Chapter Twenty Four.
Beware of the Snake.
“Now, boys,” said Philip, “tumble up—tumble up—tumble up, it’s such a beautiful morning. Come, get up, Harry,” he continued, giving his brother a rough shake.
“Aw—yaw—aw—aw—aw—aw,” said Harry, gaping fearfully.
“Get up-p-p-p-p-p,” shouted Philip again, giving him another shake.
“Oh, don’t, Philip,” said Harry, “I’m so slee-aw-aw-aw-ah-aw-aw-py.”
“What an old stupid!” said Philip again. “If you don’t get up, I’ll cold sponge you.”
Harry did not wait for the cold sponge, but got up at once, and then the young dogs seemed to enter into a compact to disturb the rest of poor Fred, which they did by torturing him most ingeniously.
Fred was lying fast asleep, and, the night having been warm, he had kicked all the clothes off, so Harry and Philip collected the hair-brushes in the two bedrooms, which, old and new, amounted to five; after which, Harry slipped down into the hall, and brought up the two clothes-brushes, and these they carefully arranged upon the bed, all on one side of the sleeper. They next screwed up the corner of a handkerchief, and began to tickle him on the side farthest from the brushes. The first application of the tickler produced an impatient rub; the second, an irritable scratch; but the third made the sleeper turn right over on to the sharp brushes, and begin to curl and twist about with pain.
“Oh, dear! what’s—ah—ah—er—oh, dear—don’t. What’s in the bed?” said Fred, muttering and groaning and twisting amongst the brushes, but still keeping his eyes obstinately closed.
His tormentors roared with laughter; and it was this mirth which thoroughly aroused Fred to the comprehension of his position, which he no sooner realised than he sat up in bed, but in so doing only increased his pain—penetrating hair-brushes, although meant expressly for going through the hair, having, for all that, the power to pierce the skin, as Fred found, and he soon made a sort of rabbit leap off the bed on to the floor, and confronted his tormentors, who directly took to ignoble flight; but they did not get off scot-free, for Fred managed to send a missile in the shape of one of the brushes flying after them, and it caught Harry a pretty good thump in the back with the hardest part.
“I say,” said Philip, when they were nearly dressed, “we were to have gone to the mill last night to bob for eels; let’s go to-night, or Dusty Bob will think we are not coming.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t expect us when he saw what a fire there was. He would know that we should not go directly afterwards. But we might go to-night, though. Let’s ask Mamma to have tea early, so that we can start directly after.”
“Well, but we have not had breakfast yet,” said Fred.
“Well, I know that,” said Harry; “but it’s always best to be in good time about everything, and then you don’t get all behind. I say, what shall we do this morning? I should like to go down to the seashore. Let’s ask Papa to take us.”
“Why, what’s the use,” said Philip, “when you know how busy he is about the fire? I shouldn’t like to ask him. But he said he would take us again before Fred goes back, so let’s wait and see.”
Breakfast finished, the boys went out in the garden to amuse themselves, and plenty there always seemed to be in that garden to amuse any one of reasonable desires. There was fruit in abundance to begin with—no bad thing for a commencement either, as Harry appeared to think, for he began feasting first upon the gooseberries, and then turned his attention to the cherries on the big tree in the corner by the shrubbery—the tree which bore the great white Bigareau cherries; and it was quite time they were picked, for some were split right down the side from over-ripeness, while the sparrows had been attacking others, and had committed sad havoc amongst them—the little pert rascals having picked out all the finest and ripest for their operations, and then, after taking a few bites out of the richest and sweetest part, they commenced upon another. As for Harry, who was not at all a particular youth, he used to make a point of choosing the sparrow-picked cherries—saying that they were the ripest and sweetest.
Harry was up in the fork of the tree, reaching the fruit and throwing it down to his companions, when the attention of all three boys was taken up by the movements of a little bird in a tree close by; it was one of the little titmice, and the tiny fellow seemed to be in a wonderful state of excitement, darting from branch to branch, and emitting his sharp cry in a most querulous manner.
“I say,” said Philip, “look at that tom-tit; it has a nest somewhere close by, I know.”
This remark set six eyes searching about to discover the place of the little tom-tit’s home. Fred began looking up in the tree and amidst the laurel bushes—parting the boughs, and peering amidst the great green leaves.
“What are you looking for?” said Harry at last.
“The tom-tit’s nest,” said Fred.
“Why, it’s no use to look there; they always build in holes in the trees or wall. Last year there was one in that tall vase at the corner of the low wall; and we used to see the bird go down the neck ever so many times a day. It was such a snug place, nobody could touch it. I wonder where that little chap has been building. It must be close by, or he would not be so fidgety about our being here.”
They all hunted about well, but no nest was to be found; so Harry came down from his elevated position, and proceeded to share the capful of cherries that he had picked in addition to those he had thrown down.
“Well, now, if that isn’t droll,” said Philip, laughing; “no wonder we could not find the nest: why, Harry was standing up with his foot over it. Why, there it is, in the trunk of the cherry-tree. I just saw the tom-tit fly in.”
And there, sure enough, was the nest right at the bottom of a deep hole in the tree trunk, the entrance to which was by a hole so small that it seemed impossible for any bird to pass through it; for to look at the size of the tom-tit, his bulk appeared to be double the circumference of the hole; but his downy yielding little feathers gave him an easy passage through; and, as the boys went up to the tree, out he darted with a sharp cry, and flew away.
“There’s a hen-bird in the hole, sitting,” said Harry, “and he has been to feed her, I know. Let’s try.” Saying which, he took a piece of stick, and began to insert it gently into the hole.
