Chatterbox, 1906 Part 102

'Remorse? Does that mean the man is sorry? Are you sorry for something you have done? Oh, Jack, if you are sorry, Aunt Betty told me once that was all that was wanted. Everybody forgives any one who is sorry.'

'I am not so very sure of that, Missie; but, in this case, there is no question of forgiveness. There is no one to ask it of, for one thing; and if there were, there are some things which can never be forgiven or forgotten.'

'Are there?' murmured Estelle, a little bewildered.

'How should you know--an innocent child like you?' returned Jack, shrinking into himself as if at some terrible recollection.

There was a long pause, while both sat thinking.

'Listen,' went on Estelle, at last. 'I will tell you a story. It is quite true, for I know the man. He is the son of our head gardener. He is a cross old man, and he is often not very nice to us children. But Aunt Betty wanted to make us more patient with him; so she told us what sorrows he had had. They have made _him_ rather grumpy, but his son is _very_ different. The story is all about a great wrong done to that son, and how he forgave it.'

She related the history of d.i.c.k Feet almost in the words in which her aunt had told it to the children on the lawn that August afternoon.

Jack, listening but carelessly at first, gradually found an interest in it which touched him keenly, but he would not have interrupted the child for worlds. Not a word would he lose. It was so strangely like a story he knew only too well!

'And the grand part was,' wound up the little girl, her earnest eyes on Jack's anxious face, 'the grand part was that he never mentioned the name of the man who did it--not even his father and mother know who it was. He begged them not to mention it if he had by any chance let it out in his illness. But he never had. No one in all the whole world knows but d.i.c.k himself.'

'Was his name d.i.c.k, too?' muttered Jack to himself.

'Yes,' answered Estelle, who had heard the low murmur, 'his name is Richard Peet.'

'What?' cried Jack, almost starting to his feet in his excitement. 'Is d.i.c.k Peet alive?'

(_Continued on page 342._)

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'What! Is d.i.c.k Peet alive?'"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: "My partner being the lamp-post!"]

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

By Harold Ericson.

VII.-AT THE ICE-HILLS.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Does Bobby think he is the only one who can tell stories connected with snow and ice?' said Denison, one evening; 'I, too, have been in high lat.i.tudes. Have you ever enjoyed the experience of going down the ice-hills at St. Petersburg, Bobby?'

'Rather,' replied Bobby, gazing into the fire. He smiled as he gazed; the recollection seemed to be pleasant. 'I am still giddy when I think of it,' he ended.

'Well, perhaps Vandeleur has not tried it. It's a kind of artificial tobogganing, you know; they build up a wooden erection with a flight of stairs behind, a platform at the top, and a steep slope covered with slabs of ice going down from it, and leading straight into a level road of ice some eight feet in width and a quarter of a mile in length; at the end is a similar erection pointing back in the opposite direction, the two ice runs or roads being side by side, and each ending at the foot of the stairs leading to the other, so that after a fellow has flashed down the first hill upon the little iron sledge, comfortably cushioned, and darted like lightning to the end of the first run, he only has to have his sledge carried up to the top of the second hill by the servants employed for the purpose, and start upon the return journey, and so _ad infinitum_. One learns how to do it after a bit, and I suppose there is no more delicious sensation on earth than that rush down and skim along the level--when once you _have_ learned the art; but, my goodness! one's feelings at the first attempt--eh, Bobby?'

Bobby burst into laughter.

'It is like trying to be an amateur catherine-wheel,' he remarked; 'and you see plenty of sparks!'

Ralph continued: I was asked to an 'ice-hill party' while I was in St.

Petersburg some years ago. I have always wondered, since, whether the rascally British residents out there give their ice-hill parties only when there is a beginner about; certainly the poor wretch must be one of the main attractions; there was another visitor besides myself, I remember, that night, and I really don't think I ever laughed quite so much in my life as I did when he made his first few descents. We were quits, of course, for my antics were just as ridiculous to him. At these parties there are generally a few skilful exponents, who show off fancy ways of going down, and so easy does the thing appear when demonstrated by them, that the beginner is not greatly alarmed by the prospect before him.

The platform at the top of the hill is roofed and walled round, and has room for seats for spectators. There is something hot for them to drink, and I should say that when there are beginners about, these spectators must spend a remarkably pleasant evening, for the hot drinks and the exercise of laughing over the misfortunes of innocent strangers serve excellently to keep the cold out, and the scene is really extremely pretty. The 'runs' are outlined by rows of Chinese lanterns hung upon slender posts; they must not be too thick because of the limbs of the beginners, which are likely to make very intimate acquaintance with them, and even beginners must be treated with a certain amount of consideration. There are a few snow-covered trees showing like ghosts, here and there, in the semi-darkness, and all the snow which has fallen during the season upon the ice-runs is swept to either side, and left in a continuous heap or bank all along. This, too, is an arrangement made to let down the beginner easily.

