Читать книгу Sam Small Flies Again: The Amazing Adventures of The Flying Yorkshireman - Eric Knight - Страница 7

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A Yorkshireman born

And a Yorkshireman bred:

Strong in the arms

But weak in the yead.

Polkingthorpe Brig isn’t such a big place, even as villages go; but by gum, it can produce men.

In fact, for a place its size, as you might say, it has produced more famous men, in a manner of speaking, than any other place in the world.

For instance it has Sam Small, who is famous the world over, as all men know. And then it’s got Ian Cawper.

Ian Cawper is really famous. He’s the biggest and strongest lad in all Yorkshire—which means, of course, all England. For everyone knows that inch for inch and pound for pound a Yorkshireman’s worth two from any other county—especially Lancashire.

Of course, Ian’s a little thick in the head; but they don’t hold that against a man much in Yorkshire. And, true, he’s a fearful man to see when he’s angered; but that’s very seldom. Most times Ian is pleasant enough and affable enough. Whenever there’s anything heavy needs lugging in the village, the folk always get hold of a bairn and say: “Run up Ian Cawper’s cottage and tell him there’s summat here that nob’dy but him can do.” Ian will come down, generally carrying the bairn on his shoulder, and after they’ve explained to him carefully what they want, he’ll move or lug or lift whatever it is, such as a walnut bureau or a boulder or a cart stuck in the mud—and very pleasantly he’ll do it, too.

But there’s a thing or two about Ian that fair puzzles the older people in the village.

To come right out with it, the fact is that Ian doesn’t look much like any other Cawper that ever lived, not even as far back as old Capper Wambley can remember. True, the Cawpers have always been a strong breed, so he takes after them in that. But Ian is a blond, blue-eyed lad, while all the Cawpers before him were very dark—so dark, in fact, that Ian’s father was known as Black Cawper. Ian’s blondness couldn’t have come from his mother’s side, either, for she’s a Motherthwaite, and the Motherthwaites are a darkish clan.

It’s fair puzzling, indeed it is, and that’s the truth, as the village people say. Naturally, they don’t say it when Ian’s around, for Ian Cawper’s a fearful man when he does get angry, and could break a man in two with his bare hands if so be he wished.

But people do talk once in a while, and one night Sam Small got talking down at The Spread Eagle. What his story means, you must judge for yourself. As to how true it is—well, Sam Small’s as truthful a Yorkshireman as ever blew the foam off four or five pints of good ale in an evening.

Ian’s father, Black Cawper—so goes Sam’s story—was a big strong man who was ready to fight, feast, or wrestle at the drop of a hat. He wasn’t as big as Ian has turned out to be, but he was shrewder than Ian will ever be. And he was more given to sudden tempers and to daring other men and showing off his strength.

Black Cawper was a favorite chap up on the moor on Sunday afternoons. For then, as now, all the men of the village would meet up on the moor to show off feats of nimbleness or strength, or to ask each other puzzling questions and riddles, or to bet on their dogs. They’d run their whippets, or hold terrier contests by putting their tykes in a barrel with a score or so of rats to see how many the dog could kill in sixty seconds. And sometimes, by lucky chance, they might meet a bunch of lads from another village who would be looking for a bit of a fight. That’s the way it’s always been on Sunday afternoons.

Now on this Sunday afternoon about twenty-five years ago, so Sam Small says, a stranger came cutting across the moor who seemed by his speech to be from over Malton way.

They asked him if he’d like to fight, and he said no; they asked him if he wanted to buy a dog and he said no; they asked him if he’d like to wrestle or run a race for a bit of a side-bet and he said no. They had just about concluded he was a pawky sort of chap until he said that if it were a matter of knerr-and-spell, by gum, he’d be willing to back himself roundly to the tune of a few shillings.

Now if there’s anything the lads of Polkingthorpe Brig pride themselves on besides fighting and dogs, it’s their skill at knerr-and-spell, a game requiring strength, speed, and judgment. (Many years ago this game drifted from Yorkshire up into Scotland where, in a much deteriorated and simplified form, it became known as golf.)

So when the stranger said he’d play, he was rapidly taken up.

It turned out, however, that this lad was nobody’s mug. He was a lanky, lithe chap with a click to his wrists when he swung that sent the ball sailing champion distances. One by one he took the money away from the Polkingthorpe men until there was only Black Cawper left, and the light was beginning to fade.

“All or nowt in a final match,” Black Cawper offered.

The lad said it was so for his pile of sixteen shillings, and he put up such a mighty dingdong battle that at the last stroke Black Cawper needed the well-nigh impossible score of 262 to tie, 263 to win. But Black Cawper only laughed and flexed the muscles in his big arms and spit on his hands. He tapped the tip-up smartly, and when the ball rose into the air he wrapped the springy club round his neck and swung. He hit the ball fair just as it was beginning to fall and belted that dobbie a giant clout such as the men there had never seen before. Away the ball went, screaming away in a straight, rising line. Up it went, away and over a far hilltop, out of sight.

