen. He's a sight too 
 clumbersome breakin' lights an' layin' down 
 on chickun. Take 'im 'oom an' kip 'im 
 'oom, th' ugly great thing." Pluto, lying at 
 her feet, paddled the grass with his great tail 
 and gently nozzled the hem of her skirt. 
 
 " Goo 'way, Ugly ! " cried Mrs. Dandy. 
 She picked up a withered stick and flung it 
 at the dog. He caught it in his mouth. 
 
 Having carried the trophy in his mouth 
 for an appropriate period, walking majesti- 
 cally round and round, with his tail held 
 aloft in military style, Pluto suddenly dropped
 
 One d the Boys 255 
 
 both tail and trophy and bounded at Mrs. 
 Dandy. Mrs. Dandy extended an excom- 
 municativ'e arm. Pluto welcomed it with 
 an ecstatic tongue. 
 
 I realised then how extraordinarily apt was 
 Mr. Dandy's simile. Pluto is indeed " one 
 'o the boys."
 
 XXVIII 
 THE SIDNAPPERS 
 
 As I steered my bicycle through the cow- 
 thronged High Street of Blowfield, on a warm 
 evening of July, certain manifestations of the 
 Unusual presented themselves to my notice. 
 Blowfield is always unusual on Thursday, 
 because that is its market day. But on 
 this particular Thursday there was a new 
 thrill in the Blowfield atmosphere, a new 
 smell in the wind, a new sort of break in the 
 drovers' voices, and a new sort of boredom 
 in the eyes of their cows. 
 
 People were exhibiting animation. They 
 stood on doorsteps and nodded to each other 
 across impassable gulfs of New Season's 
 Lamb. Young ladies were wearing their 
 white-serge Sunday skirts, their beaded reti- 
 cules, and their knitted coats of deepest 
 " tango." The entire junior male Executive 
 of Haffenden's Great Hardware House was 
 out amongst the swab-hooks, scythes, and 
 lawn-mowers, gesticulating, exclaiming, or 
 
 standing tip-toe upon the drums of Insecticide, 
 
 255
 
 The Sidnappers 257 
 
 with that strained and hopeful look which 
 young men wear when they stand tip- 
 toe upon drums of Insecticide and wait 
 and watch. 
 
 "It is an aeroplane ! " I said to myself, 
 and at once lit off from my bicycle and 
 listened for the hum. But I heard no hum- 
 ming. All that I heard was a distant tapping 
 noise, an intermittent hammering, and all 
 that I saw upon looking upwards into the 
 amber emptiness of the evening sky was one 
 single, brilliant, multichromatic blob the 
 flag of my country, bobbing defiant above 
 the topmost terra-cotta turret of Mr. Gold- 
 mann, who inhabits an island site in the 
 market square, upon which he has erected 
 a new and fashionable edifice, the fa$ade 
 whereof is illustrated in letters of pure gold 
 and great size with the ancient Syrian motto : 
 "TEETH! TEETH! TEETH!" 
 
 So I spoke to Mr. Burtenshaw, the peace 
 officer. I said : 
 
 " You have your eye on us, Mr. Burtenshaw. 
 Ha ! Ha ! What ? You've not got any 
 thinner. They've not made you a Super- 
 intendent yet, then ? Ha ! Ha ! What ? 
 Some good beasts in to-day. What ? " To 
 all of which assertions and inquiries the 
 
 R
 
 258 Moby Lam 
 
 veteran of many Petty Sessions responded 
 aptly, but in terms having no historical 
 importance. 
 
 Having instituted the pourparlers, I then 
 put a series of direct questions to Constable 
 Burtenshaw. I said : 
 
 " You have an Excitement on to-night, I 
 see. What is it : the Foresters, the Buffaloes, 
 the Salvation Army, the National Reserve, or 
 a full-dress parade of Territorials ? " 
 
 "None 'o them. Better nor them," an- 
 swered Mr. Burtenshaw. 
 
 ' Then it's the Fire Brigade," I suggested. 
 
 " Better nor that," said Mr. Burtenshaw. 
 
 ' The Good Templars' Prize Band,"' I then 
 hazarded, after deep thought. 
 
 " Better still ! " exclaimed the Constable. 
 " It's Sankey's Great Circus ! " 
 
 This "did it," as the Master of Balliol 
 might say. I sprang to the saddle and 
 rapidly seceded from the constabulary orbit. 
 One doesn't waste one's precious leisure in 
 discourse with the Overfed when there are 
 circuses around. 
 
 I rode to the place where their circuses are 
 done, and got there just in time to super- 
 intend the final rites and ceremonies con- 
 nected with the upraising of that mammoth
 
 The Sidnappers 259 
 
 awning within the dim heart whereof the 
 great Mr. Sankey excels himself. The turf 
 had been cut and lifted to form a narrow, 
 circular track, round which the untamed 
 Mexican Mustang performs his nocturnal 
 staggers. This wild animal, who appears at 
 night in a white head-stall, having his hoofs 
 newly blackened and his piebalds freshly 
 pipe-clayed, is publicly known as Mephisto ; 
 but in moments of privacy Mephisto the 
 Mexican becomes plain Mike, when he has to 
 suppress his artistic temperament and work 
 very hard in the capacity of a domestic 
 drudge. 
 
 On these occasions Mephisto dispenses alike 
 with hoof-blacking and pipe-clay. He gets 
 extremely dusty and his tongue hangs out, 
 and he pulls a very large kervan, or house- 
 wagon up very steep hills, and he has to 
 submit to being accelerated by little noisy, 
 brown-faced boys with jagged sticks. To 
 look at Mephisto at these moments is to shake 
 one's confidence in the infallibility of the 
 Press as represented by the Great Mr. Sankey' s 
 small bills and giant posters. 
 
 There are other of Mr. Sankey 's creatures 
 whom to behold in their deshabille is a 
 faith-shattering experience. Of such is
 
 260 Moby Lane 
 
 Mademoiselle Esmeralda, the Lady Bareback 
 Rider and Fearless Equestrienne. When she is 
 wearing her spangled skirt and pink stockings, 
 and her auburn hair is all done up in knobs, 
 there does not exist in all England a Made- 
 moiselle Esmeralda who looks more like it. 
 But when you see her in an old black dress 
 and spotted apron, with the hair all anyhow, 
 and a sunburnt nose, assisting the Great Mr. 
 Sankey, by gesture and speech, to discourage 
 little boys from obstructing the steps which 
 lead to his living wagon or Box Office, you 
 can hardly believe, especially when you hear 
 her sending out for beer in fluent English, 
 that she is identical with that haughty, 
 accomplished, beautiful, and foreign young 
 lady whom all the young gentlemen from 
 Mr. Haffenden's flock by night to see. 
 
 Even the Great Sankey himself seems 
 different, somehow. Sitting there on the 
 steps of his van, in corduroy trousering, 
 hobnailed boots, a red neckcloth and a 
 heavy flush, poking all about with a long 
 ash-pole and saying repeatedly, " Nah then, 
 boys, d'year me ? Push off ! " he has little 
 in common with the urbane, affable, amusing 
 gentleman in top boots, frock-coat, silver 
 buttons, and innumerable diamonds, who
 
 The Sidnappers 261 
 
 cracks his long whip and even longer jokes in 
 the paraffin-perfumed arena. 
 
 Well, I like that Great Mr. Sankey, and I 
 like Mademoiselle, and I like the Mexican 
 Mustang, and I like them all, whether they 
 are tidy, untamed, and talented by night or 
 whether their tongues hang out by day. But 
 I like them best of all at home in their stuffy 
 living wagons, where they swallow beer and 
 utter lies and laugh without restraint, being 
 there remote from public scrutiny. 
 
 So having seen the turf turned back, the 
 petroleum flare-lamps hauled into their places 
 upon the centre-pole of the marquee, the old 
 red carpet well and truly laid upon the deal 
 foundation of the eighteenpenny stalls, I 
 booked my seat and went away to prepare 
 for a night of pleasure. 
 
 In connection xvith these preparations I 
 returned to the High Street, to the vicinity 
 of Haffenden's great hardware house, and 
 the Teeth ! Teeth ! Teeth ! There is situated 
 hereabouts an establishment which offers for 
 sale a variety of articles which it describes as 
 " Men's wear and gentlemen's requisites." I 
 entered this establishment in order to buy a 
 briar pipe and an ounce of shag tobacco. 
 These things add to the pleasures of repose in
 
 262 Moby Lane 
 
 Mr. Sankey's eighteenpenny stalls. Indeed, 
 it might almost be said that they represent 
 an absolute necessity to any person seeking 
 undisturbed enjoyment of Mr. Sankey's hos- 
 pitality. 
 
 A very neat and highly-oiled young gentle- 
 man received me at the door of the establish- 
 ment which I have mentioned, and I need 
 hardly say that without so much as a second 
 look at my refined and superior figure, he at 
 once conducted me to the mahogany recess 
 which is inhabited by gentlemen's requisites. 
 His face became less cheerful, I thought it 
 assumed the baffled expression of a face which 
 has guessed wrong, when I demanded shag. 
 But it resumed its natural colour on receiving 
 notice of my further requirements, and its 
 owner became exceedingly alert, and ascended 
 unaided, an eight-foot ladder, and descended 
 the same acclivity at speed, bearing, single- 
 handed, a massive mahogany drawer, in 
 which he displayed before my envious gaze 
 his entire stock of Wooden piping. 
 
 I selected a specimen of super-gentlemanly 
 design, and tendered the young man my 
 thanks, my shilling, and my congratulations. 
 The last had reference to his feats of activity. 
 With a deprecating smile and some slight
 
 The Sidnappers 263 
 
 flavour of the Cockney accent, he responded 
 thus : 
 
 ' That's nothin', o' man. It comes of this 
 kentrylife. Climbin' trees an' that. Jumpin' 
 ditches an* so forth, You learn to be aggile, 
 livin' in the kentry." 
 
 I was pleased with his word aggile, and was 
 better pleased anon to find that it was not 
 unique. For in expressing his view of Mr. 
 Sankey's great circus, the alert young gentle- 
 man declared that, when tested by metro- 
 politan standards, the Mexican Mustang was 
 too doakile. 
 
 " Ya see," said the young gentleman, 
 " these here kentry entertainments may be 
 all right for them as has not been bred up 
 to appreciate no better. I'm London bred 
 meself. If ever you've "card of Great Titch- 
 field Street, that's where I useder live, along 
 of my people, which was rather old-extab- 
 lished in the fried etceteras line, until father 
 got beyond 'isself and went in for speculation 
 and trotting donkeys and so forth. Well, 
 Titchfield Street is on'y a matter o' ten 
 minutes' stroll from 'Engler's Circus, as I 
 daresay you know. 'Engler's Circus, as was, 
 I meantersay. Well, a chap as has been 
 bred up to 'Engler's Circus, he can't be
 
 264 Moby Lane 
 
 expected to git up much enthusiasm over one 
 o' these here one-night tent arrangements. 
 Well can 'e ? " 
 
 I supposed that he couldn't. 
 
 " An* then there's another thing," pur- 
 sued the alert young gentleman. " These 
 here sort o' chaps what travels with these 
 here tents and caravans and so forth, they're 
 a bit too rough and tricky like and so forth 
 for a chap o' my tastes. I'm a refined sort 
 of individual meself, I am, but I ain't been 
 brought up in London for nothink, and I 
 can be as wide as any of 'em when it comes 
 to the Pinch. They found that out last 
 year. 
 
 "I 'ad a Experience last year, and I'll tell 
 you about it, an' that will show you, that 
 will." 
 
 The alert young gentleman then rested his 
 arms upon the counter, and assuming a grave 
 and confidential air, narrated the following 
 dramatic circumstance. 
 
 " There's a certain friend o' mine, be name 
 of Sid Wilkinson. He's a London young 
 gentleman, the same as meself. See ? Well, 
 this young party he come to stay down 'ere 
 larse year for 'is hannual 'oliday. See ? He 
 come to stay along 'o me, in the same lodgin's.
 
 The Sidnappers 265 
 
 See ? Well, the woman's very clean an' that, 
 and she ain't over nor above expensive, 
 
 and Well, it made a bit o' company for 
 
 us both. See ? 
 
 1 Well, while Sid's stayin' down here, along 
 o' me, this same lot lo' Gyppos and Willies 
 and what not, they come along here on their 
 hannual visit, with the same ole ackeribacks 
 and the same ole tight-rope an' the same ole 
 'orses and so forth. Well, Sid's a bit of a 
 dare-devil, he is, and he puts the proposition 
 before me, he does, as we should put on 
 straw 'ats an' a cigar and so forth and go to 
 this here show and 'ave a look at the Gals 
 and the Tights and etcetera. 
 
 " Mind you, I told 'im my opinion of the 
 idea. I told 'im straight. ' Sid/ I says, 
 ' you mark my words and look arter yaself/ 
 I says. ' They're a bit thick, these 'ere 
 Gyppo's/ I says. ' They're tricky,' I says ; 
 ' they're wide. You look after yaself ! ' But 
 Sid, 'e on'y laughs at me. 
 
