Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 74

The dinner hour came and passed away, but the inmates of Stoke Ferry Farm saw nothing of Alf Purvis. Mr. Jamblin was surprised at this, for the boy as a rule had always been punctual enough at meal times. The farmer grew fidgetty; he half regretted having made an example of the lad for an offence which, after all, could not be considered to be one of a very grave character.

“That young scapegrace is in his sulks, I expect,” said Jamblin to his daughter. “An’ may be he’s got the hump so strong on him that he’ll be for stoppin’ away for awhile.”

“Never fear,” answered Mr. Philip Jamblin; “he’ll come back again when he’s had his fling and hunger begins to set in. He’ll come back fast enough then, I’ll warrant.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” returned Patty. “He’s got a mighty spirit of his own. He’s a lad one might lead, but I don’t think he’s easy to drive.”

“He’s an obstinate, audacious young varmint, that’s what he be, an’ one as no one can do much good with. Let un stop away an’ he likes,” cried the farmer.

He rose from his seat, and sallied forth into the fields.

“I think, Phil, that father was a little hard upon him, to hold him up to the ridicule of all the farm people, and then to drive him forth to be the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood.”

“Oh, I don’t know; it’s no more than he deserves. The lad is always up to mischief, and has been an endless source of trouble and anxiety to us. If I could have had my way I would have got rid of him long ago.”

Seven o’clock came, and Mr. Jamblin, the elder, returned to the farmhouse again.

“So that impudent young scamp aint returned yet, it seems,” cried the farmer. “He be making a long stop on it.”

“I hope he will come back,” said his daughter, in a tone of sadness.

“You hope! What do you hope for? If he does come back he shan’t stop, I tell ’ee that. I’ll see the squire, and get shot of un.”

“Have a little more patience with him. He won’t be so wilful after a bit.”

“Patience, gell! I dunno what thee art thinkin’ about. I think we’ve all had patience enough. Wilful! He’ll mend as much as small beer is likely to do in harvest time. Some on us will ha’ to break un of his bad habits. I aint much yoose at that, it would seem.”

“But when he returns you will wait awhile, and try him a little longer?” said Patty, coaxingly, winding her arms round the old man’s neck.

“Umph! ye be a wheedling lass,” he returned. “Very well, I will wait and see if he be likely to change. Say no more, gell. You know better than what I do what a fool ye can mek o’ yer old father. Say no more; ye shall ha’ yer own way in this as in all other things.”

“Ah, that’s said like my own dear father,” murmured Patty.

But the night passed over as the day had done, and no Alf Purvis presented himself at Stoke Ferry Farm; as bed time came the members of the household exchanged blank looks, although they said but little. Each member of the family could not conceal his uneasiness.

Although they said but little each member of the family could not conceal their uneasiness.

Let us return to him whose absence was the cause of this anxiety.

After the departure of the urchin who had rendered such signal service to Alf, the latter walked over the fields and bethought him of what to do.

“I won’t return again to that dalled place,” murmured he. “I’ve had enough of the guv’nor and his low-bred crew of workpeople. Oh that I were a man, and able to fight my way in the world without the help of anyone! If I go to the squire he’ll give me a long lecture, and take me back to Stoke Ferry Farm. I don’t know what to do.”

He looked at the sun—​it wanted about an hour to noon, his dinner time.

He resolved to stroll about and amuse himself birds’ nesting. Anyway he would not return till the evening—​he could do without his dinner for once in the way; besides he had a slice of fat bacon between two thick pieces of bread in his pocket; these he had stolen from the larder without any one observing him.

Yes, he’ll go birds’ nesting.

He walked across field after field, and soon reached a small common which was covered with furze bushes, slanting thorn trees, and yews.

This place seemed to have considerable attractions for him. The aspect of nature is always beautiful, but rugged, savage, uncultivated nature this lad loved the most. Perhaps the reason of this might be traced to his occupation as a tiller of the soil.

As he entered the grass road which ran through the middle of the common he overtook a man who was walking slowly along, looking on all sides of him, and stopping every few steps to listen.

No. 17.

PEACE AT THE ARGYLL ROOMS.

Alf knew pretty well every inhabitant of the locality by sight, but he never remembered to have seen the individual he now came across for the first time.

