Personal Reminiscences In Book Making, And Some Short Stories Part 8

"'Oh,' says he. 'Look 'ere, my man, what d'ee call that there tree?'

He p'inted to one close alongside.

"'That?' says I. 'Well, it--it looks uncommon like a happle.'

"'Do it?' says he. 'Now look 'ere, you be off as fast as your legs can take you, or I'll set the 'ousedog at 'ee.'

"W'en he said that, Bill, I do a.s.sure you, lad, that my experience in the ring seemed to fly into my knuckles, an' it was as much as ever I could do to keep my left off his n.o.b and my right out of his breadbasket. But I restrained myself. If there's one thing I'm proud of, Bill, it's the wirtue o' self-restraint in the way o' business. I wheeled about, held up my nose, an' walked off wi' the air of a dook.

You see, I didn't want for to have no more words wi' the gardener,--for why? because I'd seen all I wanted to see--d'ee see? But there was one--no, two--things I saw which it was as well I did see."

"An' what was they?" asked Bill.

"Two statters."

"An' what are statters?"

"Man alive I don't ye know? It's them things that they make out o'

stone, an' marable, an' chalk--sometimes men, sometimes women, sometimes babbies, an' mostly with no clo'es on to speak of--"

"Oh! I know; but _I_ call 'em statoos. Fire away, d.i.c.k; what see'd you about the statoos?"

"Why, I see'd that they wasn't made in the usual way of stone or chalk, but of iron. I have heerd say that sodgers long ago used to fight in them sort o' dresses, though I don't believe it myself. Anyhow, there they was, the two of 'em, one on each side of the winder, that stiff that they could stand without n.o.body inside of 'em, an' one of 'em with a big thing on his shoulder, as if he wor ready to smash somebody over the head. I thought to myself if you an' me, Bill, had come on 'em unbeknown like, we'd ha' got such a start as might have caused us to make a noise. But I hadn't time to think much, for it was just then I got sight o' the gardener."

"Now my plan is," continued d.i.c.k, swigging off his beer, and lowering his voice to a still more confidential tone, as he looked cautiously round, "my plan is to hang about here till dark, then take to the nearest plantation, an' wait till the moon goes down, which will be about two o'clock i' the mornin'--when it will be about time for us to go in and win."

"All right," said Bill, who was not loquacious.

But Bill was mistaken, for it was all wrong.

There was indeed no one in the public at that early hour of the day to overhear the muttered conversation of the plotters, and the box in which they sat was too remote from the bar to permit of their words being overheard, but there was a broken pane of gla.s.s in a window at their elbow, with a seat outside immediately below it. Just before the burglars entered the house they had observed this seat, and noticed that no one was on it; but they failed to note that a small, sleepy-headed pot-boy lay at full length underneath it, basking in the sunshine and meditating on nothing--that is, nothing in particular.

At first little Pat paid no attention to the monotonous voices that growled softly over his head, but one or two words that he caught induced him to open his eyes very wide, rise softly from his lair and sit down on the seat, c.o.c.k one ear intelligently upward, and remain so absolutely motionless that d.i.c.k, had he seen him, might have mistaken him for a very perfect human "statter."

When little Pat thought that he had heard enough, he slid off the seat, crawled close along the side of the house, doubled round the corner, rose up, and ran off towards the parsonage as fast as his little legs could go.

The Reverend Theophilus Stronghand was a younger son of a family so old that those families which "came over with the Conqueror" were mere moderns in comparison. Its origin, indeed, is lost in those mists of antiquity which have already swallowed up so many millions of the human race, and seem destined to go on swallowing, with ever-increasing appet.i.te, to the end of time. The Stronghands were great warriors--of course. They could hardly have developed into a family otherwise. The Reverend Theophilus, however, was a man of peace. We do not say this to his disparagement. He was by no means a degenerate son of the family.

Physically he was powerful, broad and tall, and his courage was high; but spiritually he was gentle, and in manner urbane. He drew to the church as naturally as a duck draws to the water, and did not by any means grudge to his elder brothers the army, the navy, and the Bar.

One of his pet theories was, to overcome by love, and he carried this theory into practice with considerable success.

Perhaps no one put this theory to the test more severely or frequently than his only son Harry. War had been that young gentleman's chief joy in life from the cradle. He began by shaking his fat fists at the Universe in general. War-to-the-knife with nurse was the chronic condition of a stormy childhood. Intermittent warfare with his only sister Emmie chequered the sky of his early boyhood, and a decided tendency to disobey wrung the soul of his poor mother, and was the cause of no little anxiety to his father; while mischief, pure and simple for its own sake, was the cherished object of his life. Nevertheless, Harry Stronghand was a lovable boy, and love was the only power that could sway him.

