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Astonishing History of Troy Town

<h3>CHAPTER X.</h3> <h3>OF ONE EXCURSION AND MANY ALARUMS.</h3> "Caleb!" said Mr. Fogo on the morning after Miss Limpenny's party. "Aye, aye, sir!" Caleb paused in his carpentering to look up. "It is a lovely morning; I think I will take my easel and go for a walk. You are sure that the crowds have gone at last?" "All gone, sir. Paice and quiet at last—as Bill said when he was left a widow. Do 'ee want me to go 'long wi' 'ee, sir?" "No, thank you, Caleb. I shall go along the hills on this side of the river." "You'd best let me come, sir, or you'll be wool-gatherin' and wand'rin' about till goodness knows what time o' night." "I shall be back by four o'clock." "Stop a minnit, sir; I have et. I'll jest put that alarmin' clock o' yourn in your tail-pocket an' set et to ha'f-arter-dree, an' that'll put you in mind when 'tes time to come hom'. 'Tes a wonnerful in-jine, this 'ere clock," reflected Caleb as he carefully set the alarum, "an' chuck-full o' sense, like Malachi's cheeld. Lor', what a thing es Science, as Jenifer said when her seed the tellygrarf-clerk in platey buttons an' red facin's to his breeches. Up the path, sir, an' keep to the left. Good-bye, sir! Now, I'd gie summat," soliloquised Caleb as he watched his master ascend the hill, "to be sure of seein' him back safe an' sound afore nightfall. Aw dear! 'tes a terrable 'sponsible post, bein' teetotum to a babby!" With this he walked back to the house, but more than once halted on his way to ponder and shake his head ominously. Mr. Fogo meanwhile, with easel and umbrella on his arm, climbed the hill slowly and with frequent pauses to turn and admire the landscape. It was the freshest of spring mornings: the short turf was beaded with dew, the furze-bushes on either hand festooned with gossamer and strung with mimic diamonds. As he looked harbourwards, the radiance of sky mingling with the glitter of water dazzled and bewildered his sight: below, and at the foot of the steep woods opposite, the river lay cool and shadowy, or vanished for a space beneath a cliff, where the red plough-land broke abruptly away with no more warning than a crazy hurdle. Distinct above the dreamy hum of the little town, the ear caught the rattle of anchor-chains, the cries of an outward-bound crew at the windlass, the clanking of trucks beside the jetties; the creaking of oars in the thole-pins of a tiny boat below ascended musically; the very air was quick with all sounds and suggestions of spring, and of man going forth to his labour; the youthfulness of the morning ran in Mr. Fogo's veins, and lent a buoyancy to his step. By this time the town was lost to view; next, the bend of Kit's House vanished, and now the broad flood spread in a silver lake full ahead. On the ridge the pure air was simply intoxicating after the languor of the valley. Mr. Fogo began to skip, to snap his fingers, to tilt at the gossamer with his umbrella, and once even halted to laugh hilariously at nothing. An old horse grazing on an isolated patch of turf looked up in mild surprise; Mr. Fogo blushed behind his spectacles and hurried on. He had gone some distance when a granite roller lying on the ploughed slope beneath a clump of bushes invited him to rest. Mr. Fogo accepted the invitation, and seated himself to contemplate the scene. The bush at his back was comfortable, and by degrees the bright intoxication of his senses settled to a drowsy content. He pulled out his pipe and lit it. Through the curls of blue smoke he watched the glitter on the water below, the prismatic dazzle of the clods where their glossy surface caught the sun, the lazy flap-flap of a heron crossing the valley, and he heard along the uplands the voice (sweetest of rural sounds, and, alas! now obsolete) of a farm-boy chanting to his team, "Brisk and Speedwell, Goodluck and Lively"—and so sank by degrees into a soothing sleep. When he awoke and looked lazily upwards, at first his eyes encountered gloom. "Have I been sleeping all day?" was his first thought, not without alarm. But under the darkness a bright ray was stealing. Mr. Fogo put up his hand and encountered his umbrella, carefully spread over his face for shade. This was mysterious; he could swear the umbrella was folded and lying at his side when he dropped asleep. "It must be Caleb," he