“Don’t hurt it,” said Philip. “Don’t poke the stick in.”
“Oh! I shan’t hurt anything,” said Harry brusquely. “Do you think I don’t know what I’m about? I’m only going to push it in a little way to see if there is a nest, and then I shall—”
“Ciss-s-s-s-s-s-s-s,” said something very sharply from the bottom of the hole, and back darted Harry, stick and all, as though he had been shot.
“Why, it’s a snake,” said Philip.
“How could a snake get there?” said Harry, looking rather discomposed.
“There must have been an egg laid in the hole,” said Fred; offering, as he thought, a very clever solution of the difficulty.
“Well, but how did the egg get there?” said Harry.
“Why, it was laid there, of course,” said Fred.
“Well, but,” said Philip, “if an egg could be laid there, a snake could have got there; and I don’t believe the English snakes could climb up the bark of a tree; and, besides, if there was one egg there would be more, for snakes’ eggs are all joined together like French rolls at the baker’s shop; and then there would have been a whole lot of snakes in the hole.”
“Perhaps there is a whole party of them there now,” said Fred. “I wish we could split the tree open. I shan’t eat any more cherries; they smell snaky.”
“Get out!” said Harry; “I don’t believe it was a snake at all. I wish the hole was big enough to get my hand in; I’d soon see what it was.”
“But if it was a snake, it would bite,” said Fred, “and poison you.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” said Harry; “it’s only adders that bite and poison; snakes are quite harmless; Papa says so, and he knows everything.”
“Does he?” said a voice behind the laurels, and Mr Inglis came up to them, smiling. “And so, Master Hal, you consider that Papa knows everything, do you? Ah, my boy, when you grow older, I trust that you will prove studious enough to find out how very ignorant your father is, and to look upon all he knows in the same way that he does himself, and that is, as a mere nothing in comparison with what there is to learn around us. But,” he continued, cheerfully, “what is it I am said to know so much about?”
“Why, about snakes, Papa. They won’t bite, will they?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr Inglis, “and pretty sharply, too, after their fashion. I do not suppose that it would pierce your skin; but if you could occupy the position of poor froggy some day, when a snake has got hold of him by the hind legs, I think you would find that he could bite. But what made you talk about snakes?”
“Why, there’s one in this tree, Papa,” said Philip; “we put a stick into the hole, and it did hiss so. Now, you listen.”
Philip placed a piece of wood in the hole again, and in a moment there came forth the same sharp hiss, and directly Philip darted back in the same way as his brother had a short time before.
“There, did you hear that?” said the boys.
“Oh, yes; I heard the hiss, but it was not a snake; only the noise made by the female titmouse when sitting upon her nest. It is to scare intruders away, and you see how effectually it answers the purpose, for you boys were completely startled, and thought that it was a snake. And this is very often the case in nature, that helpless birds, animals, and insects are provided with means of offence or concealment, that in a great measure balance the helplessness of their nature. But I should like you lads to read these natural history facts for yourselves, and then search, during your walks and excursions, for the objects you have read of in your studies.”
Chapter Twenty Five.
A Stupid Ass.
Mr Inglis then walked away, and the boys strolled about the garden in search of something to amuse them until dinner-time.
Now most people would have been content with taking a chair, and sitting, book in hand, beneath the shade of one of the trees upon the lawn. Fred might have done this had he been alone, or Philip would probably have been likely so to do; but when Harry was in company with them such a proceeding seemed to be quite out of the question, and so they wandered about in search of something to take their attention.
But there was some one watching them all this time, and mentally growling and worrying himself about the boys being at home. Now this somebody was none other than old Sam, who was up on a ladder against the house, nailing in some of the long pendant branches of the roses which had here and there broken loose, and were trailing down low enough to catch the dresses of those who passed by. Sam had been grunting and hammering, and hammering and grunting, and he was not in a very good temper; for, in looking round and watching the boys, he had missed the head of the nail he was aiming at, and had given a sufficiently hard rap to his finger to draw blood; and this was of course put down to the credit of “them boys;” in fact, they could not have met with more blame if one of them had taken up the hammer and struck the blow, while the others had aided and abetted.
At last Sam saw them all turn down into the flower-garden, and then, for fear that something or another by which he set store should be handled, he got off the ladder and began very cautiously to follow them, going slowly from tree to tree, and trying to steal quietly up; but all Sam’s caution was unnecessary, as the boys were not in mischief, for they were only going to the field to try and catch Neddy, the donkey, who had been on the sick list nearly all the time of Fred’s visit, and had been turned out in a field some distance from the house. But now Neddy had been reported quite well for some days past, so the boys were determined upon having a ride, so as to do something towards filling up the time until after tea, when they were to go to the mill-dam bobbing for eels.
They soon reached the cedar-field, where the cob pony was grazing as well as the donkey; and as soon as the visitors entered, down went the pony’s head, and up went his heels and tail, and away he galloped as fast as he could lay his hoofs to the ground, and after him went the donkey, but only at the rate of about one hundred yards to the pony’s two.
Now the pony was not wanted, but he must needs begin setting a bad example to the donkey, telling him as plainly as one animal could tell another that he did not mean to be caught, and, as “evil communications corrupt good manners,” the donkey took the same whim into his great rough ash-grey head, and galloped after the pony as hard as he could. It was of no use to say, “come then,” or “coop—coop—coop,” for both of the four-footed beasts seemed to have an idea that they were to race and tear round the field just as long as they liked, and that they could go far better without saddle, bridle, or rider than they could with.