The lad grew better as he grew older. Love began to gain the day, and peace began--slowly at first--to descend on the parsonage; but the desire for mischief--which the boy named "fun"--had not been quite dislodged at the time we write of. As Harry had reached the age of fifteen, feared nothing, and was quick-witted and ingenious, his occasional devices not only got him into frequent hot water, but were the source of some amus.e.m.e.nt to his people--and he still pretty well ruled his easy-going father and the house generally with a rod of iron.

It was to Harry Stronghand that little Pat directed his steps, after overhearing the conversation which we have related. Pat knew that the son of the parsonage was a hero, and, in his opinion, the most intelligent member of the family, and the best fitted to cope with the facts which he had to reveal. He met the object of his search on the road.

"Plaze yer honour," said Pat--who was an Irishman, and therefore "honoured" everybody--"there's two tramps at the public as is plottin'

to break into your house i' the mornin'."

"You don't mean it, do you?" returned Harry, with a smile and raised eyebrows.

"That's just what I do, yer honour. I heard 'em reel off the whole plan."

Hereupon the boy related all that he knew to the youth, who leaned against a gate and nodded his curly head approvingly until the story was finished.

"You've not mentioned this to any one, have you, Pat?"

"Niver a sowl but yersilf, sir."

"You're a sensible boy, Pat. Here's a shilling for you--and, look here, Pat, if you keep dark upon the matter till after breakfast to-morrow and don't open your lips to a living soul about it, I'll give you half a crown."

"Thank yer honour."

"Now mind--no hints to the police; no remarks to your master. Be dumb, in fact, from this moment, else I won't give you a penny."

"Sure I've forgot all about it already, sir," said the boy, with a wink so expressive that Harry felt his word to be as good as his bond, and went back to the parsonage laughing.

Arrived there, he went in search of his sister, but found that she was out.

"Just as well," he muttered, descending to the dining-room with his hands deep in his pockets, a pleased expression on his handsome mouth, and a stern frown on his brows. "It would not be safe to make a confidant of her in so delicate a matter. No, I'll do it all alone.

But how to do it? That is the question. Shall I invite the aid of the police? Perish the thought! Shall I consult the Pater? Better not.

The dear, self-devoted man might take it out of my hands altogether."

Harry paused in profound meditation. He was standing near the window at the time, with the "statters" on either hand of him.

They were complete suits of armour--one representing a knight in plate armour, the other a Crusader in chain-mail. Both had been in the family since two of the Stronghand warriors had followed Richard of the Lion Heart to the East. As the eldest brother of the Reverend Theophilus was in India, the second was on the deep, and the lawyer was dead, the iron sh.e.l.ls of the ancient warriors had naturally found a resting-place in the parsonage, along with several family portraits, which seemed to show that the males of the race were p.r.o.ne to look very stern, and to stand in the neighbourhood of pillars and red curtains in very dark weather, while the females were addicted to old lace, scant clothing, and benign smiles. One of the warriors stood contemplatively leaning on his sword.

The other rested a heavy mace on his shoulder, as if he still retained a faint hope that something might turn up to justify his striking yet one more blow.

"What would you advise, old man?" said Harry, glancing up at the Crusader with the mace.

The question was put gravely, for, ever since he could walk or do anything, the boy had amused himself by putting free-and-easy questions to the suits of armour, or defying them to mortal combat. As he was true to ancient friendships, he had acquired the habit of giving the warriors an occasional nod or word of recognition long after he had ceased to play with them.

"Shades of my ancestors!" exclaimed Harry with sudden animation, gazing earnestly at the Crusader on his right, "the very thing! I'll do it."

That evening, after tea, he went to his father's study.

"May I sit up in the dining-room to-night, father, till two in the morning?"

"Well, it will puzzle you to do that to-night, my son; but you may if you have a good reason."

"My reason is that I have a problem--a very curious problem--to work out, and as I positively shan't be able to sleep until I've done it, I may just as well sit up as not."

"Do as you please, Harry; I shall probably be up till that hour myself-- if not later--for unexpected calls on my time have prevented the preparation of a sermon about which I have had much anxious thought of late."

"Indeed, father!" remarked the son, in a sympathetic tone, on observing that the Reverend Theophilus pa.s.sed his hand somewhat wearily over his brow. "What may be your text?"

"'Be gentle, showing meekness to all men,'" answered the worthy man, with an abstracted faraway look, as if he were wrestling in antic.i.p.ation with the seventh head.

"Well, good-night, father, and please don't think it necessary to come in upon me to see how I am getting on. I never can work out a difficult problem if there is a chance of interruption."