The Cruise of the Land-Yacht "Wanderer" Part 46

I make a point of mingling in a kindly way of an evening with the villagers at the inns where my horses are stabled. I get much amus.e.m.e.nt sometimes by so doing. I meet many queer characters, hear many a strange story, and last but not least get well-ventilated opinions as to the best and nearest roads.

A caravannist must not be above talking to all kinds and conditions of men. If he has pride he must keep it in a bucket under the caravan.

Never if possible get--

Belated.

If you do, you are liable to accidents of all kinds. I have been run into more than once at night by recklessly-driving tipsy folks.

Certainly it only slightly shook my great caravan, but capsized the dogcart.

While on the Road.

While on the road, your coachman will for the horses' sakes keep on the best parts. Make room, however, wherever possible for faster vehicles that want to pa.s.s you. But whenever the drivers of them are insolent I laugh and let them wait; they dare not "ram" me. Ramming would not affect the Wanderer in the slightest, but would be rough on the rammer.

Stabling.

Stable your horses every night. Never think of turning them out. The horses are your moving power, and you cannot take too much care of them.

See then that they are carefully groomed and fed, and stand pastern-deep in dry straw.

Civility.

This is a cheap article. Be civil to everyone, and you will have civility in return.

The Price of Stabling.

Make it a rule, as I do, to know exactly what you have to pay for your horses' accommodation. You will thus have no words in the morning, you will part in friendship with the landlord, who will be glad to see you when you return, while the ostler's good word can be bought cheaply enough.

Water.

Drink nothing but what has pa.s.sed through the filter. I use one from the Silicated Carbon Company, and find it excellent.

Dangers of the Road.

These are nominal, and need hardly be mentioned. I carry a revolver which I seldom load; I have shutters that I seldom put up; and I often sleep with an open door. But I have a faithful dog. My most painful experience on the road this year I sent an account of to the _Pall Mall_ under the t.i.tle of "A Terrible Telegram."

"A few claret corks and an empty 'turkey and tongue' tin--nothing else will be left to mark the spot where the Wanderer lay." My friend Townesend gazed on the gra.s.s as he spoke, and there was a look of sadness in his face, which, actor though he be, I feel sure was not a.s.sumed. He had come to see the last of me and my caravan--the last for a time, at all events--to bid me good-bye and see me start. Parting is sweet sorrow, and I had spent a most enjoyable week at that delightful, quiet, wee watering-place, Filey, Yorkshire. I had lazed and written, I had lounged and read; my very soul felt steeped in a dreamy glamour as pleasant as moonshine on the sea; I had enjoyed the _dolee far niente_, book in hand, among the wild thyme on the sunny cliffs of Guisthorpe; for me, blades of dulse--the esculent and delicious _rhodamenia palmata_--culled wet from the waves that lapped and lisped among the Brigg's dark boulders, had been veritable lotus leaves, and, reclining by the mouth of a cave, I could readily believe in fairies and sea nymphs--ay, and mermaids as well. No letters to write, no bills to pay, no waiters to tip--for is not the Wanderer my hotel upon wheels?--and no lodging-house cat,--surely one would think a gentleman gipsy's life leaves little to be desired. And truly speaking, apart from that "terrible hill" which, day after day, seems ever on ahead of us, but which we always manage to surmount, caravanning in summer has but few drawbacks. So perfectly free and easy, so out-and-out happy is one's existence when so engaged, that he actually cares as little for the great current events of the day, or for the rise and fall of governments, as the whistling ploughboy does about the storms that rage in mid-Atlantic. Why then should that wretched little fraud, that so-called boon to the public, the sixpenny telegram, burst like a thunderstorm around my head, and tear my peace and joy to rags?

Listen, reader, and I already feel sore of your indulgence and sympathy.

We left Filey on Monday forenoon, and after five days of toiling over the hills and wolds, found ourselves at Askern. Askern is a little spa and health resort, its waters are chemically similar to those of Harrogate, and useful in the same cla.s.s of cases. The halt and maim and rheumatic come here, and those who seek for quiet and rest after months of drudgery at the desk's dull wood. Many more would come were the place but better known. On Friday night here the rain came down in torrents, but Sat.u.r.day morning was fine, so I allowed both my servants to take an after-dinner trip to Doncaster. I would take an after-dinner nap. I was on particularly good terms with myself; I had had letters from home, I had done a good day's work, and presently meant to resume my writing.

"A telegram, sir!" A telegram? I took it and tore it open. A telegram always gives me momentary increase of heart-action, but this laconic message caused such pericardial sinking as I hope I shall never feel again. "Come home immediately, and wire the time you leave," so ran the terrible telegram. But, greatest mystery of all, it name from Mark-lane, and the sender was not my wife but "Hyde." I had never been to Mark-lane, and who is Hyde? But what dreadful calamity had happened to my home? My wife and bairnies live in Berks; but she must have gone to town, I thought, and been killed in the street, having but time to breathe my name and address ere closing her eyes for ever. Were she alive she herself would have wired, and not Hyde. There must be a mortuary at Mark-lane, and Hyde must be the dead-house doctor. I dashed my ma.n.u.script all aside, then rushed to the post-office and wired to Hyde for fullest particulars. There would be a train at four which would take me to London by 8:30.

Before I received the telegram my tongue was as red and clear as that of my Newfoundland dog's, in a moment it had become white and furred; there was a burning sensation in my throat, and my heart felt as big as a bullock's, and all these are symptoms of sudden shock and grief. But it was a time for action. In an hour the train would leave; 'twould seem a long, long hour to me. I packed my handbag with trembling hands, drew the shutters over all the windows of the Wanderer, determining to lock all up and board my valet at the hotel. Hurricane Bob, my dog, must have thought me mad, for I gave him the joint that had been meant for our Sunday's dinner; it would not keep till my return. Then I went and sat down in the post-office, and with thumping heart awaited Hyde's reply. How long the time seemed! How slowly the minute hand of the clock moved! My feelings must have been akin to those of a felon waiting the return of the jury and a verdict. The reply came at last, but only to deepen the mystery and my misery. No Hyde of Mark-lane could be found. I wired again, wired and waited for nearly another awful hour. Meanwhile my train had gone. The reader can judge of the state of my feelings, when at length the clicking needles informed the clerk that the first telegram was meant for another "Gordon Stables," of another Askarn, spelt with an "_a_" instead of an "_e_."

I did not know I had a double till now, because my name is so unusual.

If I rejoiced in the name of John, and my patronymic were Smith, the marvel would be small, but the Gordon Stableses of that ilk are not dropped into this world out of a watering-can, so I do wonder who my double is, and sincerely hope that telegram has not brought him grief, but ten thousand a year.

I have no more to add. I trust if the reader does go on the road he will find a gipsy's life as happy and pleasant as I have done.

Good-bye.