Seeing how much slower Neddy the donkey was than the pony, it was not very long before he was cut off from following his companion’s capers; but even then he was as far off from being caught as ever, for he dodged about and spun round, and, at last, when driven into close quarters, he tucked his tail in between his legs and kept his heels to the party attacking him, which was his very Irish fashion of facing the enemy.
“Now, Fred,” said Harry at last, “you stand quite still there; Philip, come in a little closer; and then when I give the word all walk forward together, and then we must have him. Phew! how hot it is!”
Harry, having posted his forces in the most suitable manner, then stood ready with a halter in his hand, knowing from fatigue-bought experience which way Master Neddy would rush, and meaning this time to try and lasso the rascal.
“Now, then,” said Harry, “close in.”
The three boys then slowly and cautiously walked towards the donkey, who was now hemmed up in a corner of the field; and, judging from appearances, he evidently meant to surrender at discretion. Harry held the halter all ready to slip over Neddy’s head, and in another moment he would have been captured but for the pony, who, seeing the danger of his companion, gave a loud neigh and started off full gallop across the field.
“Pitty-pat; pitty-pat; pitty-pat,” went the pony; and, as soon as Neddy heard it, down went his head, up went his heels, and away he rushed, and passed Harry like a shot. But Harry was ready for him, and cleverly threw his halter over the tiresome brute’s head. In a moment it was drawn tight, and as Harry held on to the other end he was dragged along by the donkey, until his foot tripping in the long grass, he left go of the halter, and down he went on all-fours, and then rolled over and over upon the ground; while away went Neddy full gallop to where the pony stood, and then the two provoking beasts walked right into the middle of the little corner pond, and stood in the mud and water, whisking their tails about, and seeming to enjoy finely the mischief of which they had been guilty.
“There’s a beast,” said Harry, sitting up in the grass, and chewing bits of strand. “Won’t he catch it next time I get on his back. He shall pay me for tiring me out in this way. I’ll give it him.”
“Well, what shall we do?” said Philip; “we can’t get at them in the pond.”
“Can’t you drive them out with a long whip?” said Fred.
This last idea seemed to strike Harry as being feasible, and another plan popped into his head at the same moment; so, jumping up with a “won’t-be-beaten” sort of an air about him, he appealed to Philip.
“I say, Phil, old chap, I’m so tired; do go and fetch the whip.”
“What’s the good?” said Philip; “that won’t catch them.”
“No, but we’ll leave the gate open,” said his brother, “and drive them up the field into the stable, and then we can catch them easily enough.”
“Bravo!” said Fred, clapping his hands, but not making any noise from the fact of having his handkerchief in one, having been wiping his face.
Away trotted Philip, and soon returned with a long cart-whip; and then once more the boys went to the bottom of the field, and Harry advanced with the whip in his hand towards the pond.
As for Neddy, Harry might have stood at the edge of the water and cracked the whip until his donkeyship felt disposed to come out, for not a bit did he care, knowing full well that he was out of reach, and that even if the thong could have touched him he would not have felt it through his thick grey coat; and so stock-still he stood, flapping his great ears, whisking his tail, and lazily winking his eyes. But it was different with the pony: he was a thin-skinned gentleman, and not so much of a philosopher as the ass. He, too, had often felt the whip upon his flanks, and knew the flavour, and, not being so good a judge of distance as his companion, as soon as the whip gave the first crack he made a start, and spattered out of the pond, and away up the field towards the open gate.
Stock-still stood Neddy.
“Crack!” went the whip again.
“Come out,” shouted Harry.
“Poor old fellow, then,” said Philip, soothingly.
“No, don’t coax him, Phil,” said his brother; “he don’t deserve it. Only let me get at him; that’s all.”
For a few moments, however, there did not seem to be a chance of getting “at him, that’s all;” for the donkey stood as stolidly as ever, till the pony, as he scampered up the field, gave a triumphant neigh, which roused Neddy, for he gave a frisk and a splash in the water, and then rushed out; but he did not escape quite scot-free, for Harry managed to get one crack at him with the thick end of the whip just as he galloped up the field.
Harry’s manoeuvre proved successful, for they had now only to follow the donkey up as he went straight into the stable, from whence he was soon dragged out in triumph, saddled and bridled, and with Philip mounted.
“Now, then,” shouted Harry to his brother, as soon as they returned to the field, “down to the bottom and back, and then it’s Fred’s turn.”
But Neddy would not trot; it was of no use to kick him with your heels, he would only walk, so Philip called out for a stick, and then when Neddy saw the stick coming he would not walk but would trot, so that Harry could hardly catch up to him; but when he did, and handed the weapon to his brother, the donkey no sooner felt the first touch than down went his head and up went his heels, and off went Philip on to his back in the grass.
Neddy would then have started off again, but Harry was too quick for him, and soon held the rein for his brother to remount.
“He’s too fresh,” said Harry. “Never mind; jump up, Phil, and we’ll soon take a little of his nonsense out of him.”
So away Philip trotted down to the bottom and back again, and then Fred had a turn and stuck on capitally, only when he wanted to turn to the left and come up the field again, Neddy would turn to the right and go the other way—an arrangement Fred was obliged to submit to from the fact of his whole attention being required to sit on tight, without guiding his steed.
At last Harry’s turn came, and it was some time before he could manage to mount, for Neddy was very shy of the rough hawthorn stick the lad held; and so he kept backing and pirouetting until Philip went on the opposite side with his stick, when the fidgety little scamp suffered himself to be mounted.