Black Cawper laughed his hard laugh.

“Two hunned and sixty-three,” he offered.

This meant that if the stranger could reach the ball in less than 263 leaping strides, the score counted to him. If he couldn’t, it counted to Black Cawper, who thereby won the match.

The Malton lad looked up at the hill and shook his head. He was a fine judge of distances, and knew he couldn’t reach the ball in the required number.

“Tha’s t’better lad o’ t’two on us,” he said and conceded the game. They shook hands and paid off. The matches were over for that day.

“Well,” Black Cawper said, “now let’s off and find ma dobbie.”

But the men all shuffled their feet and coughed and spat.

“Nay, Black,” they said, “us’ll away and meet thee later down at t’Eagle.”

Then Black Cawper laughed, for he knew why they were backing away as they looked at the bleak hill, now rapidly sinking back into the evening darkness. For over that hill was Wada’s Keep.

Most everyone in Polkingthorpe Brig had seen Wada’s Keep—but not after dark.

You went up there in the daytime when you were lads. On some summer holiday day you went—a bunch of you together, of course—and even then it was bad enough. If you had courage, you went right up to it, plunging through the bracken and stumbling over rocks. For the land there was no longer flat moor, but rocky and broken into strange crags. You kept on, being wrapped deeper in the lonesomeness and barrenness of that place. And when you got there, you didn’t dare to talk. All you did was stand by the Keep, whose stones were damp and green with their ancient age. At least 1200 years old it was—that’s what the schoolmaster said the day he went up there. He talked about Saxon defenders and cromlechs. That word cromlech, it made it worse, it did.

No one needed to talk of things like that when you could stand there in that silence and look at the round tower and its walls made of mighty boulders that no human hands could have lifted into place. But those boulders had been nothing for Wada, the giant. He’d lofted them up into place as nicely as a mason these days sets in a little brick.

You knew the awe of that place when you stood there thinking things like that, standing in the land where no living thing moved as far as you could see down on the wide stretches. You smelled the dust of the dried bracken and against it the damp smell of stones in unused places, and then you’d hear the fearful, lonesome cry of a peewit, and at that you’d shudder and start home, walking quickly and more quickly—all of you. Until you came over the moor and could see Polkingthorpe again, and then you slowed down and laughed and pretended you’d never walked fast with the terror of unknown things breathing on the back of your neck.

And that was the terror all the men felt that Sunday afternoon when Black Cawper faced toward Wada’s land and said he was going there in the dusk. He laughed in his hard, bold way, and said:

“Would ye leave a lad find his dobbie alone?”

They rocked on their feet and coughed and spat. And then Black Cawper blazed into one of his sudden tempers—Cawper’s mad higs, the men called them.

“Ba gow,” he roared, “that’s ma pet dobbie and Ah’m not off to lose it. Ah’m bahn up theer, and what’s more, one on ye’s cooming up wi’ me to bear witness Ah showed no fear. Here, Sam Small, tha’ll coom wi’ me.”

“Nay, not me,” Sam said, stoutly.

“Tha’ll coom when Ah say,” Cawper shouted. And he jumped over and caught Sam by the scruff of his neck and slung him over his shoulder.

“Here, let me dahn, Black,” Sam pleaded. “It’s ma teatime, and Mully’ll be mawngier nor owd hell if Ah’m late.”

Black Cawper paid no attention to Sam. Instead he swung about and faced the hill. He shook his knerr-and-spell club and lifted his head and shouted:

“Now giant! If so be as tha lives in them hills, clear out o’ t’road! For here cooms Black Cawper, and wi’ a witness to boot!”

But when he said that, from the skyline came a quick glow of light and then, far away, the distant rumble of thunder. And as the watching men drew in their breath sharply, one of the dogs lifted his head and howled in a manner like to curdle your blood. Then, like a flock of birds that obey an unsounded signal, all the men turned about, and a mad charge of men and dogs went stampeding off down to the village.

When they were gone Black Cawper stood a while, and then, slowly, one foot stamping down before the other, he started up that hill with Sam Small over his left shoulder and his knerr-and-spell club in his right hand. At the top of the hill he lifted Sam to the ground.

“Now lad,” he said, “us’ll find ma dobbie. And tha’d better stick close to me; because t’owd Nick hissen knaws what maught grab thee if tha tried to run hoam alone this time o’ neight.”

He chuckled deep down in his chest, but Sam only shivered. He glanced around fearfully, Sam did, and resolved not to be left alone that night if he could help it. So he followed close behind Black Cawper and they kicked at the tufts of grass and pulled aside clumps of gorse as they looked for the ball. But nowhere was a ball to be seen.

“O’ course it’s not here,” Black Cawper said. “It maun ha’ gone far and away down into t’valley here. For surely it were the championest clout a lad ivver give a dobbie.”

So they went deeper and deeper into the country, following the line the ball had taken as best they could. But no ball could they find.