“Who can he be, and what’s his game?” he murmured; “he’s a queer-looking sort of customer. I’ll just watch and see what he’s up to.”

The man had a short pipe in his mouth—​he was tall, but stooped slightly, which took somewhat off his height. His clothes were travel-stained and dilapidated, and the beard on his chin seemed to be of some days’ growth.

For the rest, his skin was of a deep brown, partly attributable to dirt and partly to his natural complexion, which was what might be termed swarthy. As to his age it would have puzzled any one to tell except those who had been acquainted with him for years—​he might be seven and thirty, or he might be sixty.

On his back he carried a huge bundle, which was as large and heavy as a pedlar’s pack, but of a very different shape.

Alf’s curiosity was aroused—​he had never seen any one of a similar character in the neighbourhood. He felt instinctively that the brown-faced man with the bundle was a brother sportsman, but he could not quite comprehend the reason for his stopping every now and then to listen, and then walking on in such a careless desultory manner.

“He’s a bit of an original in his way, a sort of curiosity,” murmured the boy. “He’s up to something and I mean to know what it is before long.”

The mysterious sportsman had by this time reached the small “clearing” (to use an American phrase) where the cottagers had been permitted to cut furze for their firing.

The stranger had all this time been quite unaware of the presence of the farmer’s boy.

He threw down his bundle and raised himself to his full height; he then stretched forth his arms, which were evidently stiff and cramped from the constrained position they had been in during his journey.

This done he reflected for a brief space of time, after which he stooped down and began to untie his bundle and spread out its contents.

“He’s a rum un. Let’s see what his next move is,” cried Alf, who deemed it expedient to keep as quiet as possible.

He, therefore, stretched himself full length on the grass.

When the boy saw the brown-faced man bring forth a large net his eyes began to shine, and lying on his stomach, with his face between his two hands, he watched the movements of the stranger with the greatest possible interest.

He saw the net, which was about twelve yards square, spread flat upon the ground, and then secured by four small pins (called stars), which left, however, a considerable space of net on either side unoccupied.

Then the brown-faced man placed something covered with green baize-cloth in the centre of the net, and, having carefully examined his apparatus, he uncoiled a long line, which was looped and run within the edges of the net.

He then raised the green baize, disclosing a goldfinch in a wire cage.

“My eye, he’s an artful old buffer, and knows his way about!” murmured Alf.

The man glanced around.

“Blessed if I didn’t hear a voice, or somethin’ of the sort,” he ejaculated.

He adjusted the lines of his net, and looked up at the sky—​then he glanced around once more.

“Holloa, you, sir, what are you a doing there? Want to frighten the birds—​eh?” he exclaimed, catching sight of the boy for the first time.

“I hope I aint in the way, or a doing any harm,” cried Alf, in a beseeching tone. “I’m only doing the looking-on part. I hope you don’t mind, please, sir?”

“Umph,” returned the man, with a puzzled expression of countenance, “you’ve been ’nation quiet, my young bloke. I didn’t know there was a soul about; but, look here, my lad, I’d rather you shift your quarters if it don’t make any difference to you, ’cos why it’s like enough you’ll frighten the birds away if you stop there.”

“All right, guv’nor, I’ll go wherever you like.”

The man made a sort of crook with his forefinger, with which he beckoned the lad.

“Just you stir your stumps,” he said, “and come here by the side of me.”

“All right, that’s just what I should like—​it will suit me above everything,” cried Alf, with evident delight.

He and the brown-faced man hid themselves behind a bush, the latter holding the line and peeping through the interstices of the foliage.

As soon as the goldfinch felt the sun and light it began to sing.

“That’s the call bird,” whispered the man. “He’ll draw a lot presently if we have luck.”

It must be owned that there is a most malicious joy in these call birds to bring the wild ones into the same state of captivity, which may likewise be observed with regard to decoy ducks.

Their sight and hearing excel that of the bird-catcher. The call birds do not sing as a bird does when in a chamber; they invite the wild ones by what they, the bird-catchers, call “short jerks,” which when the birds are good may be heard at a great distance.