“Crack,” went the stick, and up went Neddy’s heels. “Crack—crack—crack,” went the stick again, and up went Neddy’s heels four, five, six times over. But the donkey had this time met with his match, and, in spite of his kicking and shuffling, Harry sat him like a hero. ’Tis true that he was bumped all sorts of ways—right and left—on to the donkey’s neck—on to his crupper, and was several times nearly off, but never quite; so that at last Neddy gave up in despair, submitted to his thrashing, and then cantered down the field and back, and afterwards allowed himself, with a very good grace, to be ridden about as long as his masters liked; for they had really proved themselves the masters that day in more senses than one.
At last Neddy was declared to have done his duty, and was set at liberty by the stable-door—a good feed of oats being awarded to him as a recompense for all he had gone through, and then the donkestrians went in to their mid-day meal, Fred feeling wonderfully improved in his ability as to riding.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Bobbing around.
In the afternoon, as they were sitting under a shady tree, eating a dessert of strawberries, Harry began to wish that it was tea-time, so as to get started for the mill-dam, about which place his whole conversation had been since Neddy had been returned to the stable.
“Oh! I do wish it was time to start,” said Harry. “I wonder how many we shall catch.”
“Oh! not many,” said Philip. “We only caught twelve last time.”
“Ah! but then see how it came on to rain, else we could have caught dozens more.”
“Suppose Dusty Bob does not get the what-d’ye-call-’ems ready!” said Fred.
“What! the bobs? Oh! he’s sure to have them ready,” said Philip. “He knows that he will get a shilling for making them, so he is sure to be there, with them all in a flower pot. Isn’t he, Harry?”
“Oh, yes!” said Harry; “he’ll have the bobs ready; he dare not do otherwise, or we should duck him in the mill-pond; shouldn’t we, Phil!”
“What a brag you are, Harry!” said Fred. “What’s the good of telling such fibs as that! Why, you wouldn’t touch him at all!”
“Well, you’ll see,” said Harry, “if the bobs are not ready.”
They soon had an opportunity of testing whether the bobs were ready or not, for an early tea was hastily partaken of, and then they set off,—Mr and Mrs Inglis having promised to come and meet them, and to help them carry home the spoils.
The boys were in too great a hurry to get down to the mill, to take any notice of the attraction they met upon the road. Harry was compelled to have one shy at the squirrel that scampered up into the chestnut tree; but with that exception not a stoppage was made, and in a very short time they came to the plank over the great ditch—the plank which replaced the one that broke when it was danced on the day that the basket of fish was lost after the visit to the fish-traps. This time, however, it was quietly crossed, and in a few minutes the figure of Dusty Bob became visible as he leaned against a post outside the mill, and smoked his pipe.
“Sarvant, young gentlemen,” said Bob, as the boys came up. “’Spected to ha’ seen yow yesterday.”
“Oh, but we have been so busy since the fire, Bob,” said Harry, and he spoke as though he really believed that they had been busy; but, if asked what they had been busy about, I think it very doubtful whether Master Harry could have given a satisfactory answer. “Never mind about that though, now,” said Harry; “where are the bobs?”
“Oh! I’ve got ’em all right,” said Bob; “but I don’t see why I couldn’t have a drop o’ beer up at t’ fire, as well as other folks.”
“Well, why didn’t you?” said Harry; “Papa had a whole barrel brought out.”
“Oh! I dunno,” said Bob; “I knows I never got none, and other folks got lots; and I says to my mate as it warn’t fair.”
“Well, but why didn’t you have some, Bob?” said Philip; “Papa meant it for everybody that had been helping.”
“I knows that,” said Bob; “but nobody asked me to have none.” And then Bob filled his pipe again, and looked very sulky as he went on smoking, for it was very evident that his dignity had been much touched over the beer business. However, he soon seemed to come to the conclusion that the lads before him were not to blame for his coming short of the needful refreshment; and, turning the lighted tobacco out of his pipe into the mill-dam, where it fell with a “ciss,” he led the way into the mill, from whence he produced three light poles and some string, and from out of a cool damp flower pot three hideous-looking looped up bunches of worms, each with a leaden weight in the centre.
“There,” said Harry, “I knew he would have them. Hooray, boys! come on.”
Bob soon tied the bunches, or bobs, of worms strung upon worsted to a string, fastened to the poles, and then posted each boy in what he considered an eligible spot on the banks of the deep mill-dam. He took Fred, as being the novice, under his own especial charge, and began to instruct him how to proceed.
“There, yow see,” said Bob, “yow lets the bob sink gently down to the bottom, and, when yow feel it touches, just draw it up a little ways till the eels sticks their teeth into it, and then pull it gently up a-top, and then out wi’ ’em in a minute.”
All this time Dusty Bob was suiting the action to the word, and showing Fred how it should be done, waiting all the while till one of the eels did stick his teeth in, which was in the course of a very few minutes, when Bob softly raised his bob to the surface, lifted it out quickly, and a fine eel dropped off into the water again.
“Never mind,” said Bob, “try again; that’s the way.”
So this time Fred tried, and let his great bait sink to the bottom, when, directly after, he felt something go “tug, tug” at it, and then again, quite sharply. At first he hardly knew what to do, but another tug made him draw the bait up to the surface, when he distinctly saw an eel leave it, giving a vicious snatch at the bait as it did so.
Just then Harry landed a fine fellow, which gave a serpentine sort of a wriggle, and regained the water in a moment.
“There, that’s the way to do it,” said Philip, who at that moment secured one. “Try again, Harry.”