thought, and stared around. No Caleb was in sight, but he noticed that the sun was dropping towards the west, and noticed also, not fifty yards to the left, and quietly cropping a tuft of bushes, a red bull. Now Mr. Fogo had an extreme horror of bulls, especially red bulls, and this one was not merely red, but looked savage, to boot. Mr. Fogo peered again round the corner of his umbrella. The brute luckily had not spied him, but neither did it seem in any hurry to move. For twenty minutes Mr. Fogo waited behind his shelter, and still the bull went on cropping. It was already late, and the brute stood full in the homeward path to Kit's House. It was only possible to make a circuit around the ridge, as the cliff's edge cut off a detour on the other side. Weary of waiting, Mr. Fogo cautiously rose, pushed his easel under the bushes, and began to creep up towards the ridge, holding his umbrella in front of him as a screen. This was rather after the fashion of the ostrich, which, to avoid being seen, buries its head in the sand; nor was it likely that the beast, if irritated at sight of a man, would acquiesce in the phenomenon of an umbrella at large, and strolling on its own responsibility. But as yet the bull's back was towards it. Stealthily Mr. Fogo crept round. He had placed about seventy yards between him and the animal, and had almost gained the summit when a dismal accident befell. "Cl'k—Whir-r-r-r-roo-oo-oo!" It was the alarum in his tail-pocket. The bull looked up, gazed wildly at the umbrella, snorted, lashed out with his tail, and started in pursuit. Quick as thought, Mr. Fogo dropped his screen, and, with a startled glance around, dashed at full speed for the ridge, the infernal machine still dinning behind him. Luckily, the bull's onset was directed at the umbrella. There was a thundering of hoofs, a dull roar, and the poor man, as he gained the summit and cast a frantic look behind, saw a vision of jagged silk and flying ribs. With a groan he tore forwards. There was a hedge about fifty yards away, and for this he made with panting sides and tottering knees. If he could only stop that alarum! But the relentless noise continued, and now he could hear the bull in fresh pursuit. However, the umbrella had diverted the attack. After a few seconds of agony Mr. Fogo gained the hedge, tore up it, turned, saw the brute appear above the ridge with a wreck of silk and steel upon his horns, and with a sob of thankfulness dropped over into the next field. But alas! in doing so Mr. Fogo performed the common feat of leaping out of the frying-pan into the fire. For it happened that on the other side a tramp was engaged in his legitimate occupation of sleeping under a hedge, and on his extended body our hero rudely descended. "Hi!" said the tramp, "where be you a-comin' to?" Mr. Fogo picked himself up and felt for his spectacles; they had tumbled off in his flight, and without them his face presented a curiously naked appearance. The alarum in his pocket had stopped suddenly with the jerk of his descent. "I beg your pardon," he mildly apologised, "but a bull in the next field—" "That's no cause for selectin' a gentl'm'n's stomach to tumble 'pon, growled the tramp. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," repeated Mr. Fogo; "you may be sure that had time for selection been allowed me—" "Look 'ere," said the tramp with sudden ferocity, "will you fight?" <center> <ANTIMG src="images/FIG9.JPG" alt="Look 'ere,' said the tramp . . . 'will you fight?"> "Look 'ere," said the tramp … "will you fight?" </center> Mr. Fogo retreated a step. "Really—" "Come, look sharp! You won't? Then I demands 'arf-a-crown." With this the ruffian began to tuck up his ragged cuffs, and was grimly advancing. Mr. Fogo leapt back another pace. "Cl'k—Whir-r-r-r-roo-oo-oo!" This time the alarum was his salvation. The tramp pulled up, gave a hasty terrified stare, and with a cry of "The Devil!" made off across the field as fast as his legs would carry him. Overcome with the emotions of the last few minutes Mr. Fogo sat suddenly down, and the alarum ceased. When he recovered he found himself in an awkward predicament. He knew of but one way homewards, and that was guarded by the bull; moreover, if he attempted to find another road he was hampered by the loss of his spectacles, without which he could not see a yard before his