The ascendency of this call or invitation is so great that the wild bird is stopped in its flight, and, if not already acquainted with the nets, alights boldly within on a spot which otherwise it would not have taken the least notice of.

Indeed it frequently happens that if half the flock are only caught the remainder will immediately afterwards alight in the nets and share the same fate, and should only one bird escape, that bird will suffer itself to be pulled at till it’s caught, such fascinating power have the call birds.

While we are on the subject of the jerking of the bird, we cannot omit mentioning that the bird-catchers frequently lay wagers upon whose call bird can jerk the longest, as that determines their superiority.

They place them opposite to each other by an inch of candle, and the bird who jerks the most before the candle is burnt out wins the wager.

We have been informed that there have been instances of birds giving one hundred and seventy jerks in a quarter of an hour.

It may be here observed that birds when near each other seldom jerk or sing.

It is a singular circumstance that the male chaffinches fly by themselves, and in the flight precede the females; but this is not particular with this class of bird.

When the larks are caught at the beginning of the season it frequently happens that forty are taken, and not one female among them.

An experienced birdcatcher informed us that such birds as breed twice a year generally have in their first brood a majority of males, and in their second of females.

The method of birdcatching must have been long practised, as it is brought to a most systematical perfection, and attended with much trouble and expense.

The nets are a most ingenious piece of mechanism.

They are from ten to twelve and a half yards long, and ten yards and a half in width, and no one on bare inspection would imagine that a bird, who is so quick in all its motions, could be caught by the nets flapping over each other till he becomes an eye-witness of the process.

After the birdcatcher and Alf Purvis had taken up their position in the clump of foliage, they waited patiently for more than a quarter of an hour.

The adjacent trees and shrubs resounded with chirpings and carollings.

“I like to hear them twitter,” said the boy.

“It looks like business,” returned his companion. “Pretty—​aint it?”

“Oh, jolly, and no mistake. I wish I knew the business.”

The birds gathering courage began to flutter down upon the net, which soon swarmed with linnets, yellowhammers, and tit-larks.

“Pull the string, guv’nor,” said Alf.

“Wait a bit, youngster. I want some bullfinches. I can hear ’em piping all around. There’s lots on ’em about these thorn trees.”

The bullfinch, though it does not properly belong to what are known as singing birds or birds of flight, as it does not often move farther than from hedge to hedge, yet invariably sells well on account of its learning to whistle tunes, and sometimes flies over the fields where the nets are laid, the birdcatchers have often a call-bird to ensnare it, though most of them can imitate its call with their mouths.

It is remarkable with regard to this bird that the female answers the purpose of a call-bird as well as the male, which is not experienced by any other bird taken by the London bird catchers.

The man in the bush imitated the call to such perfection that in a short time he had the satisfaction of seeing six cock bullfinches in the net, which began to present the appearance of an aviary. They were beautiful little creatures, with their blue bullet heads and their scarlet breasts.

They were clothed in red and purple, like the kings of ancient Tyre.

The man gave his rope a sharp tug, and the flaps or wings of the net closed and held them all prisoners.

The poor things beat themselves fiercely against the net, uttering piercing cries, while the call-bird still sung as if in savage triumph from his wire cage.

“Beautiful!” ejaculated the boy. “I call that something like.”

The birds were gathered by the large brown hand of their ensnarer, and with Alf’s assistance they were placed in a large hamper, which formed part of the fowler’s equipage.

“That’s a good haul, ain’t it?” inquired the lad.

“Middling, not so bad. I’ve had better, and a good many worse.”

“Do you happen to know of any nestesses round here?” he inquired.

“I don’t mean the common sorts. D’ye know of a bottletit’s anywhere?”

“I know one—​in fact I was going to collar it when I met you.”

How far is it from here?”

“Not a hundred yards from where we are now—​just ready for eggs.”

“I don’t want no eggs, but I’ll give yer a pint o’ beer for the nest—​that is unless ye want it yourself.”

“I don’t particularly want it,” said the boy, who was going to show the man the nest for nothing; but he now declared he couldn’t afford to part with it under sixpence.”

“It’s worth that if it be a good’un. I’ll give you sixpence—​that is, when I’ve got the nest.”