But Harry was already trying again; and, profiting by past experience, had succeeded in landing two or three decent-sized eels, one after another, and secured them all. There was no stopping to bait the hook, and no disengaging the fish from the bait, for they let go of the worstedy worm as soon as they were lifted out of the water, or as soon as they could drag their teeth out of the woolly delicacy; and as to biting, they seized the bob with the greatest eagerness, for it was evident that the mill-dam swarmed with the eel tribe, now seeking their prey upon the warm summer evening—evidently a time when they loved to leave their muddy abodes.
“How many have you caught, Fred?” said Philip.
“Six,” said Fred, in a half whisper; for he had one just then at his bob.
“Why, where are they then?” said Harry.
“Oh! I caught them all,” said Fred; “but they tumbled in again.”
“There’s a goose,” said Harry; “why, you did not catch them then. Here’s another, such a big one,” he continued, as he landed one nearly as thick as his wrist. “How many have you got, Phil?”
“Only four,” said Philip, “and such little ones, I shall change places with somebody. No, I shan’t,” he continued; “there’s a beauty. Why, that’s bigger than yours, Hal.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Harry, “I’m sure; but look, Fred’s got one.”
But Fred had not, for, in spite of the many bites he obtained, not a fish could he draw out of the water; for without exception they all fell in again, he not having yet hit upon the knack of landing them, which should be done with a quick but gentle motion; for the slightest jerk makes the eel loose its hold.
“I say, how do you do it?” said Fred, at last, after missing eight or nine.
“Do what?” said Dusty Bob, coming out of the mill.
“Why, catch these nasty slippery things,” said Fred. “Every time I try to get one on the bank, he always drops off too soon, and I lose him.”
“Why, it’s easy enew,” said Bob, going up to him and taking hold of the pole. “Just drop the bait in quietly, so, and wait till yow feels ’em at it, when—there—he’s tugging away a good un at it—now look; I jist draws him up a-top, and then out he comes. There yow see, I can do it straight.”
And sure enough, Dusty Bob drew a fine silvery-looking eel to the top, and, with a turn of his wrist, landed it upon the bank.
Wriggle and twist went the eel—trying to get back into the water, and to all appearances he would soon have been there; and Dusty Bob, evidently thinking such would be the case, made an awkward jump at the wriggling fish, and jumped just upon the wet part of the bank where Fred’s bob had been out before some twenty or thirty times. Up went Bob’s heels, and the boys stared, quite aghast; for with a tremendous splash, in he went right into the deepest part of the mill-pond; when, after a few seconds, up he rose, and began to strike out for the shallow part where he could land; for the bank where he fell off was very steep, and, for about three feet, staved up with boards.
As soon as Harry saw that there was no danger, he burst out laughing, and shouted, “Now, boys, bob away, here’s such a whopper,” and began to drop his great bunch of worms just in front of Bob’s head, to the intense disgust of that worthy, and the delight of Philip and Fred; who, of course, must follow suit, and begin to tease the unfortunate miller in the same way. But Bob soon scrambled out of the water, looking very pasty, and dripping all over the bank. He did not stop to speak, but hurried into his cottage to change his things, while the boys, laughing over his mishap, returned to their bobbing.
But the eels did not seem to have approved of the visitor who had been upon their domains, and, judging from appearances, they had all bade good-bye to the place, for not another bite could either of the boys get in the mill-pool; so they had to try in the deep part of the back-water, where they met with a little better success, and between them succeeded in capturing about two dozen more; when they found that the mist was rising heavily from off the water, and various other indications pointed out that it was time to think of returning homeward.
The poles were soon placed in a corner of the mill-yard, and the basket containing the eels being carefully tied down, they next went in search of Bob; but he was not visible, and his wife came to the door to say that the young gentlemen might say anything they liked to her.
The boys placed the right interpretation upon this message, and left a shilling for Bob, which was received with a curtsey, and then the fishermen started off with a heavy basket and light hearts; but had not gone far before they met Mr and Mrs Inglis, who had come in accordance with their promise.
The moon was just rising over the trees as they came within sight of the Grange; while in the north-west, Mr Inglis pointed out a heavy bank of clouds which every now and then seemed to quiver with the flashes of sheet lightning that played about it, the evident precursors of a heavy storm. The night was sultry in the extreme, and almost oppressive in its stillness; but the boys could pay but little heed to the appearances of the weather, every thought being taken up with the eels they had captured, and the splash which Bob made when he went into the mill-dam.
The appearances of the coming weather that Mr Inglis had pointed out were, however, not deceitful; for before the boys went to bed that night, the flashes of lightning became more and more vivid; the thunder, from muttering at a distance, began to break, as it were, just over the house; and then down came the rain, almost in a sheet.
“What a pity!” said Harry, all at once, just as they were going up to bed.
“What is a pity?” said Mr Inglis.
“Why,” said Harry, “what a pity all this rain did not come when the fire was burning.”
When the boys reached their bedroom, the storm raged with such violence that sleep was out of the question; so they put the candles in one room, and all three stood at the window to watch the lightning. Every now and then the whole heavens seemed to be lit up with one vast blaze of light, which showed the outlines of all the clouds in the most dazzling manner; then came the deafening peals of thunder, while all around looked of the most intense darkness; and the rain came splashing down, beating against the windows, and rushing off the eaves in streams.
And thus it kept on for about an hour, when the storm seemed to abate, the lightning coming at longer intervals, and the thunder gradually becoming more and more distant, till at last it subsided into a low angry muttering; though the lightning still kept quivering and flashing—making everything in the bedroom appear with the greatest distinctness.