nose. However, anything was better than facing the bull again; so he arose, picked the brambles out of his clothing, and started cautiously across the field. As luck would have it he found a gate; but another field followed, and a third, into which he had to climb by the hedge. And here he suffered from a tendency known to all mountaineers who have lost their way in a mist; unconsciously he began to trend away towards the left, and as this led him further and further from home, his plight became every moment more desperate. At last he struck into a narrow lane, just as the sun sank. He halted for a moment to consider his direction. "Pat—pat—pat." He looked up. A little girl in an immense sun-bonnet was toddling up the lane towards him. She swung a satchel in her left hand, and at sight of the stranger paused with her unoccupied forefinger in mouth. Mr. Fogo advanced straight up to her, stooped with his hands on his knees, and peered into her face. This behaviour, though necessitated by his shortness of sight, worked the most paralysing effect on the child. "Little girl, can you tell me the way to Kit's House?" There was no answer. Mr. Fogo peered more closely. "Little girl, can you tell me the way to Kit's House?" Still there was no answer. "Little girl—" "Cl'k—whir-r-r-r-roo-oo !" The effect of the alarum was instantaneous. "Boo-hoo!" yelled the little girl, and broke into a paroxysm of weeping. "Little girl—" "Boo-hoo! Take me home. I want mammy!" <center> <ANTIMG src="images/FIG10.JPG" alt="Boo-hoo! I want mammy!"> "Boo-hoo! I want mammy!" </center> "Dear me," cried Mr. Fogo wildly, "this is the most appalling situation in which I have ever been placed." He thought of running away, but his humanity forbade it. At length the alarum ran down; but the child continued to scream— "I want mammy! Take me home!" "Hush! hush! She shall go to mammy—ickle tootsey shall go to mammy. Did-ums want-ums mammy?" shouted Mr. Fogo, with an idiotic effort to soothe. But it was useless. The screams merely increased in volume. Mr. Fogo, leaning against the hedge, mopped his brow and looked helplessly around. "What on earth is to be done?" There was a sudden sound of light footsteps, and then, to his immense relief, Tamsin Dearlove stood before him. She looked as fresh and neat as ever and carried a small basket on her arm. "Whatever is the matter? Why, 'tis little Susie Clemow! What's the matter, Susie?" She set down her basket and ran to the child, who immediately ceased to yell. "There now, that's better. Did the big strange gentleman try to frighten her? Poor little maid!" "I assure you," said Mr. Fogo, "I tried to do nothing of the kind." Tamsin paid no attention. "There now, we're as good as gold again, and can run along home. Give me a kiss first, that's a dear." The little maid, still sobbing fitfully, gave the kiss, picked up her satchel, and toddled off, leaving Tamsin and Mr. Fogo face to face. "Why did you frighten her?" the girl asked severely. There was an angry flush on her cheek. "I did not intentionally. It was the alarum. First of all I was chased by a bull, and then—" Mr. Fogo told his story incoherently. The angry red left Tamsin's cheek, and a look of disdain succeeded. "And you," she said very slowly, when he had finished, "think you are able to despise womankind." It was Mr. Fogo's turn to grow red. "And to put up a board," she continued, "with that silly Notice upon it—you and that great baby Caleb Trotter—setting all women at naught, when you never ought to be beyond tether of their apron-strings. Why, only this morning you'd have caught a sun-stroke if I hadn't spread your umbrella over you." "Did you do that?" "And who else do you suppose? A man, perhaps? Why, there isn't a man in the world would have had the sense—'less it was Peter or Paul," she added, with a sudden softening of voice, "and they're women in everything but strength. And now," she went on, "as I am going that way, I suppose you'll want me to see you home. Will you walk in front or behind, for doubtless you're above walking beside a woman?" "I think you are treating me very hardly." "Maybe I am, and maybe I meant to. Maybe you didn't know that that Notice of yours might hurt people's feelings. Don't think I mean mine," she explained quickly and defiantly, "but Peter's and Paul's." There was a pause as they walked along together. "The board shall come