 " Well, to cut a long story short, we goes 
 to this 'ere show. An' Sid, 'e goes beyond 
 'isself. 'E put on brown boots, a straw 'at, 
 an' thirty shillin' flannels. We sits in the 
 eighteenpenny seats Sid payin' the exes for 
 us both and we smokes our Borneo cigars
 
 266 Moby Lane 
 
 as free as anybody. And Sid, e' brings a 
 pair of Hopera glasses and 'e sits back there, 
 in the Eighteenpennies, puffin' 'ere, spit- 
 tin' there, peepin' everywhere, as if 'e was 
 the Prince o' Wales. I tell ya, 'e was a bit 
 O.T., was Sid. 
 
 " But presently the lady bareback rider 
 comes along this here Esmeralda, what all 
 these Haffenden lads go balmy over. And 
 then Sid, he fairly surparses hisself. He 
 peeps at her through his Hopera glasses, 
 he waves his stick at her, he throws her the 
 wallflower out of his button-' ole, and then, 
 to crown it all, Go' bless my soul if he don't 
 kiss 'is 'and to 'er ! 
 
 " Mind you, I warned 'im about it at the 
 time. You can trust yar 'umble to put 
 anybody wide about these here Gyppos. 
 ' Sid,' I says, ' be careful. Ya're goin' beyond 
 yaself. Ya're gettin' rash. They're a tricky 
 lot, is these here Willies what travels with 
 the caravans. You look arter yaself. You 
 be careful ! ' 
 
 " Well, while I'm speakin' a funny thing 
 accrues. What is it, d'ya think, this here 
 funny thing what accrues ? I feels a ticker- 
 lin' be'ind me leg. I looks acrorst me 
 shoulder, downwards, and what d'ya think
 
 The Sidnappers 267 
 
 I sees ? I sees a little boy. A dirty little 
 boy. And in 'is 'and a dirty little 'and 
 'e's got a dirty little paper. And 'e gives 
 this here paper up to me, and there is wrote 
 on it, in lead pensle, as follows : 
 
 To the young gent with yellow ribbons 
 on Ms straw. I am the young lady what 
 rides the horses. I will meet you outside 
 at 10-15. Don't you be too saucy, or I 
 shan't like you. Esmeralda. (Emma for 
 short.) 
 
 " Well, I showed this paper to Sid. And 
 then didn't 'e 'arf go beyond 'isself ! But, 
 mind you, I warned 'im. I didn't arf warn 
 'im. I told 'im about these Gyppos. I 
 told 'im all I knowed about them. I told 
 'im about their tricky ways. But Sid, 'e 
 on'y laughed at me. And 'im with fifteen 
 shillun in 'is pocket ! 
 
 " Well, when it come to goin' out arter 
 the Comic Finarley, arter the clown had eat 
 the soap, I went out very cautious. There 
 was seven-an'-threepence in my pocket, never 
 mind about Sid's ! I took hold o' Sid by 
 the arm and I done me best to hold 'im. 
 But anybody might jest as well ha' tried to 
 'old a 'urricane. 'E was a fair dare-devil,
 
 268 Moby Lane 
 
 was Sid. When we got outside the tent, 
 there was that woman, that here Mamselle, 
 a-waitin' for 'im. 'Come along, Chummie/ 
 says she to Sid. ' We got some port wine in 
 our wagon/ 
 
 " Well, Ole Man, I caught hold o' Sid by 
 his coat-end, but he wrenched hisself away 
 from me and he fair 'opped it. He 'opped 
 it along o' that 'ere Gyppo woman. He 
 'opped into 'er wagon. And believe me or 
 believe me not this is a true story what 
 I'm tallin' you / ain't seen ser much as the 
 shudder of Sid Wilkinson ever since. 'E's 
 lorst. They done 'im in ! J> 
 
 The alert young gentleman finished off his 
 story with a sigh of phenomenal bulk. He 
 had just arrived at its concluding, or tremolo 
 phase, when the shop door opened, emitting 
 as it did so a harsh, laconic, and unsympathetic 
 clang. There entered a stout young fellow 
 in velveteens, having a brown face, white teeth 
 and an infectious smile. He smiled at the 
 alert young gentleman. He spoke to him, 
 saying 
 
 " Cheero, Auntie ! " 
 
 " Go' bless my soul ! " exclaimed the alert 
 young gentleman. " 'Ere is Sid. Sid 'isself ! " 
 
 " That's right," responded the stout young
 
 The Sidnappers 269 
 
 fellow. He held in his hand a piece of paper 
 a piece of paper of the size and appearance 
 and having the authentic crackle of a five- 
 pound note. This he cast indifferently upon 
 the counter, saying, very loudly : 
 
 " Change that, Auntie. And gimme a gold- 
 mounted meershum pipe and a pund o' shag ! "
 
 XXIX 
 HIS EMMY CERT 
 
 I HAD supposed that young " Reddy " Piper 
 was in prison again. What else could I 
 suppose in view of the fact that neither Yip 
 nor Tinkabell had been combed for a fort- 
 night ? 
 
 Yip and Tinkabell are diminutive members 
 of an old Yorkshire family, who do me the 
 honour to reside in my house, and to be 
 combed and paraffined on Sundays by Reddy 
 Piper, when Reddy Piper is not in prison. 
 
 When Reddy Piper is not in prison he is 
 about the best comber and paraffiner which 
 this county can produce. He scorns the 
 costly appliances which saddlers and harness- 
 makers provide for the accommodation and 
 beautification of snap-dogs. Reddy Piper 
 employs those simple aids to beauty a 
 tenpenny nail and the palm of his hand. The 
 results of his efforts bear testimony to Reddy 's 
 wisdom. Yip and Tinkabell emerge from 
 
 their sabbath-day closetings with Reddy 
 
 270
 
 His Emmy Cert 271 
 
 (when Reddy is not in prison) more smooth 
 and oily than Jews or Griffons. 
 
 But, seeing that Reddy had failed to appear 
 on three successive Sundays with the result 
 that Yip and Tinkabell had definitely and as 
 it appeared, irretrievably resumed their natural 
 affinity with the hedgehog I naturally con- 
 cluded that Reddy had again gone into resi- 
 dence at that severely classical edifice which 
 forms so dominant a feature of our County 
 Town. 
 
 You see, Mr. Piper has inherited from some 
 remote Piper a gust, or passion, for forbidden 
 foods ; for woodcock, teal, or pheasant. He 
 has cultivated a habit of acquiring these birds 
 by Direct Action. And the only sure thing, 
 as we all know, about Direct Action, is its 
 trick of putting its apostles into gaol. But 
 to-day, being Sunday, the third after his 
 previous Advent, Reddy has reappeared. 
 What is more, he has reappeared with marks 
 and tokens of Reform rather prominently 
 displayed upon his person. He has re- 
 appeared in a collar ! It is a celluloid, 
 washable collar, with stripes ; and it bears 
 unmistakable evidence of having entered into 
 Reddy 's possession at second-hand ; but it is 
 nevertheless and obviously and demonstrably
 
 272 Moby Lane 
 
 a collar ! Reddy had also instituted re- 
 forms in connection with his coiffure to 
 which feature of his personality we are in- 
 debted for the bye-name by which he is 
 familiarly greeted in four parishes. Reddy 
 had dealt with his hair as he would deal by 
 Yip and Tinkabell : he had subjected it to 
 ordeal by nail and palm and paraffin. The 
 result was a triumph of neatness and gloss. 
 
 I said to Reddy : " But how is this ? I 
 thought you were in prison." 
 
 And Reddy answered : " Not at all, sir. 
 I been biding atome in Blowfield, along of 
 my oold mother. The le'l dargs quite well, 
 sir ? " 
 
 I replied that the little dogs were as well 
 as could be expected, seeing that they had 
 been for so long deprived of tenpenny nails 
 and the paraffin. 
 
 Mr. Piper showed his sense of responsibility 
 for the famine in these commodities by 
 blushing. " Very s-sorry, sir," he stammered, 
 " but you see, I been at work." 
 
 " At work'' I repeated the words in a crude 
 falsetto. So would you if you knew Reddy. 
 
 " Yes, sir," insisted that young gentleman. 
 " I goes to work at Blowfield, sir. Gardener 
 to a gentleman, sir."
 
 His Emmy Cert 273 
 
 ''Gardener!" I repeated; and so would 
 you if you knew Reddy. " Gentleman ? 
 What gentleman ? Why you can't be eighteen 
 yet." 
 
 " No, sir, not yet," admitted Reddy with 
 hesitation. "'Tis a old gentleman and 
 new garden. 'Tis mostly wheelin' barrers I 
 ha' hed to do so fer. The flower-growin' and 
 so forth, that be yet to come. I took the 
 liberty for to tal the oold gentleman for to 
 write to you for my character like for flower- 
 growin', sir." Mr. Piper brought forth his 
 nail and breathed on it, and rubbed it, and 
 I whistled for the little dogs. 
 
 ' 'Ave you 'card, sir," pursued my young 
 friend, presently, blowing hard, as he applied 
 the unwilling nail to Tinkabell's innumer- 
 able knots. " ' 'Ave you 'card about my 
 little fishshop, sir ? I are started a fish- 
 shop in Blowfield, along o' my old mother." 
 
 I had not heard this important piece of 
 news, and asked for further and fuller par- 
 ticulars. It was a shop without a window, 
 I learned, and they were fishes without ice. 
 They came from London, smoked, in wooden 
 boxes, and the profit on six boxes amounted 
 to two shillings. Mr. Piper often sold six 
 boxes in a week. 
 
 s
 
 274 Moby Lane 
 
 " Of course," mused Mr. Piper, "it's a 
 game that wouldn't do for ev'rybody owin' 
 to by reason of the smell what's attached to 
 it ; but moi oold mother don't notice naarthun, 
 and Oi be out at work all day gardinering 
 to this here gentleman. And we don't give 
 they a chance to grow musty, no sense : for 
 if we find as one be growin' musty, whoi, We 
 takes and eats it, pretty quick. Whoi, there's 
 'addick for tea at our 'ouse pretty nigh every 
 night. She do be pretty well tangled up in 
 the coat, and no mistake. Rackon I'll 'ave 
 to find a new nail for t'other one. Did you 
 'ear I'd started in the coal line, sir ? >J 
 
 This piece of news had also failed to reach 
 me. 
 
 "Well, sir, it's true," said Reddy Piper. 
 " Me and moi oold mother we started the 
 business in co. We gets it in five 'undred- 
 weight a time, and sells it be the pennorth. 
 We reckon that bring in about three-and- 
 sixpence on the ton. And we can sell as 
 much as a ton in the fortnight. It help the 
 fish trade, too. Them as come for coal will 
 often stop and buy a bit of fish ; and them as 
 come for fish will often take a bag of coal." 
 
 This wisdom and the steadiness of purpose 
 implied by its practical application Were such
 
 His Emmy Cert 275 
 
 new elements in Mr. Piper, that I naturally 
 began to wonder what had happened to that 
 young gentleman. I naturally started my 
 wondering from the usual point. " I suppose 
 you're in love, Reddy ? " 
 
 " Me ? " exclaimed Mr. Piper : " Not at all. 
 Why do you think a thing like that ? " 
 
 Because you appear to have altered in 
 character." 
 
 " 'Ow d'ya make that out ? " 
 
 " You've left off poaching : you're keeping 
 out of prison." 
 
 " That's true," admitted Mr. Piper. 
 
 " You've gone into regular employment 
 and taken to commercial speculation, and a 
 clean collar. You've combed your hair." 
 
 " That's true, too, Oi racken," said Reddy. 
 
 " Then what's the meaning of it all ? " 
 I argued. "People don't go 'reformed' for 
 nothing at all." 
 
 " Well, if you wanter know," said Mr. 
 Piper, " I wanter save a bit of money." 
 
 " Precisely ! " I assented. " But why do 
 you want to save money ? Own up. Tell 
 me her name." 
 
 Mr. Piper muttered two words. 
 
 "Emmy which?" I demanded. 
 
 " Emmy Cert," repeated Mr. Piper.
 
 276 Moby Lane 
 
 "Emmy who?" I again demanded. 
 
 " EMMY CERT," said Mr. Piper, raising his 
 voice. 
 
 " Who is Emmy Cert ? " I inquired. 
 
 " It ain't a person," responded Mr. Piper ; 
 " it's what ya buy. I tell ya, I'm savin' up 
 for me Emmy Cert." 
 
 " Saving up for an Emmy Cert," 
 I repeated slowly. " But what is it ? " 
 
 " Emmy Cert," said Mr. Piper. 
 
 I looked at him blankly. 
 
 " What you get to go abroad," he added, 
 after profound inward cogitation. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Slow witted though I am, I could not fail 
 to find out at last what Mr. Piper was talking 
 about. He was talking about something 
 called an " Emigration Certificate." 
 
 God knows what an Emigration Certificate 
 may be. Mr. Piper used the phrase to de- 
 scribe the whole machinery of foreign settle- 
 ment. When he talked of saving up for an 
 Emmy Cert, he meant that he was saving 
 money to defray the cost of his travel to a 
 very distant country. 
 
 I laughed continuously for several minutes, 
 and Mr. Piper wondered why. I could not 
 tell him why. But I will tell you.
 