“Well,” said Harry at last, “I’ve had enough storm, and I’m going to bed; so out you go, Mr Fred, into your own room.”
Mr Fred was too tired and sleepy to enter into any fun that night, so he sleepily went into his own place; and before the thunder had ceased muttering in the distance, the boys were all soundly asleep, breathing heavily the soft cool air—rendered so fresh and pure by the late storm, and so plainly perceptible in its difference from the heavy oppressive atmosphere of the early evening.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
Loud Sighs.—More Sorrow.
Fred’s visit was now drawing fast to a close, and the boys among themselves were comparing notes as to how wonderfully swift the days had glided away.
“Oh, dear; oh, dear,” said Harry, with a sigh; “only think, next week we shall be back at school, and learning that beastly old Latin again; a nasty dirty old dead language. It isn’t right: if a language is dead, it ought to be buried. They ought to make a cavibus in terribus, and bury the old blunderbuss. Shouldn’t I like to have smothered old Valpy!”
“Ah,” said Philip; “Latin isn’t half so bad as that old Euclid, with all its straight lines, and angles, and bother. Heigho! wouldn’t it be nice to be a bird, and not have any lessons to learn! I should like to be an eagle, to circle up and up towards the sun, and—”
“Ho—ho—ho!” laughed Harry, who was not at all a poetical young gentleman; “you wouldn’t do for an eagle; if you turned into a bird, like that chap in ‘Evenings at Home,’ you’d be only an old cocksparrow, and cry ‘chizzywick, chizzywick,’ all day long.”
Hereupon Philip thought it was his duty to resent this great insult, and gave chase to Harry, who dodged him about in the field where they were; and the tormentor, being the more nimble of the two, escaped his well-merited punishment.
“Come, I say,” said Fred, shouting as loudly as he could, “it’s time to start. The car has gone round to the door.”
This announcement brought Fred’s cousins tearing up to the spot where he stood, and then, going round to the front, they found Mr Inglis with what few things he required, just giving orders to Sam to go and look for the boys.
“Oh! here they are,” said Mr Inglis. “Come, lads, jump up; you are just in time. What would you have said if I had gone without you?”
“We weren’t afraid of that,” said Harry; “were we, boys? I know Papa wouldn’t say he’d take us, and then leave us behind.”
They were off once more to the sea-side, but this time for the afternoon only. The day was a regular scorcher, and the poor horse began to show symptoms of the heat, in spite of the careful driving of Mr Inglis; and a regular cloud of flies about his head so teased it, keeping regularly on at the same pace as the horse, whether a walk or a trot, that Mr Inglis was at last compelled to stop and let Harry cut a couple of little elm branches, and fix them in the harness, so that, by their constant vibration and shaking, they might keep the tiresome insect pests at a distance. But the travellers soon began to find that they ought to have boughs secured to their own heads, for the flies, disappointed of their feast upon the horse, turned their attention to the party in the dog-cart, and, until they were quite clear of the wooded part of the country, bothered them terribly.
The day was so hot that the whole atmosphere seemed to tremble and quiver, while everything else was motionless. Not a breath of air was stirring to wave the grass or to ruffle the surface of the great land-drains, whose waters shone like molten silver; while the road was powdered into an almost impalpable dust, which rose in clouds as the horse’s hoofs beat and the wheels spun over its arid surface.
At last, however, as they neared the sea-bank, a soft and cooling breeze began to fan the travellers’ cheeks; the horse tossed his head and snuffed the air, as though delighted with the grateful sensation it imparted; and at the end of another quarter of an hour the car wheels were sinking deep in the dry sandy road which led up to the inn, where they were going on this occasion to leave the horse, as this afternoon’s trip was only for a quiet ramble by the sea to collect a few stranded sea-weeds and shells.
When they reached the shore, they found the tide coming in, while the sands were as level and smooth on the elevated parts as a table, though, in the lower, beautifully and regularly traced all over with the little ripple-marks left by the sea when the tide is going out upon a calm day. There was no difficulty about gathering specimens, for the gentle waves landed plenty of beautiful weeds at their feet, while many shells and prettily-marked pebbles lay about the sands.
“Oh! how hot,” said Harry; “shouldn’t I like a dip! I say, Papa, mayn’t we have a bathe?”
“Oh! yes, Papa, do let us,” said Philip; “it would be beautiful. I should like to go in so much.”
Fred was as anxious to have a dip as his cousins; and as the tide was coming in, and the water as smooth as possible, Mr Inglis gave his consent, and stopped upon the sands while the boys all jumped into the bathing-machine; and the old horse being fastened to it, they were dragged a short distance into the water, and there left. They soon had the door opened, and then one at a time made their appearance in the sea, where they swam about to their hearts’ content; of course, Harry and Philip performing all the swimming, and Fred the splashing. And delightful was that bathe, for the sun shone so warmly that the water felt quite tepid, and there was no disposition to shiver or feel cold, but every little wave that rolled in seemed to be laden with freshness and vigour. The boys enjoyed their dip so much that Mr Inglis had to call them out, or they would have stopped in for an hour. But he had them out when they had been in about twenty minutes; and as soon as they were dressed, the collecting of specimens went on. At the mouth of one little inlet they found a dead puffin—a singular little bird that makes its home on the rocky shores further north, and remarkable for its curious wedge-shaped bill, looking like the point of an old Roman sword, and to all appearance a rather formidable weapon. There were plenty of gulls and kittywakes running about at the edge of the waves, picking up the little insects and small crustaceans that abounded upon the sands. Fred here made further acquaintance with the little hermit crab, and saw how it protected itself, and chose its habitation from amongst the empty shells upon the beach; and when it had found one that it considered a good fit, thrust in its little tail, and dwelt there until it grew too confined for it.
