Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication by R. M. Ballantyne (short story to read TXT) 📖

essayed to leap, and into which he had tumbled, when in eager pursuit of Jacky. A little below this was the pool into which the said Jacky had rushed in wild desperation on finding that his father was too fleet for him. Passing through a five-barred gate into the next field, he skirted the base of a high, precipitous crag, on which grew a thicket of dwarf-trees and shrubs, and at the foot of which the burn warbled. Here, on his left, stood the briar bush out of which had whirred the first live grouse he ever set eyes on. It was at this bird, that, in the madness of his excitement, he had flung first his stick, then his hat, and lastly his shout of disappointment and defiance. A little further on was that other bush out of which he had started so many grouse that he now never approached it without a stone in each hand, his eyes and nostrils dilated, and his breath restrained. He never by any chance on these occasions sent his artillery within six yards of the game; but once, when he approached the bush in a profound reverie, and without the usual preparation, he actually saw a bird crouching in the middle of it! To seize a large stone and hit the ground at least forty yards beyond the bush was the work of a moment. Up got the bird with a tremendous whizz! He flung his stick wildly, and, hitting it, (by chance), fair on the head, brought it down. To rush at it, fall on it, crush it almost flat, and rise up slowly holding it very tight, was the result of this successful piece of poaching. Another result was a charming addition to a dinner a few days afterwards.

At all these objects Mr Sudberry gazed benignantly as he sauntered along in the sunshine, indulging in sweet memories of the recent past, and whistling operatically.

The high-road gained, he climbed upon the gate, seated himself upon the top bar to await the passing of the mail, and began to indulge in a magnificent air, the florid character of which he rendered much more effective than the composer had intended by the introduction of innumerable flourishes of his own.

It was while thus engaged, and in the middle of a tremendous shake, that Mr Sudberry suddenly became aware of the presence of a man not more than twenty yards distant. He was lying down on the embankment beside the road, and his ragged dress of muddy-brown corduroy so resembled the broken ground on which he lay that he was not a very distinct object, even when looked at point-blank. Certainly Mr Sudberry thought him an extremely disagreeable object as he ended in an ineffective quaver and with a deep blush; for that man must be more than human, who, when caught in the act of attempting to perpetrate an amateur concert in all its parts, does not feel keenly.

Being of a sociable disposition, Mr Sudberry was about to address this ill-favoured beggar—for such he evidently was—when the coach came round a distant bend in the road at full gallop. It was the ordinary tall, top-heavy mail of the first part of the nineteenth century. Being a poor district, there were only two horses, a white and a black; but the driver wore a stylish red coat, and cracked his whip smartly. The road being all down hill at that part, the coach came on at a spanking pace, and pulled up with a crash.

The beggar turned his face to the ground, and pretended to be asleep.

Mr Sudberry noticed this; but, being interested in his own affairs, soon forgot the circumstance.

“Got any letters for me to-day, my man?”

Oh, yes, he has letters and newspapers too. Mr Sudberry mutters to himself as they are handed down, “Capital!—ha!—business; hum!—private; ho!—compasses; good! Any more?”

There are no more; but there is a parcel or two. The coachman gets down and opens the door of the box behind. The insides peep out, and the outsides look down with interest. A great many large and heavy things are pulled out and laid on the road.

Mr Sudberry remarks that it would have been “wiser to have stowed his parcels in front.”

The coachman observes that these are his parcels, shuts the door, mounts the box, and drives away, with the outsides grinning and the insides stretching their heads out, leaving Mr Sudberry transfixed and staring.

“‘One or two small parcels,’” murmured the good man, recalling his wife’s words; “‘and mind you bring ’em up.’ One salmon, two legs of mutton, one ham, three dozen of beer, a cask of—of—something or other, and a bag of—of—ditto, (groceries, I suppose), ‘and mind you bring ’em up!’ How! ‘that is the question!’” cried Mr Sudberry, quoting Hamlet, in desperation.

Suddenly he recollected the beggar-man. “Halloo! friend; come hither.”

The man rose slowly, and rising did not improve his appearance. He was rather tall, shaggy, loose-jointed, long-armed, broad-shouldered, and he squinted awfully. His nose was broken, and his dark colour bespoke him a gypsy.

“Can you help me up to yonder house with these things, my man?”

“No,” said the man, gruffly, “I’m footsore with travellin’, but I’ll watch them here while you go up for help.”

“Oh! ahem!” said Mr Sudberry, with peculiar emphasis; “you seem a stout fellow, and might find more difficult ways of earning half a crown. However, I’ll give you that sum if you go up and tell them to send down a barrow.”

“I’ll wait here,” replied the man, with a sarcastic grin, limping back to his former seat on the bank.

“Oh! very well, and I will wait here,” said Mr Sudberry, seating himself on a large stone, and pulling out his letters.

Seeing this, the gypsy got up again, and looked cautiously along the road, first to the right and then to the left. No human being was in sight. Mr Sudberry observed the act, and felt uncomfortable.

“You’d better go for help, sir,” said the man, coming forward.

“Thank you, I’d rather wait for it.”

“This seems a handy sort of thing to carry,” said the gypsy, taking up the sack that looked like groceries, and throwing it across his shoulder. “I’ll save you the trouble of taking this one up, anyhow.”

He went off at once at a sharp walk, and with no symptom either of lameness or exhaustion. Mr Sudberry was after him in a moment. The man turned round and faced him.

“Put that where you took it from!” thundered Mr Sudberry.

“Oh! you’re going to resist.”

The gypsy uttered an oath, and ran at Mr Sudberry, intending to overwhelm him with one blow, and rob him on the spot. The big blockhead little knew his man. He did not know that the little Englishman was a man of iron frame; he only regarded him as a fiery little gentleman. Still less did he know that Mr Sudberry had in his youth been an expert boxer, and that he had even had the honour of being knocked flat on his back more than once by professional gentlemen—in an amicable way, of course—at four and sixpence a lesson. He knew nothing of all this, so he rushed blindly on his fate, and met it—that is to say, he met Mr Sudberry’s left fist with the bridge of his nose, and his right with the pit of his stomach; the surprising result of which was that the gypsy staggered back against the wall.

But the man was not a coward, whatever other bad qualities he might have been possessed of. Recovering in a moment, he rushed upon his little antagonist, and sent in two sledge-hammer blows with such violence that nothing but the Englishman’s activity could have saved him from instant defeat. He ducked to the first, parried the second, and returned with such prompt good-will on the gypsy’s right eye, that he was again sent staggering back against the wall; from which point of observation he stared straight before him, and beheld Mr Sudberry in the wildness of his excitement, performing a species of Cherokee war-dance in the middle of the road. Nothing daunted, however, the man was about to renew his assault, when George and Fred, all ignorant of what was going on, came round a turn of the road, on their way to see what was detaining their father with the letters.

“Why, that’s father!” cried Fred.

“Fighting!” yelled George.

They were off at full speed in a moment. The gypsy gave but one glance, vaulted the wall, and dived into the underwood that lined the banks of the river. He followed the stream a few hundred yards, doubled at right angles on his course, and in ten minutes more was seen crossing over a shoulder of the hill, like a mountain hare.