 His Emmy Cert 277 
 
 The joke is this : The sentiment which had 
 inspired Mr. Piper to become a law-abiding 
 English citizen, was . . . the ardent hope 
 of soon ceasing to be an English citizen 
 at all.
 
 XXX 
 
 THE WIDOW OF WADHURST 
 
 SHE does not really live at Wadhurst, but at 
 a village which is situated not very far from 
 Wadhurst not very, very far from Wad- 
 hurst. I call her " The Widow of Wadhurst," 
 however, because Wadhurst and widow both 
 begin with " W," and I am a professional 
 writer. 
 
 Her name is Mrs. Bunner, and she is one of 
 the most respectable women in her native 
 parish. She is a widow of fifteen years' 
 standing, but she has been respectable for 
 much longer than that. The local chemist 
 and gnat-bite specialist, who is quite an aged 
 man, admits that he can't remember the 
 time when Mrs. Bunner wore a fringe or had 
 an ankle. 
 
 Mrs. Bunner lives at Ivy Cottage, a residence 
 conspicuous by reason of the fact that it is 
 semi-attached to the post-office, where I 
 bought onions and an alarm clock and more 
 gnat-mixture. Mr. Smee, the postmaster 
 
 a polite young man, and no doubt an agreeable 
 
 278
 
 The Widow of Wadhurst 279 
 
 one, when onions are not in season directed 
 me to Mrs. Bunner for eggs and milk. Mr. 
 Smee informed me that he had officiated as 
 postmaster for eleven years, and had indulged 
 his natural aptitude for growing onions 
 throughout the whole of that period. The 
 postmaster before him had grown dahlias, 
 and was a friend of Mrs. Bunner, who regarded 
 him (Mr. Smee) as an interloper and upstart, 
 although, as he assured me, with tears in his 
 eyes, he was in no sense responsible for the 
 death of his predecessor, who had died quite 
 unexpectedly at the age of eighty-seven. 
 " However," admitted Mr. Smee, " Mrs. Bun- 
 ner have got a little more used to me at last. 
 She don't sim to treat me as a stranger any 
 more, not like what she used to, six or seven 
 years ago." 
 
 Mrs. Bunner was kind enough to receive my 
 application for eggs and milk in an agreeable 
 spirit, and she even consented to sell me a pot 
 of tea and a lump of cake. I was invited to 
 enter the front parlour to partake of this 
 feast, which I did, and was provided with a 
 seat in front of a majestic portrait of the late 
 Mr. Bunner. Mr. Bunner, when on earth 
 (I learned), was a land bailiff and a Baptist. 
 
 We discussed with great earnestness the
 
 280 Moby Lane 
 
 views and character of Mr. Bunner, with 
 especial reference to his opinions on the exact 
 science of brewing tea. We were thus engaged, 
 Mrs. Bunner having lifted down the portrait 
 for my better inspection, when somebody 
 performed a sudden, nervous knock upon the 
 front door. Mrs. Bunner, springing up with 
 some signs of agitation, implored me to sit 
 still. 
 
 " The girl Alice," she assured me, " shall 
 run see. Whatever it can be come gawping 
 here to interfere with people at their teas, I 
 can't think. 'Tis strange. The girl Alice 
 shall run see." 
 
 " Alice," cried Mrs. Bunner, " where be 
 you ? " 
 
 " I be curlin', marm," replied the voice of 
 Alice, from aloft. 
 
 " Then quit your curlin'," commanded Mrs. 
 Bunner, " and run quick see what can it be 
 is knockin' at the door." 
 
 " If anybody was to cut theirselves into a 
 thousand million pieces," the voice of Alice 
 was heard to surmise, " then, perhaps, some 
 people would be satisfied." 
 
 But Mrs. Bunner did not hear this hand- 
 maidenly retort. She was busy with scouting 
 operations behind her parlour curtain.
 
 The Widow of Wadhurst 281 
 
 ' Why, bless my soul ! " cried Mrs. Bunner 
 at last, having performed a successful recon- 
 naissance, " if that don't be the new post- 
 master ! " 
 
 Alice, in the meantime, had stepped with 
 steps of martyrdom to the front door, and 
 now returned with a short and defiant manner 
 to publish the results of her inquiries. 
 
 " 'Tis Mr. Smee," said Alice. " He want 
 to borrow the garden roller." 
 
 " He want to borrow what ? " cried Mrs. 
 Bunner. 
 
 ' The garden roller/' repeated Alice. " Be 
 careful. He standeth just behind me." 
 
 ' Walk in, Mr. Smee," said Mrs. Bunner. 
 ' You aren't ever stepped in this house afore, 
 nor I aren't ever arst you ; but you be wel- 
 come. Our late postmaster have set in my 
 parlour many a time." 
 
 Mr. Smee came in and, speaking hurriedly, 
 stated his errand. " Bin makin' a bit of a 
 grass lawn, marm, be'ind our quince, and I 
 thought that is, Mrs. Smee she told me or 
 rather, we was 'opin' as per*aps you would 
 be so very kind as to lend us the loan of your 
 roller." 
 
 Mrs. Bunner coughed abruptly. 
 
 " Mr. Bunner," she said, " was very
 
 282 Moby Lane 
 
 particular about our roller. He say, after the 
 last time we loan it, as he would never loan 
 it any more. He tell me I was not to loan 
 it." 
 
 " Of course, marm," urged the postmaster, 
 " we should treat it very careful." 
 
 " Of course ! " repeated Mrs. Bunner. 
 " Anybody would. Sich a splendid roller as 
 that be ! " 
 
 " I wouldn't allow no one to lay a 'and on 
 it on'y myself," continued Mr. Smee. 
 
 ' The last time we loaned our roller," 
 mused Mrs. Bunner, " that was to our late 
 pastor the pastor before our late pastor, I 
 should say and Mr. Bunner he say then, 
 ' Never no more,' he say ; for the roller it 
 come 'ome that dusty nobody wouldn't 
 hardly reckernise it. Mr. Bunner, he say to 
 me at the time : ' This is too good a roller to 
 go lendin' about/ he say." 
 
 " I am one," represented Mr. Smee, " as 
 ought to understand a roller. We 'ad a good 
 one at my old 'ome." 
 
 " Did you oil it down the crack, then ? " 
 demanded Mrs. Bunner. 
 
 " Of course. By all means. Certainly. 
 Oh yes," replied the supplicant. 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Mrs. Bunner, " I guessed as
 
 The Widow of Wadhurst 283 
 
 much ! You aren't got the look, somehow, 
 of a man what's been bred to such things. 
 Now, Mr. Bunner, he always say as the very 
 worst thing what anybody can do to a roller 
 is to oil it down the crack. That cause the 
 dust fly up, he say, and lodge between the 
 jints. Oilin' the crack was one o' the things 
 what our late pastor done wrong to the 
 roller." 
 
 " Well, marm," responded Mr. Smee, " I 
 can promise to take great care of the machine. 
 I will treat it the same as Mr. Bunner 
 'isself." 
 
 " You will have to study hard, then," 
 answered Mrs. Bunner. " Mr. Bunner he 
 know all there was to know about our roller. 
 He was a studied man." 
 
 " Can I have the roller then ? " said Mr. 
 Smee. 
 
 " Mr. Bunner, he set more store by that 
 roller, he valued it more, than he did our 
 garden shears, and that's to say a lot. What 
 was your idea about movin' it ? 'Ow was 
 you goin' to get it out and home again ? " 
 
 " I thought I would push it," replied the 
 postmaster. 
 
 " Or pull it," suggested Mrs. Bunner. 
 " Mr. Bunner he allus say as on'y a old woman
 
 284 Moby Lane 
 
 would walk behind a roller. The proper way 
 to git about with a roller, he say, is to walk 
 in front and pull. You got a proper oil-can 
 for oilin' the balance- weights, I hope ? " 
 
 " Can't say as I have," admitted Mr. Smee, 
 " not without you could see your way to be 
 so kind as to lend me one." 
 
 " There I drors the line ! " responded Mrs. 
 Bunner, definitely. " Mr. Bunner, he loaned 
 a brand-new oil-can to the pastor, and we 
 aren't never set eyes on it since. 'Tis a risk 
 you run along of all they there le'l losables. 
 A roller is more safe, in a manner o' speakin' . 
 'Twould puzzle anybody to lose a garden 
 roller, especially with me so close at 'and. 
 Well, then, and if I lend it ? ... Well, then, 
 ... and if I lend it . . . ? " 
 
 " Thank you kindly, marm," said Mr. 
 Smee. 
 
 " Let you f oiler me, then," commanded 
 Mrs. Bunner. "'Tis in the le'l shed there, 
 along o' Mr. Bunner' s saw and potting tackle. 
 Mind you, I didn't ought to do it. Mr. 
 Bunner he say we wasn't never to lend that 
 roller again, not after the tricks our pastor 
 served it." 
 
 We opened the door of the potting shed, 
 and amid impressive silence Mrs. Bunner
 
 The Widow of Wadhurst 285 
 
 disclosed the nesting place of the roller. 
 Having unkennelled the roller, we conducted 
 it, under the personal supervision of its owner, 
 so far as the garden gate. At which point 
 a difficulty presented itself. The step ! 
 
 " Mr. Smee, Mr. Smee, Mr. Smee, what in 
 ever be you aimin' at ? " cried Mrs. Bunner, 
 when this obstacle was reached. 
 
 " I be aimin' for to bump her down the 
 step, marm," answered Mr. Smee. 
 
 " Indeed, now ! Be you ? " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Bunner, with emphatic irony. " Let you 
 just be careful ! I be still in time to change 
 me mind, mind. Mr. Bunner he was most 
 partickler bidding folk beware o' steps and 
 stones. They be death to a garden roller, 
 he allus say. Quit this bumping. Let you 
 find a timber board and ease *er down." 
 
 At last the roller was conveyed, without 
 mishap, to the adjoining mound of turf, which 
 represented Mr. Smee's garden. Mrs. Bunner 
 had left me and was clinging to her side of 
 the fence, gazing over it with a fixed and 
 anxious look. My tea had no doubt got quite 
 cold. So I went away. 
 
 But as I passed the postmaster's gate, I 
 heard the voice of Mrs. Bunner raised in 
 protest.
 
 286 Moby Lane 
 
 " Man alive, be careful o' they flints ! " 
 I heard her exclaim. " 'Tis dreadful bad for 
 a roller to bring it nigh a flint. Mr. Bunner 
 he allus say as flint drar the very heart out 
 o' the iron. Man alive, be careful ! "
 
 XXXI 
 TUPPER 
 
 WHEN first I saw Tupper he reminded me of 
 Smike, an imaginary character created by 
 the late Mr. Charles Dickens. He has been 
 reminding me of Smike ever since. 
 
 I never realised, until I saw Tupper, how 
 severely realistic Dickens' s portraits were. It 
 is commonly thought, I believe, that Dickens' s 
 characters in general were " exaggerated," 
 and that Smike is a particularly striking in- 
 stance of this fact. To any reader who may 
 hold this opinion, I can only extend a cordial 
 invitation to come and look at Tupper. 
 
 This animal has been recently adopted 
 into a household with which I am closely 
 acquainted. The members of this household 
 are what is called " intellectual " people. They 
 do not hit it off at all well with Jemima Ann, 
 who does not hit it off at all well with them, 
 because they are the sort of people who treat 
 Jemima Ann as an equal, which is a liberty 
 that Jemima Ann resents. 
 
 And so this household, actuated partly by 
 
 287
 
 288 Moby Lane 
 
 scientific curiosity, partly by motives of kind- 
 ness, and chiefly by a desire to discover an 
 inexpensive substitute for Jemima Ann, has 
 adopted Tupper. 
 
 I will now tell you what Tupper is. He is 
 a human being ; a young man ; a British 
 citizen. He is eighteen years of age, and 
 4 feet 10 inches high, being descended from 
 a town-dwelling ancestry. He is a criminal 
 epileptic. That fact I perceived directly I 
 saw him, for I happen to possess an English 
 translation of a work on criminology written 
 by an eminent Italian scientist named Lom- 
 broso, and containing 246 illustrations of 
 criminal epilepsy in all its forms. The face, 
 and especially the forehead and eyes, of 
 Tupper are like unto any of the faces, fore- 
 heads, and eyes which appear in Signor 
 Lombroso's entertaining text-book. 
 
 My diagnosis was not accepted unreservedly 
 by Tupper' s new mistress. 
 
 " He is a criminal epileptic," I said. 
 
 " Criminal fiddle-sticks," she replied. " See 
 how he's polished that floor." 
 
 Tupper comes from some sort of reformative 
 institution. Here, he has been "trained" 
 by State officials to do housework and garden- 
 ing. I do not suppose that Tupper is really
 
 Tupper 289 
 
 his name. Even his mistress admits that 
 they probably changed his name after he had 
 choked the baby. 
 
 " Not that I believe he did choke a baby," 
 that lady has declared. ' The most poor 
 Tupper ever did was to lose himself, or some- 
 body else's postage stamps ; six ha'penny 
 stamps, I expect, belonging to some nasty 
 little tradesman who worked him to death and 
 kicked him. You have only got to watch 
 the way he stares at a calf to see that he never 
 was a bad boy." 
 