Numberless were the objects of interest to be seen all along the coast, and pleasant was the ramble the party enjoyed until it grew towards the hour for returning, when they walked back to the opening in the sand-bank, so as to reach the inn and get the horse and car ready for starting. The tide was now nearly at its height, and a brisk evening breeze had commenced blowing, so that, as the tide rolled in, the breakers began to be of a tolerable size. There were several people, old and young, enjoying an evening bath; and, after ordering the car to be got ready, Mr Inglis and the boys strolled back and watched the waves come tumbling in upon the beach or rush up the opening that led into the great land-drain—an opening that was staked on each side in the shape of a cage-work tunnel, and ran down for some distance into the sea on the one hand, and right under the great sea-bank on the other.
Just as the party were turning to leave the shore, a piercing cry rose from off the water, and then another, and another, evidently proceeding from some one in distress.
A moment’s glance served to show Mr Inglis that the cry proceeded from one of the bathers, and, in company with many more people, he ran down to the water’s edge, when he could see that a boy was battling with the waves, his head just above water, and crying for help in the most heartrending tones. People were running about wringing their hands, while those who had been bathing were huddling on their clothes, and others, again, had gone to seek for a boat; but it was very plain that, if assistance were not immediately rendered, the boy would be drowned.
“Is there no one here that can swim?” said Mr Inglis. “A sovereign to the man who fetches the poor fellow in.”
But only one person came forward, and that was Harry, who began to strip off his jacket and shoes ready for the plunge.
“Back! you foolish boy; you have not strength,” said Mr Inglis; and then, without waiting to make a further appeal for aid, he stripped off his coat, and dashing through the waves was soon swimming towards where the boy was still shrieking loudly, but in a fainter tone, for help; for every now and then the waves washed over his head, which seemed to get lower in the water every moment.
Mr Inglis was a powerful swimmer, and clove swiftly through the water in spite of his clothes, which clung to him and bore him down. In a very short space he was by the side of the drowning boy, who clutched at him, and would have no doubt put him in great peril but for an effort which he made to get behind. He then grasped the boy by the hair, and turned to swim ashore; but to his horror he found that the poor fellow was caught in some way in the piles of the outlet, and, in spite of every effort, Mr Inglis could not set him free: he essayed to dive, but the tide ran so strongly that he was unable to effect his object; he dragged the poor fellow backwards and forwards, and tried to reach beneath the waves at the obstruction, but without success; and, as a last resource, tried to keep the poor boy’s head above water until assistance arrived; but this even he found impossible, for the tide had so risen that it now covered him completely with every wave that washed in. Mr Inglis made one more desperate effort to free the poor fellow, but without success; and then, feeling his power failing, he turned to reach the shore, just as Harry swam up to beg of him to come back, for he was fearful lest his father should be too fatigued to return. And it was time he did return, for it required all his strength to reach the shore, where he arrived just as a boat was launched, and four men put off to try and save the poor boy.
Mr Inglis and Harry hurried into the inn, where they borrowed dry clothes, and when dressed they heard the mournful news that the body had not been recovered, for the men could not even find the place from the fact of the rapid rise of the tide. But Mr Inglis felt now how hopeless was the case, even if the poor lad’s remains were found; and heart-sick, he hurried down to the car, and drove rapidly off homewards, the sad incident they had witnessed having deeply impressed them all, and brought strongly to their recollection the misfortune that so nearly fell upon their own home but a short time back.
The journey was soon performed, and in almost perfect silence; for, in addition to the natural fatigue felt by the party, the past adventure hung like a cloud over their spirits till they reached the rose-hung porch just in the dusk of evening.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Good-Bye.
At last the morning dawned that was to be Fred’s last at Hollowdell Grange, and sadly and gloomily he had proceeded overnight to pack up his things in the box he had brought down with him, merely leaving out such articles as were required for immediate use. A month had slipped away so swiftly, that it seemed almost impossible that such a space could have elapsed since that hot, breathless day, when, so new and strange, he had met his cousins upon the platform, after asking Jem Barnes, the porter, to direct him to his uncle’s house. So strange, and so rough and countryfied everything had appeared; and so low, dejected, and tired had he felt when he first left the train; how he had wished himself back in town! And now, how different he felt; he was as low-spirited as when he first came down, but it was with the idea of going away. All those upon whom he had at first looked with distant eyes, now seemed so dear to him. There were his uncle and aunt; his cousins; there was Old Sam; Dusty Bob, the maids; Dick, the dog; and even the raven and parrot: he was mournful at parting with all of them, and would have given anything to have stayed, if only for another day. And now he stood in his little bedroom, looking around it, almost with tears in his eyes, as he slowly dressed himself, and placed the remainder of his things in his box.
He had just finished, and was sitting moodily upon the box-lid, when Harry and Philip entered the room, both looking as dull and miserable as himself.
“Oh! dear,” said Harry, “what a thing it is that holidays will go so jolly fast, and work-days so horribly slow! It ain’t fair. Don’t I wish that they were all to come over again; there’s lots of things we have not done yet, and lots of places where we ought to have gone.”
“When are you coming down again, Fred?” said Philip.
“I don’t know,” said Fred; “I don’t want to go away. I should like to see Papa and Mamma, but I’d rather they came down here. I shall never never like old bricks-and-mortary London again. It will be so smoky, and noisy, and nasty, and miserable. Oh! I do wish I could stop.”