They took me, with my fellow-victim, to the top of the hill, and placed us in seats upon the platform; they spoke bracingly and gave us good advice; they described the delight of the experience before us--the fascination of flying through the air, bird-like; some one said it was 'the very poetry of motion'; no one mentioned that there was much prose to be gone through before one could hope to become one of the poets of motion.

'Let's see how it's done,' said my fellow-victim, a man called Watson, 'and then I will have a shot.'

I congratulated myself that Watson intended to try the thing before me, but I congratulated myself too soon. The skilled exponent, selected to deceive us by demonstrating how easily and safely the descent might be made, now took his little sledge and placed it upon the large square ice-slab at the top of the hill. He lay down upon it, on his waistcoat, his head stretching a little way in front, his legs a long way behind.

Upon his hands were huge leather fingerless gloves, for purposes of steering, 'You touch the ice gently on the side towards which you want to go,' he explained. 'Now, watch--there is no difficulty, and you cannot hurt yourself.'

He allowed himself to slip over the edge. Straight as an arrow his little sledge darted down the slope; no bird could have flown quicker or straighter; he reached the level ice-run and fled meteor-like along it; almost before one realised that he had well started upon his course, he had reached the end of it. In two minutes he was on his return journey; down the second hill he flashed, in a moment he was at our side--it was wonderful!

One or two other exponents went through the same performance; there was no suggestion of danger or of possible disaster; one simply flew upon the wings of the wind--that was the impression given by these skilled deceivers.

'I'll toss you, Denison, who goes first,' said Watson.

We tossed, and, of course, I lost. I always do on these occasions.

'Your shot first, then,' said Watson, and I prepared myself for execution. The fact that every one of the thirty guests present now quickly crowded round the ice-slab, which was, as it were, the perch from which one sprang off into s.p.a.ce, struck me as grimly suggestive.

'What happens if one hits a lantern-post?' I asked.

'Oh, they come down,' I was told. 'They can't hurt you; they are very slender and only stuck lightly in the snow.'

'Steer very gently,' said some one; 'it's best to touch the ice as little as possible.'

'Keep your head, that's the chief thing,' said another adviser.

'You have got your ticket, haven't you?' remarked a humorist. 'Don't give it up till you reach the end of the journey.'

Then they put me straight and tipped me over, and for about ten yards I travelled, by favour of a good start, without incident. The sensation of tipping over the edge was indescribable; I don't know exactly what my heart did, but it was evidently highly surprised and disgusted, and probably thought I had insanely jumped over a cliff; I think it stopped beating; I felt, for a moment, sick and giddy; I shut my eyes for that instant.

'Steer to the right!' a deep voice roared from the top of the hill.

Instinctively I obeyed. Instantly my sledge, as though animated by the desire to look over the wooden parapet which ran, a couple of feet high, along the slope, jogged and jumped, then turned round, and, with the small amount of intelligence left in my brain, I became aware that I was whizzing along backwards. I tried to think of instructions received, but utterly failed; I endeavoured to keep cool. Where was I? I banged against something, and the sledge twisted round again; it did its best to run along sideways for awhile, like a crab; it b.u.t.ted me against a tree and got itself straight again; then it seemed to take the bit in its teeth, and, as if determining to get rid of me somehow, steered a bee-line for a Chinese-lantern post at a distance of thirty yards. I plunged my hand down, determined to defeat its malicious design, and instantly the little vehicle began to whizz round and round like a fire-work at the Crystal Palace. This was the beginning of the end; the next moment something 'took me in the waistcoat,' and I found myself waltzing in a sitting posture on the ice, my partner being the lamp-post, the lantern attached to it swinging wildly. Where was the sledge? The sound of hoa.r.s.e laughter from the top of the hill was in my ears; the waltz ended in darkness and silence; where was I?

It was only a deep bank of snow, of course, and I was soon in the air once more. I did not know where to look for my sledge--I did not try. I did not, at the moment, feel well enough disposed towards it to care what had become of it. Some one fetched it.

I was received at the top of the hill with kind and encouraging words, intended, of course, to hearten me to provide a second entertainment.

This I did, presently, but first I was resolved to be even with Watson.

'Your turn, old chap,' I said.

Watson looked at me with an expression of despair which was pathetic.