 Tupper has a wizened little face, absolutely 
 void of colour or expression. I expect that 
 they explained to him at his " school " that 
 only good boys are allowed to smile or look 
 sorry. At any rate, you never saw a face so 
 grave, so infinitely old as his. 
 
 This Reformatory, or whatever they call 
 it, seems to have reformed the very sweat out 
 of Tupper. You cannot imagine what a 
 dried-up, involuntary animal he is. For all 
 ordinary purposes he is sightless, deaf and 
 dumb. The most obvious things are invisible 
 to him ; he cannot feel the most commonplace 
 sensations. He has been 048, and has marched 
 in step for so many childish years, which are 
 
 such long years, that he has no use at all for 
 
 T
 
 290 Moby Lane 
 
 Freedom and the unfettered use of his legs. 
 The thought that he has now no number and 
 nobody to keep step with, evidently appals 
 him. He is hopelessly afraid of his Freedom, 
 of his new task-masters, of himself. 
 
 I have noticed (since I am so intimate with 
 this house and household) that he is particu- 
 larly afraid of the scullery. You can feel him 
 feeling, in his dim way, that anything might 
 happen in the scullery. 
 
 He slinks about at his mistress's heel, 
 sniffing for concealed traps. He feels less 
 distrustful of this lady, his mistress, than of 
 other free and booted persons, because she 
 cooks his dinner. Not to feel distrustful is 
 the nearest approach which Tupper is capable 
 of making to that emotional state which #- 
 reformed humanity calls love, or liking. 
 
 Therefore, he walks at his mistress's heel, 
 cocking his head a little sideways and peering 
 up at her out of one eye, like any other animal. 
 If she moves, he moves ; if she stands still, 
 he stands still. When stationary, he is able 
 to concentrate his faculties, which he does 
 by pressing either dwarfish hand against his 
 stomach, throwing back his head, and 
 squinting. 
 This Tupper, this Smike, does not even
 
 Tupper 291 
 
 know the things which a decent puppy knows. 
 He has never seen lump sugar ; he has never 
 seen a teapot ; he has never tasted treacle. 
 
 He understands about one in every twenty 
 words which are addressed to him. But he 
 nods or shakes his head to all of them ; 
 rather, the words shake it for him, for he begins 
 that palsied process so soon as you open your 
 mouth. When (about twice a day) some- 
 thing is said which he really does understand, 
 it is wonderful to see the dead leaves stirring 
 in his brain. 
 
 For example, the words " Meat Pie/' were 
 uttered in his presence. He rose to the 
 occasion, putting his head on one side, and 
 blinking. 
 
 " Ha ! " he said ; " Meat-pie Thursdays ! " 
 
 He saw a brass candlestick lately, and 
 touched it, saying, " Ha ! Globe ! " a recondite 
 utterance, the significance of which will, 
 perhaps, be appreciated by housewives. 
 
 When he said this word he knew that he 
 had said something of exceptional pertinence, 
 and tried to put his head on both sides at once. 
 
 But the strangest thing about this boy is 
 the most hopeful thing about him. He is vain. 
 
 They " squared " him in the school. They 
 planed him flat ; they rolled him, and they
 
 292 Moby Lane 
 
 milled him. They extracted all the nonsense, 
 all the goodness, all the boyhood from him. 
 But there was one little seed in him which 
 even all their wheels and rollers could not 
 crush the seed of vanity, which, after all, 
 is not merely a human characteristic but the 
 most potent, the most fruitful of all the 
 human senses. 
 
 I saw him to-day in the shadow of the wood- 
 shed, behind a heap of garden refuse. He had 
 gone there privily to look upon, and feel, and 
 touch, the horrible new coat of shoddy tweed 
 in which his late comtrollers had equipped 
 him for his entry into unclassified society. 
 
 The coat was an absolute and palpable 
 misfit. Its checks were " loud " and fratri- 
 cidal ; it stank of moth, and camphor, and 
 the sweating shop. But it was a new coat, and 
 his own coat, to don or put off as he chose ; 
 to cherish or tread on as he chose. 
 
 He chose to cherish it. He stroked, and 
 patted, and pinched it ; finally, he lifted a 
 baggy sleeve up to his face and rubbed his 
 cheek against it. 
 
 As he did so, the make-believe of a sun 
 peeped over the wood-shed and cast a tremu- 
 lous beam upon the nape of his criminal little 
 neck.
 
 XXXII 
 BILL POTTER EXPLAINS 
 
 AT the Hanover Arms, an inn, which is in 
 Blowfield, which is in Sussex, which is in 
 Eng., Yurrup, I was lately an humble peti- 
 tioner for bread and cheese and beer. A 
 super-gilt landlady, having received this peti- 
 tion, not with enthusiasm, directed me to an 
 obscure closet, where, she said, if I chose to 
 wait until her coffee-room visitors had received 
 the firstfruits of her hospitality, I might 
 ultimately hope to be "obliged" with that 
 mean fare which I had offered to purchase, 
 and which she existed to sell. 
 
 The obscure closet smelled of antimacassars. 
 This seemed to interfere with my respiratory 
 processes, which, humble and impoverished as 
 I know myself to be, are yet of basic importance 
 to my existence, and not less so than if I came 
 from Philadelphia and drove a motor car, 
 and dined in coffee-rooms. 
 
 At the same time I freely admit that this 
 is no argument. Obscure closets and anti- 
 macassars and Klaustrophobia and bread and 
 
 293
 
 294 Moby Lane 
 
 cheese and beer are for English journalists. 
 The coffee-room, the boiled salmon, the 
 Calif ornian Hock (Jehosophat !), the bottled 
 peas, and the sulphuricated Gorgonzola are 
 for rich and noble Philadelphians. 
 
 On the other hand, one needn't submit to 
 suffocation if a mere act of volition will prevent 
 it. I needn't, and I didn't. I separated 
 myself from those antimacassars, and walked 
 about in the court or stable yard of this inn 
 pending the production of my ignoble feast. 
 
 While I was thus occupied, I beheld strange 
 sights. I beheld the illustrious and dis- 
 tinguished Bill Potter, head stableman at the 
 Hanover Arms, and I beheld Mr. Bertie 
 Phipps, of the Manor House, Pyklehurst. 
 
 There is nothing essentially strange about 
 either of these Englishmen unless you count 
 Mr. Bertie Phipps' s waistcoat or Bill Potter's 
 straw. Mr. Phipps' s waistcoat is, perhaps, 
 more freely spotted and luxuriously buttoned 
 than many waistcoats in common use. Bill 
 Potter's straw is, perhaps, more aged and 
 fruity than the straws which you or I are 
 accustomed to chew. 
 
 It was the behaviour and conversation of 
 Bill Potter and Mr. Phipps which struck me 
 as being strange.
 
 Bill Potter Explains 295 
 
 Bill Potter, when I first beheld him, was 
 peering over the half -door of a hay barn, or 
 granary. All I could see of Bill Potter was 
 the back part of the lower portion of his 
 personality. The rest of him was swallowed 
 up by the black mouth of the hay barn. But 
 within that dim orifice there were dimly to 
 be seen certain dim movements. Bill Potter's 
 elbow seemed to be in motion. Bill Potter 
 seemed to be jerking his elbow backwards and 
 forwards, as if he were prodding at something 
 with a stick. In point of fact, when Bill 
 Potter subsequently withdrew his elbow, I 
 saw that he had been prodding at something 
 with a pitchfork. And that something was 
 Mr. Bertie Phipps. 
 
 " Now, then, Mr. Bertie, come along ! "< 
 said Bill Potter. " It is time you got about, 
 Mr. Bertie. Wake up, Mr. Bertie." 
 
 " Curse ya, Pottah ! " said Mr. Bertie 
 Phipps, and with these words he came out 
 into the public view, having first kicked open 
 the half-door, and in so doing very nearly 
 kicked Bill Potter and Bill Potter's pitchfork 
 into a duck pond. 
 
 " And so," said Mr. Bertie Phipps, " you 
 grudge mah the use of yahr mildewed straw." 
 
 " Beggin' yere pardon, sir," replied Bill
 
 296 Moby Lane 
 
 Potter, touching his cap, " but 'tis gone one 
 o'clock, sir." 
 
 Mr. Bertie Phipps then frowned. He 
 frowned with extreme expressiveness and 
 in a prolonged and undulating manner. Mr. 
 Bertie Phipps was an attenuated person / 
 with an elongated jaw. His long, thin legs 
 were clad in tight breeches and constricted 
 gaitering. His exiguous middle was en- 
 shrouded in a brilliant waistcoat, the colour 
 of a very pink sweet -pea, and having buttons 
 in great number, each one of which exhibited 
 the miniature representation of a fox's head, 
 framed in gold. A short-tail coat of an 
 emphatic tweed pattern and a little round 
 tweed hat completed Mr. Phipps' s costume. 
 His long, green face, with its wrinkled fore- 
 head, middle-aged decorum, and wee dark 
 tuft beneath the chin, suggested the popular 
 portraits of Don Quixote. If you can imagine 
 what Don Quixote would look like in cub- 
 hunting kit, and frowning from his eyebrows 
 to his elbow, you can imagine what Mr. 
 Bertie Phipps looked like when he came out 
 of his straw-barn and frowned at Bill Potter. 
 
 " And so," said Mr. Bertie Phipps, " I have 
 lived to be grudged an armful of mouldy straw 
 by a diseased ostler ? "
 
 Bill Potter Explains 297 
 
 " Yessir, if you please, sir," responded Bill 
 Potter, touching his cap. 
 
 " In that case, Pottah," rejoined Mr. 
 Phipps, " I have nothin' to say, except to 
 request you to give yaself the trouble of 
 pickin' the wheat-husks out of my collah." 
 
 Mr. Phipps, as he uttered these words, 
 sighed deeply, and assuming, not without 
 difficulty and with certain creakings at the 
 knee, a stooping posture, tendered his neck 
 to Bill Potter, who extracted from it and 
 from Mr. Phipps' s hair innumerable souvenirs 
 of the straw-barn. During this operation, 
 which was not a brief one, Mr. Phipps con- 
 tinued to express emotion by varied move- 
 ments of the eyebrow. 
 
 The coarser and more obvious accretions 
 having at last been removed from Mr. Phipps, 
 and that gentleman having with further 
 creakings resumed a perpendicular attitude, 
 he then called loudly for his horse. 
 
 " Bring out the old mare, Bill Potter," he 
 commanded. " Bring her out quick ! " 
 
 Bill Potter hastened to obey this order, 
 while Mr. Phipps, folding his arms and nibbling 
 the knob of his riding-switch, stared with 
 dull, resentful eyes at a certain yellow chicken 
 (which stared back at him from between his
 
 298 Moby Lane 
 
 feet) and put in some heavy work with the 
 eyebrows. 
 
 Then Bill Potter appeared with the old 
 mare, duly saddled, and then Bill Potter 
 assisted Mr. Phipps to ascend to the summit 
 of this quadruped, and received a shilling in 
 the face for doing so. And then the horseman 
 rode away, and Bill Potter picked up the 
 shilling and bit it, and then Bill Potter, with 
 an air of suitable humility, made all things 
 plain to me at least he explained why Mr. 
 Bertie Phipps, of the Manor Hoiise, Pykle- 
 hurst, had been sleeping in a straw-barn. 
 He said : 
 
 ' Ya see, sir, this is an affair, like, between 
 Mr. Bertie and me, like, and I woulden wish it 
 to go no further him an' me havin' dug out 
 many a farrit together in days gone by. But 
 you seen Mr. Bertie creep out o' the barn, 
 like, and you seen me pick him over, like, and 
 you seen it all, so to speak, and I woulden 
 wish to deceive you and I woulden wish the 
 matter talked about, the same as anybody 
 might do if they happened to be curious about 
 the ins and outs of it all. Ya see, sir, it's a 
 funny position, like, for a gentleman to be 
 found in sleeping in a straw-barn, with thirty 
 bedrooms in his father's house, not four
 
 Bill Potter Explains 299 
 
 miles off, and a commercial and family hotel 
 next door, as you might say. 
 
 1 Well, sir, I woulden wish it to go no 
 further, but the long and the short of it is, 
 as Mr. Bertie come here last night for a game 
 o' billiards, like, and he stayed here for 
 several games, like, and he had a bit o' dinner 
 here an' what not, an' the truth o' the matter 
 is as he exceeded hisself , like, so to speak. He 
 come out here at eleven o'clock, which is 
 Closin' Time, in a manner o' speakin', and 
 he tal me for to saddle his oold mare, which 
 I had had her saddled for three hours or more, 
 and he call me a few nicknames, in the way o' 
 pleasantry, like, and fiddle about with his 
 stirrup, like, and then it strike me like as he 
 want a little help you know what gentlemen 
 are, sir what we all are in a manner o' 
 speakin', as the sayin' goo, like. Well, I 
 gives 'im a leg up, so to speak, and so there 
 he is a-sot up atop of his oold mare, and a 
 lookin' down at me, oold-fashioned like. 
 And then he speak to me, and he say : 
 
 " ' Bill Potter,' he say, ' for the love of 
 heaven,' he say, ' take a-holt o' the oold 
 mare's bridle an' lead her out of all these 
 courtyards.' 
 