“But you used to say that you could not think how people could live in the country, and would not believe that we could find plenty of fun down here,” said Harry.
Fred would not hear this last remark, but sat moodily upon his box till breakfast time; and his cousins stayed with him—Harry all the time cutting viciously at a bit of stick with his keen-edged knife, and strewing the bedroom carpet with chips. The sun shone brighter, the sky looked more blue, and the trees greener than ever; but the boys could not enjoy that glorious morning; there was no elasticity of spirit, no bounding out into the garden; no teasing of poor old Sam; no race round the cedar-field before breakfast, for Fred sat on his box, gloomy and out of heart, Philip sat with his legs stretched out and his hands in his pockets, and Harry sat and carved away at his stick, until he was obliged to get up,—which he did with a sigh,—and go down stairs to get a fresh piece of wood.
Just then the breakfast bell rang, and Mary walked along the passage with the hot cake and eggs; but no one ran against her, for the boys tidied slowly into the room, and took their places at the table in the most dejected way imaginable. Fred could not eat; Philip could not eat; Harry could; but he ate viciously, and in a tigerish manner, and smashed in the top of his egg as though it had been the head of the engine-driver who was to take Fred up to London; while as for coffee, he kept asking for cups until Mrs Inglis refused to give him any more, when the wretched boy consoled himself with another wedge of cake.
“Come, boys; come, boys,” said Mr Inglis at last; “this will never do; partings must follow meetings, and all holidays must have an end. I am sorry that your cousin must leave you; but I feel glad to see that he leaves us with regret, for that seems to say that he has enjoyed his trip. Is it not so, Fred? You have enjoyed your visit, I hope?”
“Oh! so much, Uncle,” said Fred; “only it has been such a short one, and it makes me so cross to think that I didn’t want to come.”
Mr Inglis smiled, and said, “But you will want to come another time, I hope?”
“Oh! may I? may I come again?” burst out Fred, with eyes sparkling, and half rising from his chair.
“I shall be only too happy to see you again, my boy; but what say Harry and Philip. Have they asked you to come again?”
“We did not ask him,” said Philip; “but Fred knows we want him to come again.”
“I don’t want him to go now,” said Harry, with his mouth full of cake. “Do, Papa, write and ask for another week’s holiday for him!”
“But you go back to school yourselves the day after to-morrow,” said Mr Inglis; “and what would you do then? No, my boys, depend upon it the real secret of enjoyment is to leave off when you have had enough; and nothing is more surfeiting, more cloying, than too much pleasure. Fred must come down again; and I hope the next time he visits us we shall not nearly have him drowned. I fear that he will take a sad report of us all back with him to town.”
Fred was very anxious to go away good friends with everybody, and would have liked very much to have shaken hands with Mr Jones, Bill Jenkins, and the Stapleses; but this could not very well be managed, for Mr Jones had left for the sea-side, and Bill Jenkins had gone to a situation. However, Fred bade farewell to everybody he could think of, and left messages for those he could not see; and at last the time of starting arrived, and Old Sam brought the pony and chaise round to the door.
The box was lifted in; and the little hamper filled with fruit, and the large bandbox full of curiosities that Fred had collected, all found a place by the departing visitor. The morning was brighter than ever, and everything around him looked so fresh and lovely, that a great sob would keep trying to get up into poor Fred’s throat to make a noise, and the efforts he made to keep it down quite upset him. He gave such a longing farewell look up at the front of the house, and round at the garden, then kissed Mrs Inglis, and shook hands with Sam, who returned the grasp warmly, and said in a whisper about the greatest thing he could say, and that was that he wished he “warn’t a-going.”
Harry and Philip were in the dickey of the four-wheel chaise, both sitting in very uncomfortable positions on account of Fred’s luggage; but I very much doubt whether they ever thought of their position, so engrossed were they with the one sole idea—that Fred was going, and the holidays were over. But Mr Inglis had now taken the reins from Sam, and had mounted to his seat; so that nothing remained but for Fred to follow his example, for the train would soon be due at the station—though the boys were rather in hopes that they would be too late, and so secure another day; but Mr Inglis knew what uneasiness this would cause to friends in town, so he prepared to start at once.
Fred put one foot on the step, and was just going to wave his adieu, when a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and leaping down, he rushed round by the shrubbery in the direction of the stable-yard and was out of sight in a moment. But before any one could surmise where he had gone, he reappeared, and a loud rattling of chain, and the barking of Dick, told that he had been to say good-bye to the dog. Fred was in his place in a moment; Sam let go of the pony’s head; Mrs Inglis waved her hand from the porch; and Cook and Mary shook their aprons from one of the upstairs windows; the pony darted forward, the wheels spun round, and Fred felt that indeed his holiday was ended. But the bright day and the quick motion through the air served in some degree to raise the spirits of all three boys, so that, by the time they reached the railway, the excitement and bustle of hurrying Fred off gave them no time to think of sorrow; for the train came shrieking and grinding into the station; Jem Barnes was running about shouting “’ll’dell,” “’ll’dell,” “’ll’dell,” as loudly as he could, but not a passenger responded; though a stranger would have been sadly puzzled to know what he meant. Then there was the banging of a door; the ringing of a bell; a shrill chirruping whistle; and then “puff-puff,” “pant-pant,” the train glided slowly past the faces of Mr Inglis, Harry, and Philip; then faster and faster past the various objects familiar to the young traveller; and then again faster and faster still, till at last all grew stranger and stranger, and Fred Morris sank back in his seat, thought over the events of the past month, and began to thoroughly realise the truth that he had finished his visit to Hollowdell Grange.