“All right. Come this way,” cried Alf, who showed the man the nest, which was imbedded in a little bunch of gorse.

Instead of tearing it out the fowler cut the branch with his knife, thus preserving, it furze and all.

He then handed his companion the sixpence.

The bottle tit, or long-tailed tit, builds the most beautiful of all English nests. It is oval in shape, like a leather bottle, and outside is one mass of that crisp white moss which one finds on apple trees and old gate-posts. There is one tiny hole the circumference of a child’s finger, and the interior is choked to its very mouth with soft and downy feathers.

These nests sell at a high price in towns to egg-collectors, closet naturalists, and buyers of curiosities.

“You’ll make your money of that, guv’nor. It’s a stunner—​aint it?”

“Not a bad one of its sort; but, lor’ love ye, the job is to find a customer. It’s only one here and there who knows what’s worth buying and what’s best left alone. Still, ye see, it won’t hurt by keepin’, and it won’t die, as many of the birds do. I’ve been very unlucky wi’ my birds of late.”

“Have you, though? They croak, I s’pose?”

“That’s it; right you are. They do croak, and no mistake. Howsomdever, it can’t be helped. Do you know of any more nests, young shaver—​some with bigger eggs, you know?”

“Ah! you mean some of the other sort?”

This is a cant term among poachers for those eggs which are preserved by the hand of the law.

The fowler started, and looked at the speaker with his right eye only.

“You’re a queer young bloke,” he muttered, “down as a hammer, and no mistake. Oh! you’re fly, my lad—​fly to a thing or two—​there aint no manner of doubt about that ’ere!”

Alf laughed. He was much charmed with his companion’s quaint and curious ways.

“I know of one nest—​eleven eggs, old bird sitting,” he said, in a tone of exultation. “Just your book, I should say.”

“That’s the style, Polly. Bring ’em to me, my lad, and I’ll give you a shilling.”

“If you’ll give me a shilling I’ll show you the nest, and let you take it as you did the bottletit’s. I want money, I can tell you.”

“I s’pose you do. That’s by no means an uncommon complaint.”

“Well, you can have it if you like—​only say the word.”

“And fork out the bob—​eh?”

“Yes, that’s a bargain, you know.”

“Well, look here, my little ace of trumps, that may be all very well; but how am I to know if you wont round on me afterwards?”

“I never rounded on anybody in my life,” cried Alf, in a tone of indignation.

“Umph, I’m jolly glad of it; but you’ve got a pair of queer grey peepers. I’m always keerful how I do business with grey peepers.”

“I didn’t make my peepers, and it’s no fault of mine if their colour don’t please you. I know one or two shady customers who have black and brown peepers.”

“You’re a deal too artful for my money, and you see I don’t want to be led into a scrape, which is easier for a cove to get into than out of by long chalks.”

“Look here, then,” cried Alf, pulling out the hare from under his smock; “I snared this, and have had a thrashing for it. I’ll sell you this if you like, and then one will be as low in the dirt as ’tother in the mire.”

The bird-catcher stared with surprise, and exclaimed quickly—

“Didn’t I say as how you was fly? I’m blessed if you are not too good for a God-forgotten place like this.”

“I want to leave it, and I will, please the pigs,” returned the lad. “I don’t care what I do so long as I haven’t to go back to Stoke Ferry Farm.”

“Is that where you come from?”

“Yes.”

“Who and what are you?”

“I’m an orphan, and have been brought up by Mr. Jamblin.”

“And who is he?”

“A farmer; and one as thinks a lot on himself.”

“And you want to leave him?”

“Yes.”

“And seek your fortune in the great world, eh?”

“That’s it. You’ve just hit it.”

“Well, come, lad, sit down and let us have a bit of dinner together. You’re peckish, I ’spose, by this time?”

Alf drew from his pocket the two pieces of bread and the slice of bacon.

“Oh, you carry your prog with you, it seems. Not a bad plan. But just reach that basket—​we shall find something better in that.”

The two commenced their repast.

“Where are you bound for after you’ve done for the day?” inquired Alf.

“For London. Whitechapel; it aint a haristocratic part, but it’s busy sort of place in its way.”

“I should like to go with you.”

“Well, then, you shall, youngster. So that’s soon settled.”