 '* There was on'y one oold yard, ser fur as
 
 300 Moby Lane 
 
 I could see, but I humoured Mr. Bertie like, 
 seein' what gentlemen are, and I took a-holt 
 o' the oold mare's bridle and I lead her out 
 o' the yairrrd. And then Mr. Bertie he say 
 to me, he say : 
 
 'Tis a dam dark noight/ he say : ' Jes' 
 take a-holt o' the oold mare's bridle an' lead 
 her up High-strit,' he say. So I take a-holt 
 o' the oold mare's bridle and I lead her up 
 High-strit. An' when we git to the top o' 
 High-strit I say to Mr. Bertie, civil like, I 
 say : ' Mr. Bertie,' I say, ' I'll bid you good- 
 night, I say, ' for 'tis time I weer got back to 
 see all shipshape at the inn/ I say. 
 
 " But Mr. Bertie he say to me : ' Why, 
 sure-fy, Bill Potter/ he say, ' you'll lead the 
 oold mare up Fox Hill ? 'Tis a cursed steep 
 hill/ he say. 
 
 " So I lead the oold mare up Fox Hill, and 
 when we be come to the top I say to Mr. 
 Bertie, I say : 'I'll be biddin' you good- 
 night here, sir. 'Tis time I weer got back to 
 see all shipshape at the inn.' 
 
 " But Mr. Bertie he say to me : ' Oh, dash 
 it, Bill Potter be a sport. Lead the oold 
 mare along the lane here. 'Tis a cursed 
 crooked lane/ 
 
 " So I lead the oold mare along the lane
 
 Bill Potter Explains 301 
 
 a crooked lane it is, to be sure, and Mr. 
 Bertie not ridin' out o' the way steady, so 
 to speak, but sittin' up theer a bit unconscious 
 like, speakin' poetry to 'isself, and in between 
 whiles speakin' sharp to me. ' Steady on, 
 Bill Potter, steady on, he'd say, swaggin' 
 about in his saddle. ' Look where you be 
 gooun. You're drunk, Bill Potter.' 
 
 " At last we be come to the end o' the 
 lane, and then I bids Mr. Bertie good-night 
 once more. For 'twas fully time as I be 
 got back to the inn, to see all shipshape for 
 the night. But Mr. Bertie, he don't see the 
 justice of it, so to speak. 
 
 " ' Oh, come, Bill Potter,' he say : ' you 
 beant a-gooun to leave the oold mare now ? 
 You'll lead her on up Poacher's Hill,' he say. 
 ' Tis a wusser hill nor Fox Hill.' 
 
 " But I tell him as 'twere time I be got 
 back to my duties. 
 
 '"Stuff, Potter!' he say. ' Be reason- 
 able, an' lead the oold mare up Poacher's 
 Hill.' 
 
 " But I stick to moi arguement, an' tal him 
 it weer time as I be got back to the inn, to 
 see all shipshape for the night. 
 
 " ' Then you woon't lead the oold mare 
 up Poacher's Hill ? ' says Mr. Bertie.
 
 3O2 Moby Lane 
 
 " ' Not to-night, sir, if 'tis all the same to 
 you, sir,' I tal him, very civil like. 
 
 " ' Oh ! ' says Mr. Bertie, * you woon't lead 
 the oold mare up the hill, woon't you ? Then 
 I'll tal you what, Bill Potter : You can dam 
 well lead her back again ! ' 
 
 " An' so I done."
 
 XXXIII 
 THE STOCKINGS 
 
 SUSAN'S god-aunt came to tea with Susan's 
 mother at Polecat Farm, where Susan is 
 allowed to live and labour and (sometimes) 
 to sit down. The latter privilege, however, 
 is accorded to her on the strict understanding 
 that she speaks when she is spoken to and 
 sticks to needlework. 
 
 For Susan is one of those question-asking, 
 book-reading, star-gazing girls who let the 
 butter spoil. This sort of girl can never be 
 cured, but it can be kept under. Susan is 
 kept under. 
 
 Susan's god-aunt sniffed at her tea distaste- 
 fully. " That don't seem over-biled !" she said. 
 
 " Susan made it," explained that maiden's 
 mother, with a short but expressive laugh. 
 
 Susan, fumbling with her work in a dark 
 corner, made no sound. 
 
 Susan's god-aunt peered into the corner 
 with an air of stern inquiry. 
 
 " Susan Winch," she demanded, " what be 
 you a-doin* of ? >J 
 
 303
 
 304 Moby Lane 
 
 " Darning," responded Susan. 
 
 " Botching," said Susan's mother. 
 
 'Tis a wonder," said god-aunt, " as she 
 bean't reading, or lookin' at pictures." 
 
 "Or settin' there with 'er mind full o' 
 fancies," suggested Susan's mother. . . . 
 However, us've burnt the most of 'er readin', 
 and the rest be locked up. There's no 
 'oldin' 'er under unless you be cunning." 
 
 " I should 'a* thought," observed god- 
 aunt, "as 'er Uncle David would 'a' bin a 
 warning to 'er. 'Tweer on'y this readin' and 
 writin' and mooning about what got poor 
 David into trouble." 
 
 ' That and marrying two wives," assented 
 Susan's mother. 
 
 " Whatever be it as Susan are got there ? 
 Fiddlin' and faddlin' ! You wouldn't think 
 a fool like she be could own a sister so bright 
 as Ettie." 
 
 ' That you wouldn't," assented Susan's 
 mother. " There be more sense in Ettie' s 
 li'l finger than that girl got in all 'er big, fat 
 'ead. . . . 'Tis Ettie' s stockings as she be 
 reckonin' to mend." 
 
 "Mend!" exclaimed god-aunt, with a 
 significant uplifting of her three chins. 
 
 " Botch, then," said Susan's mother.
 
 The Stockings 305 
 
 "Ettie," asserted the visitor, "would V 
 made they stockings in the time that sad 
 creature take to 'eel them. 'Ow long she 
 bin a faddlin' with them ? " 
 
 " Since two o'clock," said Susan's mother. 
 
 God-aunt put up her chins again. " Stock- 
 ings at tea-time ! " she exclaimed. . . . 
 11 All the young ladies I ever heerd on would 
 think it becoming to get on to the white work 
 be tea-time." 
 
 " Not," exclaimed a low, uncertain voice 
 from the dark corner, " not if they had to 
 spend their morning p pick pickerling 
 
 runners." 
 
 Having eliminated Susan with an awful 
 stare, god-aunt turned to Susan's mother. 
 " So she's taken to answering back, now ? " 
 said god-aunt. 
 
 " Susan," commanded Susan's mother, 
 " be'ave yourself. Don't speak until you are 
 spoke to. Let's see you get on with they 
 stockings." 
 
 So Susan got on with the stockings. 
 
 " 'Tis a good job she got a good mother to 
 try and teach 'er proper manners," mused 
 god-aunt, keeping a furtive eye on the corner 
 in expectation of a further outbreak. But no 
 further sound came out of the dark corner. 
 
 u
 
 306 Moby Lane 
 
 " There's one thing," reflected god-aunt, 
 "little Ettie know 'ow to be'ave 'erself if 
 other people don't." 
 
 " You be right there," said Susan's mother. 
 " The Misses Tinker, from Blowfield Place, 
 they past the remark to me on'y last week 
 how wonnerful pretty mannered that child do 
 show. 'So different from yere darter Susan/ 
 they say." 
 
 " Ettie' s got a better 'eart, too," remarked 
 god-aunt. 
 
 " R ! " said the mother of this perfect 
 damsel ; " and a more takin' face. She be 
 gettin' on great wi' the piano lessons." 
 
 God-aunt nodded sagely. " I shall send 
 ybu some money for more lessons," she said. 
 "Anybody don't grudge a girl a sensible 
 'obby like that be. When Ettie was at our 
 'ouse last week there was a bit o' music 
 wrote down on a bit of noospaper what the 
 steak come wrapped up in, and she thumbed 
 that out on our old organ so nat'ral you 
 wouldn't believe. But this Susan, with 'er 
 readin' an' studyin', she fair sickens me, 
 for that don't give no entertainment to no- 
 body. Nor it don't bring in no money. 
 That ain't no manner o' use at all, on'y to 
 bring on idle ways and sore eyes."
 
 The Stockings 307 
 
 " I be sure as Ettie will be 'earty thankful 
 for any 'elp 'er godmo'er's pleased to give 
 'er," said Susan's mother, steadily. 
 
 " And she be 'earty welcome," asserted 
 god-aunt, responding to the lead. " Little 
 Ettie, she shan't want for naarthun, so long 
 as her pore ole godmother be alive. There's 
 a future in front o' Ettie so soon as she get 
 'er'airup!" 
 
 " Meaning young W. ? " suggested Susan's 
 mother. 
 
 " Now then ! " commanded god-aunt, erect- 
 ing a prohibitory forefinger and smiling fatly ; 
 " no tales ! " 
 
 " Bless you," responded the indulgent 
 mother, " I never aims to make no tittle- 
 tattle. What's it matter if five or six o' them 
 do 'appen to be crazy over Ettie ? The pore 
 child can't help 'er pretty face. ... I kin 
 remember when 'er god-mo' er be just sich 
 another little girl, and when " 
 
 " Now ! " cried god-aunt, archly, again 
 erecting the forefinger. 
 
 " Well, there's one thing," reflected Susan's 
 mother, " there's no fear as the boys' 11 ever 
 crowd too thick around Susan. Boys don't 
 like they readin' sorts. What the boys value is 
 gentility and good manners and pratty looks."
 
 308 Moby Lane 
 
 ' Where be Susan ? " suddenly demanded 
 god-aunt, who had been peering into the 
 corner with an eager and solicitous eye. 
 
 "Bless me ! " cried Susan's mother, also 
 peaking anxiously into the corner, " if the 
 creature aren't sneaked out. She must 'a' 
 took the opportunity of us exchangin' these 
 few words to creep up and steal along and 
 sneak out. . . . Susan where be you ? " 
 
 " Here, mo'er 'longside the pig trough." 
 
 Susan's mother got up and passed through 
 an open door into the scullery, and through 
 another open door into the farmyard, closely 
 followed by Susan's god-aunt. 
 
 " What do you reckon to be doin' ? " 
 demanded Susan's mother. 
 
 " Looking at the sky, mo'er," said Susan. 
 
 Susan's mother turned to Susan's god-aunt, 
 and Susan's god-aunt turned to Susan's 
 mother. The lips of both ladies worked 
 silently, repeating without speech Susan's 
 extraordinary confession. " Looking at 
 the sky ! " 
 
 " Come inside at once ! " commanded 
 Susan's mother. And Susan silently obeyed 
 her. 
 
 " What about they stockin's ? " cried 
 Susan's mother.
 
 The Stockings 309 
 
 "I've finished them," said Susan. 
 
 ' Then what about the pickle crock ? " 
 
 " I've filled that full." 
 
 " Aren't ye got ne'er a piece o' white to 
 sew ? " 
 
 Susan shook her head. 
 ' Then gimme they stockings." 
 
 Susan picked up three black lumps from off 
 the chair which she had lately occupied, and 
 handed them listlessly to her mother. 
 
 Her mother rapidly unrolled a pair of 
 stockings, and while Susan's god-aunt nodded 
 approvingly, cut a great hole in either heel 
 with a pair of scissors. 
 
 11 Let you sit down and put new heels to 
 them," said Susan's mother. . . . "You idle, 
 up-started she ! 
 
 " Looking at the sky ! ' ' said Susan's mother. 
 "If there's one thing I do 'ate to see 'tis to 
 see a person actin' useless." 
 
 To which sentiment Susan's god-aunt 
 accorded another nod of approval.
 
 XXXIV 
 BERT 
 
 YOUNG Mr. Bagshaw entered our railway 
 carriage at Victoria Station. He was escorted 
 thither by a pretty young woman, who had 
 been crying, and he was further accompanied 
 by a stout cardboard box, a fan, ingeniously 
 contrived so as to resemble a cigar when 
 closed, and by an emphatic and inexhaustible 
 odour of Clove Humbugs. 
 
 Young Mr. Bagshaw was dressed in tight 
 knickerbockers, stockings, stout boots, a 
 bright blue jersey, a white turned-down collar, 
 and a yellow bow. A piece of stout whipcord 
 encircled young Mr. Bagshaw' s neck, to which 
 was attached a knife that sort of knife which 
 is technically termed a " Scout knife." It was 
 an extremely large and serious weapon or 
 collection of weapons for its equipments com- 
 prised a penknife, a pruning knife, a stabbing 
 knife, a pair of tweezers, a bradawl, a corkscrew, 
 and an ingenious contrivance for removing 
 stones from horses' hoofs. Young Mr. Bag- 
 shaw clearly attached importance to this article 
 
 310
 
 Bert 311 
 
 of his wardrobe, for he was constantly fum- 
 bling for it with both hands, as if to assure 
 himself of its continued possession. 
 