down," said he; "and now may I carry your basket?" "My basket? Do you think I'd trust a man to carry eggs?" She laughed, but with a trace of forgiveness. He did not answer, but seemed to have fallen into a fit of troubled contemplation. They walked on in silence. Presently she halted. "I doubt you've had trouble in your time, and I've hurt your feelings and spoken as I oughtn't to have spoken to my betters; but I've seen that Peter and Paul were hurt in mind, and that made me say more than I meant. Yonder's your way down to Kit's House. Good-night, sir." Mr. Fogo would have held out his hand, but she was gone quickly down the road. He stood for a minute looking after her; then turned and walked quickly down the path to Kit's House. Caleb met him at the door. "So you'm back, an' I hopes you enj'yed your walk, as Sal said when her man comed home from France. I was just a-comin' to luk for 'ee. Where's your easy-all and your umbrella?" Mr. Fogo told his story. "H'm!" said Caleb, "an' Tamsin saw 'ee home?" "Yes; and by the way, Caleb, you may as well take down that notice to-morrow." "H'm!" muttered Caleb again. "You're quite sure thicky coddysel won't do?" "Quite." "Very well, sir," said Caleb, and began to busy himself with the evening meal. But he looked curiously at his master more than once during the evening. Mr. Fogo spent most of his time in a brown study, smoking and gazing abstractedly into the fire. Caleb also smoked (it was one of his privileges), and finally, with an anxious glance, and two or three hard puffs at his pipe, broke the silence— "The bull es a useful animal, an' when dead supplies us wi' rump-steaks an' shoe-horns, as the Sunday-school book says: but for all that there's suthin' lackin' to a bull. 'Tain't conviction: you niver seed a bull yet as wasn' chuck-full o' conviction, an' didn' act up to hes rights, such as they be. An' 'tain't consistency: you drill a notion into a bull's head an' fix et, an' he'll save et up, may be for six year, an' then rap et out on 'ee till you'm fairly sick for your own gad-about ways. 'Tes logic he wants, I reckon—jest logic. A bull, sir, es no more'n a mass o' blind onreas'ning prejudice from horn to tail. Take hes sense o' colour: he can't abide red. Ef you press the matter, there ain't no more reas'n for this than that hes father afore him cudn' abide et; but how does he act? 'Hulloa!' says he, 'there's a party in red, an' I don't care a tinker's cuss whether 'tes a mail-cart or a milisha-man: I'm bound to stop this 'ere taste for red ef I dies nex' minnit.' And at et he goes accordin'. Ef he seed the Scarlet Woman about in his part o' the country, he'd lay by an' h'ist her, an' you'd say, 'Well done!' an' I don't say you'd be wrong. But jest you stop an' ax hes motives, an' you'll find 'taint religion. Lor' bless 'ee, sir, a bull's got no more use for religion than a toad for side-pockets. 'Tes obstinacy—that's what 'tes. You tells me a jackass es obstinate. Well, an' that's true in a way; and so's a hog. Ef you wants quiet contrariness, a jackass or a hog'll both sit out a bull; an' tho' you may cuss the pair till you sweats like a fuz'-bush on a dewy mornin', 'tes like heavin' bricks into a bott'mless pit. But a bull ups an' lets 'ee know; there aint no loiterin' round an' arrangin' yer subjec' under heads when he's about. You don't get no pulpit; an', what's more, you don't stop to touch your hat when you makes your congees. 'Tes just pull hot-foot, and thank the Lord for hedges; 'cos he's so full o' his own notions as a Temp'rance speaker, an' bound to convence 'ee, ef he rams daylight in 'ee to do et. That's a bull. An' here's anuther p'int; he lays head to ground when hes beliefs be crossed, an' you may so well whissle as try the power o' the human eye—talkin' o' which puts me i' mind o' some curious fac's as happ'n'd up to Penhellick wan time, along o' this same power o' the human eye. Maybe you'd like to hear the yarn." "Eh?" Mr. Fogo roused himself from his abstraction. "Yes, certainly, I should like to hear it." Caleb knocked his pipe meditatively against the bars of the grate; filled it again and lit it; took an energetic pull or two, and then, after another hard look at his master across the clouds of smoke, began without more ado.   <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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