 There was further attached to young Mr. 
 Bagshaw's person a common luggage label. 
 This he wore on the left forearm, with which 
 it was connected by tapes. This label served 
 the double purpose of testifying to Mr. Bag- 
 shaw's identity and proclaiming his destina- 
 tion, thus ; 
 
 BERT BAGSHAW. 
 Passenger to Blowfield. 
 
 Will be met by Mrs. Kenward, 
 Stoats Farm, Blowfield Green. 
 
 LUGGAGE : 
 One hat-box. Cap under jersey. 
 
 The young woman who had been crying put 
 Mr. Bagshaw into a corner seat and his hat- 
 box underneath it. She then addressed a 
 series of admonitions to the young gentleman. 
 She said : 
 
 ' You'll be'ave yaself, now won't ya, Bert : 
 ya'll be a good boy ? And ya'll leave yar 
 cap where it is, till ya get out at the station. 
 Ya won't want a cap in the puff -puff. And 
 ya'll mind and send a post-card, and ya'll mind
 
 312 Moby Lane 
 
 and wash all over and ya won't torment 
 nobody. Ya will, Bert, won't ya ? " 
 
 Bert, after groping apprehensively about his 
 bosom, found the Scout knife and grasped it. 
 " All right, mum," he exclaimed in response 
 to his mother's not uncomplicated exordium. 
 
 The lady who had been crying then ad- 
 dressed herself, quite unexpectedly, to my 
 companion, who happened to belong to the 
 same intelligent sex. Said the lady who had 
 been crying : 
 
 " I daresay you won't mind lookin' arter 
 him, just as far as Blowfield. See as he gets 
 out at Blowfield, please. There's a lady will 
 meet him at Blowfield. And perhaps you 
 won't mind watchin' as he don't git too close 
 to the window. And this is his ticket. And 
 he gits out at Blowfield, please, and there's a 
 lady will meet him. His bit o' luggage is 
 under the seat, and he's got a cap with him, 
 but I've poked it up his little jersey, for 
 safety, because he won't need a cap, not while 
 he's travellin' and he would on'y take it off, 
 and then he would leave it behind, because 
 he's a terror over losin' his caps. And see as 
 he don't torment nobody, please. And see 
 as he gits out at Blowfield. If there's any 
 mistake, you'll find the full address on his arm,
 
 Bert 313 
 
 I daresay you'll be kind enough to look arter 
 him, just as far as Blowfield." 
 
 My companion told the lady who had been 
 crying that she would be charmed to perform 
 these numerous offices of humanity ; and the 
 lady who had been crying told my companion 
 that Bert had been ill and that he was visiting 
 the " kentry " under medical auspices and 
 would reside there, for a period of not less than 
 three months, under medical supervision. 
 The lady who had been crying also published 
 the apparently irrelevant opinion that three 
 months seemed to be a very long time. 
 
 The lady who had been crying then walked 
 away from the carriage door, and stationed 
 herself beside an automatic delivery machine, 
 which was situated on the platform, at a point 
 far removed from our carriage but in direct 
 alignment with it. And the lady who had 
 been crying rested a shoulder against the 
 machine and performed nerVous gestures, 
 alternately clasping and unclasping her hands, 
 whilst she regarded our compartment (No. 
 2030909) with a fixed, unnatural smile. 
 
 Young Bert, who, I am glad to state, 
 looked rounder, healthier, and happier than 
 might have been expected, in view of his 
 recent severe indisposition, gazed contentedly
 
 314 Moby Lane 
 
 at all the varied objects which had been dis- 
 played for his enjoyment upon this platform 
 of Victoria Station : the stout porters, the 
 newspaper boys, the taxi-drivers, the clergy- 
 men, the loosely-clad young gentlemen, the 
 tightly-clad young ladies, the other Mums 
 who had been crying, the other pale-blue 
 jerseys, the other Scout knives. . . . 
 
 Then a very large person, in very bright 
 buttons, blew a very loud whistle and waved 
 a very green flag, and our engine coughed and 
 our carriages hiccupped, and we slowly but 
 decisively lumbered off, after grinning kindly 
 at our mama, who had been crying, and who 
 leaned against a toffee machine, regarding 
 us fixedly, with a tight, ungenial smile. 
 
 We continued to grin in a kindly manner 
 at all our travelling companions in turn until 
 the train reached Purley Oaks, after which 
 moment fields and brooks began to happen. 
 They were smoke-stained fields, much worn, 
 and productive of little save sardine tins. 
 They were oily brooks, upon whose sluggish 
 bosoms old boots floated stately. But still, 
 they were fields and they were brooks, and 
 when we saw them our grins gave place to 
 big-eyed, wonderful sighs. And we began to 
 fidget in our seat.
 
 Bert 315 
 
 Suddenly, with a decisive squirm, we left 
 our seat, and confidently placed ourselves in 
 somebody's lap the lap of somebody who 
 happened to occupy the opposite corner-seat, 
 and who has already been introduced under 
 the pseudonym of " my companion.' ' 
 
 All these " we's " are beginning to confuse 
 one. We will therefore drop them, and 
 employ a less elusive turn of phrase. Let it 
 be said, therefore, that the boy Bert, having 
 placed himself in the lap of my companion, 
 who was female, immediately helped himself 
 to a yard or two of the chain which adorned 
 her neck, and also uttered disconcerting 
 speeches. He said : 
 
 " That lady there, what's sitting in the 
 next seat, when you laugh at her, she don't 
 laugh back. She's a very strict-looking lady, 
 she is. I laughed at J er free times, but she 
 never laughed back. I fink she don't like 
 little boys." 
 
 The lady thus indicated gave no sign of 
 having heard this speech, or (if having 
 heard it) of being in any way affected by 
 it. She possessed herself, with a resolute 
 air, of the seat which young Bert Bagshaw 
 had vacated, and having closely examined, 
 one by one, the faces of her fellow-travellers,
 
 316 Moby Lane 
 
 she contemptuously closed her eyes and 
 slumbered. 
 
 " We got a old aunt atome just ve same as 
 'er,' J proclaimed young Mr. Bagshaw. "She 
 don't like to be jolly, neither." 
 
 Mr. Bert Bagshaw, having well and truly 
 wound himself in his new girl's neck-chain, 
 and having audited and found correct her 
 bangles, brooches, bags, and other accoutre- 
 ments, then concentrated his attention on 
 the landscape. " But look here/' said Mr. 
 Bagshaw, suddenly, after holding his breath 
 in the face of Nature, for quite five minutes, 
 " but look here where do they hang their 
 washin' out ? " 
 
 This and cognate problems occupied the 
 mind of Mr. Bagshaw all the rest of the way to 
 Blowfield. When the train slowed down at that 
 important junction where its journey to the 
 sea was first interrupted Mr. Bagshaw uttered 
 a direct compliment to his lady friend. He said : 
 
 " Well, you've looked arter me all right. 
 I think you're a decent lady. Are you the 
 lady what's meetin' me here ? " 
 
 My companion regretfully confessed that 
 she was not this fortunate being. 
 
 ' Well," said Bert, slowly absolving him- 
 self from the neck-chain, "I'm sorry. It's
 
 Bert 317 
 
 a bit sickening, like, because I likes you, and 
 per'aps I shan't like *er" 
 
 We all got out at Blowfield, and escorted 
 Mr. Bagshaw up the platform, where he stood 
 and waited, amid a sharp breeze, which ruffled 
 his hair and disturbed the luggage label which 
 was tied to his arm. And no lady came to 
 meet him. 
 
 When we had awaited the arrival of this 
 lady for quite ten minutes, and had begun 
 seriously to contemplate the obligation of 
 taking him home with us this blue-jerseyed, 
 bareheaded boy, with the protuberant cap in 
 his middle and fluttering label on his arm 
 a thin, grey-whiskered man came up, who was 
 not very clean and not very sober, and who 
 carried in his hand a short, stout whip. 
 
 This person glanced interrogatively at Bert's 
 young lady. " Name o' Bagshaw ? " he de- 
 manded. " Stoats Farm ? To be met ? " 
 
 " This is he," we had to admit. 
 
 " Then 'op up into moi cart, Boy," replied 
 the grey- whiskered man. " There's pigs there 
 as will amuse ye. Give us a-holt o' that box." 
 
 But this compulsory gentleman, and his 
 whiskers, revolted Bert. 
 
 ' Where's the lady was to meet me ? "' 
 demanded that traveller.
 
 318 Moby Lane 
 
 " 'Op up among the pigs, moi son, and we'll 
 soon foind some ladies ! " replied Grey- 
 whiskers. 
 
 " No," replied Bert, holding his girl by the 
 hand. ' There was a lady to meet me here. 
 I ain't a-goin' 'ome wiv you. I'd raver go 
 'ome with this young woman here." 
 
 This was what is called a dead-lock ! 
 
 But Bert, being of London, showed himself 
 susceptible to sporting offers, and readily 
 accompanied us the grey-whiskered man and 
 myself to (oh, Tothill Street !) a public- 
 house, where Bert drank ginger-beer, and where 
 was enacted the solemn farce of tossing 
 for Bert in ha'pennies. Grey- whiskers won 
 the toss, and Bert, not happy, but not afraid, 
 was lifted into Greybeard's cart, where the 
 pigs immediately engaged his attention, to 
 the stifling of sorrow. 
 
 " They're real pigs they're alive ! " pro- 
 claimed young Bert. 
 
 " I should think so," we assented. " Won't 
 you have a gay time, riding home with real, 
 live pigs ! " 
 
 " Ye-e-es ! " admitted Bert, as Greybeard 
 shook his reins and the old horse sauntered 
 off. " Yes ; but I'd raver ride home wiv our 
 young woman."
 
 XXXV 
 MRS. PYE'S COMFORTER 
 
 " So you've shrouded the pore old gentleman 
 at last ? " said Mrs. Plummer. " Well, m'm, 
 you must aim to be cheerful." 
 
 My neighbour, Mrs. Pye, nodded gravely 
 in acknowledgment of the force of this sug- 
 gestion. She is not a refractory old lady, 
 though self-willed and entirely chargeable to 
 the parish. Private charity, in default of 
 communal benevolence, had provided her 
 with suitable evidences of mourning, and she 
 stood at her gate now, bony and palsied, 
 swaddled in black crepe, and blinked at the 
 setting sun. 
 
 " Yes, m'm/' pursued Mrs. Plummer, dab- 
 bing at her three red chins with a humid 
 kerchief, " you must aim to be cheerful. 
 You aren t got a great while longer to live, 
 no doubt, but so long as you do be up and 
 about, that becomes you to keep cheerful." 
 
 Mrs. Pye, my neighbour, gravely wagged 
 her head again. Her new black bonnet was 
 
 319
 
 It 
 
 It 
 
 320 Moby Lane 
 
 studded with dancing ornaments of jet, and 
 these had much vivacity and sparkle. 
 
 I be told/' continued Mrs. Plummer, 
 
 as 'e died 'ard. That surprise me when I 
 'ear it, for the pore old gentleman had got to 
 be so slow and deaf and foolish that anybody 
 wouldn't 'ardly credit as 'e would notice any 
 difference between dying and living. At the 
 same time, I dare say as life was sweet to 'im, 
 the same as it might be to any of us young 
 and 'earthy ones. At the same time, it's a 
 good thing to die easy if you can, and that's 
 the reason why I tells all the old ladies the 
 same thing as I tells you, Mrs. Pye keep 
 cheerful. Them as lives cheerful will die 
 cheerful. Take my word for that, Mrs. 
 Pye." 
 
 My neighbour took it, nodding solemnly. 
 
 " That's what I be come for, really to 
 cheer you up," continued Mrs. Plummer. 
 " I say to Plummer, I say, ' Now that the 
 pore old gentleman have really died at last, 
 the pore old lady will need a cheering word/ 
 I say. Plummer, he say to me, ' Well, old 
 girl/ he say, ' you'll 'ave to goo quick if you 
 reckon to git a look at the old chap, for 'tis 
 bound to be a quick funeral, this time o' year/ 
 he say. Be the corp on view ? "
 
 Mrs. Pye's Comforter 321 
 
 Mrs. Pye, my neighbour, blinking at the 
 sunset, slowly shook her head. 
 
 "Ah, well," mused Mrs. Plummer, "'tis a 
 good job, shouldn't wonder. That don't be 
 a axtry cheerful business, viewin' anybody's 
 corp. And I be one as like to keep cheerful. 
 ' They do say, mind you," reflected Mrs. 
 Plummer, " as anybody don't need to dream 
 of a corp if on'y they got the sense to touch 
 its forehead. 'Tis a thing I doos regular 
 meself, and 'tis a certain thing as I 'aven't 
 never 'ad a nightmare yit, on'y from eatin' 
 duck. But then I be one o' the cheerful sort. 
 Naarthun don't trouble me o' nights, on'y 
 duck. Duck and moi stomach, they don't 
 agree. . . . Well, m'm, the pore old gentle- 
 man be gone, and nobody couldn't grieve 
 over it more'n I do. But he weer sadly aged 
 and wore out, and no doubt he have gone to 
 a happier place, where you and him will meet 
 again ere long. So it becomes you to cheer 
 up, Mrs. Pye. Take a lesson from me, m'm." 
 
 Letting go of the sunset for a moment, my 
 neighbour blinked at Mrs. Plummer. 
 
 ' Take a lesson from me," repeated that 
 philosopher. " I are buried moi mother ; I 
 are buried moi father ; I are buried Plummer 's 
 father and Plummer' s brother, and two little 
 
 x
 
 322 Moby Lane 
 
 children of our own. And yit, Mrs. Pye, you 
 don't see me lose 'eart." 
 
 Mrs. Pye reverted to the sunset. 
 
 " I are sin some very sad deaths," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Plummer. " Young Robert 
 Plummer, now moi 'usband's brother he 
 died axtryornerary 'ard. He died, as you 
 might say, Mrs. Pye, from his feet up. 
 His legs and his limbs they was perished for 
 hours before his mind give out. I remember 
 how he lay theer, with the Bible in 'is 'and 
 and but theer, I didn't ought to stop 'er 
 chattering away like this. 
 
 "I ought to be getting back to the cross 
 roads and look after moi 1'el boy. He be 
 sich a harum-scarum 1'el boy ; there's never 
 no knowin' what manner o' mischief he 
 doosn't be up to. They tell me as a motor 
 car was nearly a-top of him the day before 
 yisterday. Believe me, Mrs. Pye, there's 
 death in that child's face. Oi sin it clearly 
 many a noight-time, as 'e lie alongside of us, 
 sleepin' so sound and innercent. But theer ! 
 Whatever be the good o' losin' 'eart ? Keep 
 cheerful : that's what Oi say. Be cheerful. 
 That's moi motter. 
 
 " That's all I come round for, really, to 
 cheer you up, m'm. A sadly old creature
 
 Mrs. Pyes Comforter 323 
 
 same as you be can't afford to lose 'eart, for 
 your own time, that be surely pretty nigh, 
 and 'tis 'arf the battle to die easy. Poor 
 young Robert, now, lie died 'ard : 'e died un- 
 common ' ard. ' Put yere ' and on me shoulder, 
 Sis,' he say : ' Put yere 'and on me shoulder, 
 Lei, and cheer me up. You be allus a cheerful 
 one, old girl,' he say. 
 
 " I done as the pore lad tell me," said Mrs. 
 Plummer, (< but still 'e died 'ard : 'e died 
 axtryornerary 'ard. 
 
 " But theer ! " continued this indomitable 
 woman, " we bean't all on us called upon to 
 die so young and 'earty as pore Robert. 
 Them as be old may well die easy, so long as 
 they keep up their cheerfulness and doosn't 
 lose 'eart. That's what I come round for, 
 Mrs. Pye, to cheer you up. You aim to be 
 cheerful, m'm, the same as I be. 
 
 " And now I'll be gettin' 'ome to see if my 
 1 el boy are got run over."-
 
 XXXVI 
 
 SWEEP OH! 
 
 I SAID to them : " Can you tell me which is 
 the cottage where Mr. Toovey lives Mr. 
 Toovey the chimney sweep ? " 
 
 They said to me : " Do you mean Toovey 
 the fish 'awker ? " 
 
 I said to them : " No ; I mean Toovey the 
 chimney sweep." 
 
 " A 'eavy, square-shouldered man ? " they 
 inquired. " Got a old grey beard ? " 
 
 " That's the man ! " I agreed. 
 
 " Then it's George Toovey 'e want/' they 
 said. " It's George Toovey you want, sir." 
 
 "Is it? "I said. 
 
 "That's right," they asserted. " George 
 Toovey you want 'im that mends boots." 
 
 " And 'awks fish," added one of them. 
 
 " That's right," cried all. 
 ' What I'm really looking for," I confessed, 
 " is a Toovey that sweeps chimneys." 
 
 " WeU," replied the brightest of them, " I 
 
 daresay George would sweep a chimney." 
 
 324
 
 Sweep Oh! 325 
 
 "I've 'eered tell," remarked another, " that 
 that be the trade he weer apprenticed to." 
 
 "Apprenticed or no," retorted the bright 
 one, " I sin 'im 'awking fish at Blowfield oon'y 
 larse week." 
 
 " 'Twas wood you see 'im sellin', 'Arry, not 
 fish," declared a convive. " I know 'twas 
 wood, for 'e are bought they faggot stacks 
 cover at Theobald's, and 'e aren't 'ad no time 
 this three weeks past to goo fish 'awkin'." 
 
 " In any case," I now ventured to ask, 
 " where does he live ? " 
 
 " Oh, he live cover yander," they answered, 
 u but there's no knowing where you'll find 
 'im." " Perhaps," added the bright one, 
 " they could tell you at the Cock. You can't 
 go fur wrong if you ask for Mr. Toovey at 
 the Cock." 
 
 " That's right ! " assented all ; " you can't 
 go fur wrong if you ask at the Cock." 
 
 So I thanked them all for their help and 
 walked a mile to the Cock Inn, where I asked 
 to be directed to Mr. Toovey, the chimney 
 sweep. 
 
 " Which Mr. Toovey did you want ? " they 
 demanded at the Cock. 
 
 " Mr. George Toovey," I replied. 
 
 " George Toovey oh ! " they reflected.
 
 326 Moby Lane 
 
 " That's 'im what used to rare pheasants up 
 at the 'All, ain't it, Miss?" 
 
 Miss thought so. 
 
 " The genelman want a chimney sweep, 
 Miss," they continued. " That would be 
 Fred Toovey, wouldn't it, Miss ? " 
 
 " Fred Toovey's dead," replied the land- 
 lord's daughter. 
 
 " Then what about young 'Arry Toovey ? " 
 they inquired. 
 
 " 'Arry Toovey's gorn to America/' replied 
 the landlord's daughter. 
 
 " Then," they mused, " that on'y leave 
 George to reckon with. That must be George, 
 then, what the genelman' s inquiring for. 'E'll 
 find George Toovey up at Theobald's, won't 
 'e, Miss?" 
 
 "That's right?" assented the landlord's 
 daughter. 
 
 They then very kindly told me where to 
 look for George. " You'll find Mr. Toovey 
 up at Theobald's," they said. "'E are 
 bought they faggot stacks what stand in the 
 yard there. Are you got a chimbney afire, 
 then ? " 
 
 I said, " No." 
 
 They said, " No ? . . . Oh ! . . . Well, 
 you'll find Mr. Toovey up at Theobald's."
 
 Sweep OJi ! 327 
 
 So I thanked them and walked a mile to the 
 scene of my original researches, and inquired 
 for Mr. Toovey at Theobald's. 
 
 But I found no Mr. Toovey. 
 
 A man who was tying sticks together in 
 the yard told me that Mr. Toovey would be 
 found at his house the third past the sign- 
 post after you turn Sly Corner. A le'l, old- 
 fashioned, lop-sided house : stands back from 
 the road. Got a quince tree and some 
 chickun in the front. They call it " Thatched 
 Cottage," but if I was to ask anybody to 
 direct me, they would know it by the name 
 of " Kenward's." Couldn't tell me why it 
 was known by that title, but had heard his 
 mother say that, when she was a girl, an old 
 genelman named Brown used to live there. 
 Grew remarkable fine strawberry. Perhaps 
 he called it " Kenward's." " Thatched Cot- 
 tage," however, was the name on the gate. 
 Mr. Toovey would be sure to be at home, 
 because his wife had gone to Worthing, where 
 her daughter was in service, and Mr. Toovey 
 would have to mind the place. If it wasn't 
 for haven't to mind the chickun at " Ken- 
 ward's" Mr. Toovey would doubtless be 
 visible here at Theobald's, for he had bought 
 they faggot stacks. But he was minding the
 
 328 Moby Lane 
 
 chickun and the place at " Kenward's," 
 where I would certainly find him. " Thatched 
 Cottage " was the name on the gate. 
 
 I found Kenward's Cottage after some 
 inquiry, and I found Mr. Toovey, who was 
 minding it. He explained this so soon as I 
 appeared. 
 
 'Tis Mrs. Toovey you wants, I expect, 
 he suggested. "I be on'y minding the place 
 while she's away in Worthing, where our 
 daughter live." 
 
 I assured Mr. Toovey that it was he and 
 no other person whom I wanted to see. " I 
 want you to come to my cottage to-morrow 
 morning," I said, " and sweep out the parlour 
 chimney." 
 
 Mr. Toovey shook his head. " You'll 'ave 
 to see the missus about that," Mr. Toovey 
 said. ' We're so busy, you see. 'Tis ever so 
 Jong since I swep a chimbney not since my 
 eldest boy went orf to America." 
 
 " You have given up chimney sweeping, 
 then ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Oh no, sir," answered Mr. Toovey. 
 ' That be my trade. I weer apprenticed to 
 the chimbney sweeping." 
 
 ' You have, at any rate, discontinued 
 chimney sweeping for the present ? "
 
 Sweep Oh ! 329 
 
 " I won't say that, sir," answered Mr. 
 Toovey. " No, I won't say that ! That be 
 my trade, you see, sweeping chimbneys." 
 
 ' Then why not sweep my chimney ? " I 
 persisted. 
 
 ' You see, sir," explained Mr. Toovey, 
 " I aren't swep' neer a chimbney for months 
 and months not since my eldest boy went 
 orf to America. I doos a bit o' cobberlin* 
 and I doos a bit o' 'iggerlin' and sometimes 
 I sells fish and wood. But I reckens to be 
 retired from business, really. My wife could 
 tell you more about it than I can, on'y my 
 wife she be at Worthing, where our daughter 
 live." 
 
 " Anyhow, I can't depend on you to sweep 
 my chimney, Mr. Toovey." 
 
 " I wouldn't say that, sir. You see, I 
 reckons to be a chimbney sweep be trade. 
 On'y I got some wood to attend to they 
 faggots over at Theobald's. I ought to be at- 
 tendin' to them now, on'y me wife she be away 
 and I gotter stop and mind the place yere." 
 
 "I see that I'm not to expectyou to-morrow, 
 Mr. Toovey, but perhaps," I suggested, " you 
 could come and clean my chimney some other 
 morning when you are free to leave this 
 place."
 
 33 Moby Lane 
 
 " Free to leave this place ! " echoed Mr. 
 Toovey. " Oh, I daresay, come to that, I'm 
 as free to leave my place as what any body 
 else is. Only I choose to stop 'ere. You had 
 better come again, young man, and see the 
 Missus." 
 
 " You think, then/' I ventured to assume, 
 " that you will be able to come some other 
 morning and " 
 
 " I can't say naarthun about that," said 
 Mr. Toovey. " I aren't swep' a chimbney out 
 for ever so long not since my eldest boy went 
 orf to America. You'll 'ave to see the missus 
 about it." 
 
 " Perhaps," I said, " you can recommend 
 me to some other chimney sweep, Mr. 
 Toovey ? " 
 
 Mr. Toovey shook his head. " That I 
 caan't," he replied. " I be the on'y proper 
 chimbney sweep this side o' Lewes. You 
 won't better me if you walk five miles."
 
 XXXVII 
 THE " RETREAT " 
 
 CERTAIN fine, black horses are to be observed 
 upon the roads of this parish horses which 
 pull great painted carts. These carts are 
 loaded to the eyebrows with ripe grain or 
 mellow hops, and they the horses, the carts, 
 the grain, the hops are all the ostensible 
 property of Esther Gabriel. 
 
 And who is Esther Gabriel ? I do not 
 know. I have often wondered. I am told 
 that Esther Gabriel is nobody in particular ; 
 that she is merely the embodiment of an 
 idea. I am told that the house and lands 
 upon the hill from whence these horses come, 
 and the horses themselves, and the painted 
 carts, and the jolly hops, are not the property 
 of any single person, but belong to the Pope, 
 at Rome, and are vested, theoretically, in a 
 spiritual daughter whose " bridal name " is 
 painted upon the tail-board of His Holiness' s 
 waggons because Sergeant Plummer, our local 
 Headman, has commanded this thing to be 
 done. 
 
 331
 
 332 Moby Lane 
 
 Now, I love fine horses and gay waggons, 
 so I always stand at my window to watch 
 these chattels of Sister Esther Gabriel go by. 
 And, naturally enough, I fall to wondering 
 about Miss Gabriel. I wonder whether she 
 is old or young, ill-looking or pretty. I wonder 
 what worldly joys and dignities were hers, not 
 long ago, ere she elected to try the mysteries 
 of re-birth. She was a wife, perhaps, and a 
 mother, or a cotton-broker's widow, or a 
 marchioness, or an actress, or an author. At 
 any rate, we know who she now is : Esther 
 Gabriel, a daughter of the Church. The 
 disguise is a good one. It hides her real name 
 and state completely, just as herself is hidden 
 by the convent walls and her face by the 
 convent veil. 
 
 I followed one of Esther's waggons the 
 other morning, and sat on a gate by Esther's 
 rickyard and beheld the silent kingdom of 
 this silent woman. 
 
 From my perch I could see it all five 
 hundred fat acres, dotted with big oaks and 
 plump coverts. At the foot of the hill, where 
 the oaks are finest, there is a sheet of water. 
 In the old days, there were boats on this 
 water, which were used by gentlemen as an 
 aid to the destruction of fish and water-fowl.
 
 The "Retreat" 333 
 
 Now, in early August, the surface of the lake 
 is covered with water-lilies white and scarlet 
 and yellow. These are more fitting to the 
 latter-day character of the estate, which now 
 they call "St. Anthony's Retreat." But 
 twenty years ago, and from three hundred 
 years before that, they called it " Culver's 
 Close," and the coverts which are now so 
 silent were given over to the unceasing clamour 
 of sportsmen and dogs. 
 
 I caught myself thinking not a very pretty 
 thought, perhaps that I had rather see these 
 lumbering butchers back again than see their 
 erstwhile haunts so silent and forsaken. 
 
 The silence of the place was more than an 
 ordinary August silence. It was a super- 
 natural silence, rendered more poignant by 
 the steady, ceaseless booming of a bell : an 
 invisible bell, with a lifeless voice. Presently, 
 as if in answer to its persistent nagging, a 
 silent, slow procession of black-robed persons 
 came winding out of a coppice and wound 
 itself unhappily towards the summit of a hill. 
 
 I turned my head and looked for comfort 
 at the lake, with its bright patches of white 
 and yellow and scarlet. 
 
 But by the side of the lake there had quietly 
 gathered another depressing smudge of black :
 
 334 Moby Lane 
 
 a solitary smudge which travelled slowly to 
 and fro, to and fro, in harmony with that 
 dreadful bell. I have never listened to a 
 more unsatisfying bell. Its voice was like 
 the echo of an echo of a voice. St. Anthony's 
 Retreat is certainly conducive to spiritual 
 searchings. But I did not want any. I 
 wanted to run away. 
 
 Suddenly, however, my eye was attracted 
 by a new, an unexpected object in the picture : 
 a tiny, human object, in a pink pinafore. It 
 was apparently conversing with the water- 
 lilies. It was apparently "larking" with 
 the water-lilies. It danced and leapt and 
 laughed, and did not seem to fear the black 
 thing. This strange spectacle so interested 
 me that I climbed off the gate and invited 
 myself to make a close inquiry. 
 
 When I reached the lilies and the lake, 
 and had crossed the little bridge which spans 
 that piece of water at its narrowest part, I 
 was able to see that the pink pinafore contained 
 indeed a human child. I was able also, to 
 look at a new, unsightly tower of yellow 
 brick which is the casket or caddy or sepulture 
 of that confounded bell. I was able, likewise, 
 to examine the new yellow chapel of St. 
 Anthony and another horrible procession of
 
 The "Retreat" 335 
 
 the sad, mute sisters of St. Anthony. Finally, 
 I was able to look, at close quarters, upon two 
 quite different women. 
 
 One of these was dressed in black, and 
 travelled slowly, to and fro, in harmony with 
 the thumping of a bell. The other woman 
 was dressed in pink and purple and other 
 bright hues which do not live together in 
 tyarmony. She was a fat woman, with moist, 
 red cheeks, and she exhibited signs of breath- 
 less energy, puffing hither and thither about 
 the lake-bank, gathering nothing in particular, 
 losing half of that which she did gather, and 
 stuffing the residue with a feverish and 
 entirely motiveless haste into a fat, green 
 basket which she carried. This lady's name 
 is Mrs. Pett. She is a talkative, untruthful, 
 bustling, lazy inhabitant of this parish. She 
 and I are old friends, by reason of the fact 
 that for years Mrs. Pett had " obliged " me 
 with the use at 3d. per hour of her domestic 
 and culinary talents. I don't particularly 
 like Mrs. Pett. She is untruthful, as I have 
 said, and lazy : she is also unclean and un- 
 scrupulous. But, by God ! she is alive. 
 And, finding her in that dead place, I became 
 exceedingly glad, and clasped her hand with 
 heartfelt warmth.
 
 336 Moby Lane 
 
 My Mrs. Pett explained her presence in 
 this land of dead women thus : 
 
 " Me and my littlest gal, we be come here 
 to get some air and see the water-lilies. Did 
 ever you see finer, sir ? Such wunnerful 
 bright colours. That lady what walketh 
 over there," continued my Mrs. Pett, a little 
 inconsequently, " she belongeth yere. A 
 ' Nun/ they calleth her." 
 
 There was no escaping this " Nun." I 
 looked at her again. I saw that she was tall 
 and slim, and that she wore a purple sash. I 
 wondered : " Why the sash ? " I could not 
 see her face, for her head was bowed, and, 
 moreover, it was hooded. She carried in her 
 hands a little book, from which she did not 
 lift her eyes. She was walking straightly to 
 and fro, to and fro, in harmony with the thump 
 thump thump thump of the bell. 
 
 " She do not seem," remarked my Mrs. 
 Pett, " to take no notice o' the lilies. They 
 be better nor any books." 
 
 The bell continued thumping. 
 
 " Nor," said Mrs. Pett, " she do not take 
 no notice of my Elsie. Not so much as 
 squinteth at her ! That be a gleeful le'l 
 maiden, too : one as get took notice of be 
 everybody."
 
 The "Retreat" 337 
 
 The " Nun " continued walking to and fro, 
 with her eyes upon the book. 
 
 " That seem," mused Mrs. Pett, " as if she 
 can't look up. As if the will was took away 
 from her." 
 
 The big oak door of "Culver's" opened 
 as she spoke, and yet another queue of these 
 mute women issued forth and dragged itself 
 across the gravelled walk which led to the 
 chapel door. 
 
 " Elsie ! " cried out suddenly my Mrs. 
 Pett. " Elsie, come 'ere." 
 
 My Mrs. Pett, holding her child by the hand, 
 looked nervously, shuddering, from that queer 
 stream of living creatures to the solitary, 
 perambulating figure by the water-side. 
 
 " They got no 'air," said Mrs. Pett ; " 'tis 
 all shaved off. Elsie, come along 'ome."
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 GOD LOVE US ALL 
 
 OLD Mr. Rummery has been inquiring into 
 the principles of Progressive Thought, and 
 the process has left him with dim eyes and a 
 sort of giddiness. 
 
 Mr. Rummery is a beekeeper by calling 
 and inclination, but by necessity and local 
 acclaim a trimmer of hedges. It was whilst 
 occupied in layering a rebel growth of hazel 
 upon the northern heights of my estate that 
 old Mr. Rummery first hinted to me of his 
 intentions. 
 
 " Sir," said Mr. Rummery, quite without 
 warning, " what be this a-here Socialism ? " 
 
 " It's it's a theory of government," I 
 answered rapidly. 
 
 " Accordin' to what I read in my ' Daily 
 Megaphone/ " submitted Mr. Rummery, "that 
 be an arrangement for starving the poor." 
 
 "It is not entirely wise," I answered, 
 " always to believe everything which is printed 
 in the comic press. I happen to have in the 
 
 house a copy of another publication which 
 
 338
 
 God Love us all 339 
 
 will, perhaps, afford you some more reliable 
 information on the subject." 
 
 " Be that ' The Trumpet ' ? demanded 
 Mr. Rummery. 
 
 This question rather startled and confused 
 me. " What do you know about ' The 
 Trumpet ' ? " I said at last, 
 
 " I see one last week, time I burned your 
 muck," responded Mr. Rummery. " It was 
 on'y keepin' some tea-leaves together, so I 
 took the liberty o' takin' it 'ome to read. 
 Squire Kosky, up at the 'All, 'e seen it a-pokin' 
 out o* moi pucket next mornin', when I goo 
 there 'urdle bindin', and the Squire 'e didn't 
 ami lay out about it. ' What do ye mean ? ' 
 he say. ' How dare ye ? ' he say. ' You be 
 the last man, Rummery,' he say, ' as ever I 
 expect to see goo walkin' about moi land with 
 a lyin' rag like that in ye' re pucket. Take it 
 away and burn it,' he say." 
 
 " What did you do ? " 
 
 " I touch me cap to him," said old Mr. 
 Rummery. 
 
 " What did you do then ? " 
 
 "I 'ide up the paper and read it on the 
 quiet, at 'ome." 
 
 " You see, sir," continued Mr. Rummery, 
 " I never knowed as there' d be any 'arm
 
 34 Moby Lane 
 
 attaching to it. And even now I read it, I 
 don't see any 'arm in the paper on'y a lot o' 
 long words. Moi son up in London, young 
 Cyrrle, 'e tal me about it first set orf. 'E tal 
 me as there be some long, long wroitin's o' 
 yourn in it." 
 
 I hung my head. " But tell me, Mr. 
 Rummery," I said, by way of diverting the 
 conversation into less awkward channels, 
 " what would you do supposing I took a lesson 
 in manners from the Squire and the station- 
 master and people like that ? Suppose I 
 were to tell you that, being a religious man, I 
 object to those blaspheming pictures which 
 are sticking out of your pocket now, and 
 suppose I tell you that unless you burn or 
 destroy them I will give you no more work on 
 my land ? What will you do then ? " 
 
 " Do as I done to the Squire," responded 
 Mr. Rummery : ' 'ide the paper up and read 
 it through atome." 
 
 " That's what you had better do," I said, 
 " because some little child might see it. And, 
 in the meantime, I will fetch you a copy of ' The 
 Trumpet,' which you can look at to-night, side 
 by side with your ' Daily Megaphone.' ' 
 
 But Mr. Rummery erected a detaining arm. 
 " Don't you trouble naarthun about no
 
 God Love us all 341 
 
 ' Trumpets/ sir," he said. " I seen enough o' 
 the paper to know as that bean't no manner 
 o' use to me. I aren't got the scholarship. 
 'Tis too full o' wroitin'. Give me moi 
 ' Megaphone.' That have got pictures in it ; 
 I can read a picture. 
 
 " See," continued Mr. Rummery, producing 
 a crumpled page of his precious " Magaphone," 
 and spreading it out before me : " See ! 
 Look at this a-here : a man aren't got to be 
 a sc'olar to find out the meanin' o' this a-here. 
 There's the pore children, lyin' cold and 
 'ungry in their bed : there's the pore mother 
 gatherin' up their le'l bits o' clothes to take 
 away and sell, so's she can buy the imps a 
 mossel o' food and a mossel o' firm'. And 
 there be a picture o' these a-here miner chaps, 
 what woon't goo to work. There they be 
 a-feedin' o' their dargs on steak and whiskey. 
 There they be a-racin' ; there they be a-foot- 
 ballin'. 'Tis all told so plain in these a-here 
 pictures. Words bean't no use to a old man 
 off the land." 
 
 I took the paper away from Mr. Rummery 
 and tried to summon and assemble a verbal 
 host which should prevail against this visible 
 array. But how can you fight with phrases, 
 with ideas, against apparent devils ?
 
 342 Moby Lane 
 
 Old Mr. Rummery broke in upon these 
 bitter musings. 
 
 " I be gooun to London Toosday," he said, 
 " for to spend the day along o' young Cyrrle. 
 I shall show him this picture and hear what 
 he got to say about it. He rackon to be a 
 sc' olar, he do. Even when he was a little lad, 
 we had to buy him spectacles ; and I don't 
 ever seem to recollect 'im at all when J e 
 couldn't answer twenty words ta anybody 
 else's one." 
 
 When Mr. Rummery came on the following 
 Wednesday morning to mutilate some more 
 of my saplings, the visit to London and to 
 Cyril had been accomplished. 
 
 But Mr. Rummery wore a dazed expression ; 
 his eyes were dull, as with a sort of hopeless 
 wonder. He frequently patted his bosom. 
 
 ' That be a queer set-out, this Socialism," 
 said Mr. Rummery. " Naarthun to eat on'y 
 bean and pips ; naarthun to drink on'y barley- 
 water. 'Tis a queer set-out. They be set 
 agin pretty nigh all the food and all the 
 lickers ever I 'card on. Aye, and agin 
 amusements, too. ' 
 
 " You aren't got to eat no meat, nor yet 
 no salt, nor yet no milk nor butter, nor yet 
 no bread what's made with yeast ; you aren't
 
 God Love us all 343 
 
 got to drink no beer, nor yet no spirit, nor yet 
 no tea, nor yet no coffee what's made with 
 coffee. You aren't got to go to no theatres, 
 nor you aren't got to go to no pictures. I'd 
 made me mind up for to reg'lar enjoy meself 
 at the pictures time I was in London ; but 
 my boy, 'e wouldn't 'ear o' that. They be 
 agin all readin', too on'y this a-here." Mr. 
 Rummery produced from his pocket a slender 
 pamphlet bound in green paper. 
 
 Its title was : " Fabian Tract, No. 40." 
 
 'Twas a queer set-out," repeated Mr. 
 Rummery. " The corn and barley what they 
 give me, that aren't arf made me feel queer. 
 And y'oughter a' seen the comic clothes what 
 our young Cyrrle was dressed in ! And 'is face ! 
 That be the colour of a turnip root. / don't 
 make naarthun at all o' this a-here Socialism." 
 
 There was much which one could say ; but 
 on the whole I deemed it best to leave it all 
 unsaid. I went to a cupboard, instead, and 
 brought forth clean clay pipes, some good 
 tobacco, and a bottle full of sin. " This also 
 is Socialism," I remarked. 
 
 " Is it, now ! " cried Mr. Rummery, looking 
 very glad. " God love us all ! "
 
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