“Now lewk here, Black,” Sam said at last. “No man can say tha hesn’t dared to hunt, but it’s pitch black now and we’ll noan find it in the dark. Sitha lad, let’s coom up tomort morn and lewk for it.”

“Us has gate to be at t’pit and digging coal by dawn,” Black said, “and Ah’m bound Ah’m off to find ma dobbie toneight. There’ll be a gradely moon out soon.”

“Nay, coom away, Black lad,” Sam coaxed. “Just think, Black, it’s supper time and there’ll be a nice fire i’ t’fireplace, and a fine, steaming pot o’ tea, and some hot toasted scones or muffins, all swimming in butter; or a pikelet or two and some sliced ham, wi’ a wedge or two o’ nice cold pork pie—or happen a bloater, all fried to a turn. Tha likes bloaters, Ah knaw ...”

“Nay,” said Black.

“Eigh, but happen there’d be a gert big foaming quart o’ fine beer. Wouldn’ta like a mug o’ beer that’d mak’ a chap smack his lips and ...”

“Nay,” said Black.

“Not even if, happen, somebody were to stand thee that quart o’ beer?”

“Nay!”

“Not for a quart o’ beer? Not even if Ah were to say outright it’d be me what stood the price on it for thee?”

“Ah said nay,” roared Black Cawper. “Ah’ve said Ah’m off to find ma dobbie, and find it Ah will—if it tak’s all neight, and no matter whose bailiwick it chances to be in.”

Right when he said that Sam shivered, for Black’s great voice went rolling out into the darkness and rumbled up into the crags, and like an echo came back a voice that boomed like a peal of thunder, saying:

“Be this what th’art looking for?”

At that moment there was a lifting light and the rising moon shot from behind a ragged cloud. Black and Sam, standing stock-still, looked out across the rocky hollow and saw a man standing on a flat crag—a great, well-set-up lad he was, with a blond beard that shone in the moonlight.

For a long time they all stood without moving and the moments passed. The first sound was when Black Cawper laughed his bold laugh.

“Tak’ this,” he said, and he thrust his club into Sam’s hand. Sam heard him drawing in his breath through his nose, drawing it in and filling his chest so that it expanded, wider and wider. Then, with his head thrust forward and his arms hanging wide from bent elbows, Black Cawper took the first step forward. He kept on steadily, evenly, his metal-shod clogs coming down regularly as he went forward step by step to where the man waited.

Poor Sam’s belly turned over with terror, but he felt that this was no time for a lad to leave his chum, even if he died for it. So he scrabbled along behind Black, gripping the club firmly.

Cawper went on until he reached the flat rock where the man waited with his legs far apart and his thumbs hooked lightly into his waist-belt. Within an arm’s length Black Cawper halted and took the same position—his feet planted apart and his thumbs resting inside the waist of his corduroy trousers. Thus they stood and looked each other up and down slowly and carefully, not saying a word.

Sam waited in fear as the minutes passed; for although Black Cawper was a well-set man, the bearded chap was bigger by almost a foot.

They said no word, and when the time was done Black Cawper turned and picked up the dobbie that was shining on the ground. The way he did it was a dare-devil way, for he turned his back completely on the other man as if he scorned him. It was a bold, contemptuous thing to do, and Sam gripped the club firmly. But the bearded man made no move, only following Cawper with his eyes that seemed to smile.

Cawper turned the dobbie over carefully, pretending to examine every part of it, his back still toward the other man.

“Aye,” he said finally. “This is ma dobbie.”

He turned around and laughed, loudly, in the face of the stranger.

“Now, Ah gate what Ah coom for, Ah’ll be off on ma road hoam,” he said.

He waited patiently, but there was no answer.

“Aye, that’s champion,” Sam said quickly. “Thanking this lad varry politely for his help, us’ll be off.”

Black did not look at Sam. He stared at the unmoving man on the rock.

“Nay, but on t’other hand,” Cawper said, “Ah maught want to stay.”

The other man did not move, so Black Cawper went near to him, and squinting his eyes and looking up through his knotted eyebrows he said:

“Ah nivver turned ma back on noa man yet be-out being polite-like, as tha mought say. Soa Ah’m axing thee: wouldt’a like to feight, lad?”

The blond man laughed.

“Eigh, there’s all night for sport yet,” he answered. “Sit thee down here for a while—if tha hast time to spare.”

“Ah’ve gate as much time to spare as ony other man,” Cawper said, “and brass enow to sit ony place ma feet can carry me to.”

So they sat, each on a boulder, facing each other. Sam, not knowing what to do, sat on the ground, hugging the club. For a long time nothing was said, but Sam, knowing Black Cawper, could see he was getting ready to do a bit of thinking. Nearly half an hour passed in silence, and then Black said, suddenly:

“If a hen and a hawf laid an egg and a hawf in a day and a hawf, how much would one hen lay in a week?”

He looked cunningly at the big man, for Black Cawper prided himself on being a foxy sort of a chap at thinking. But right smack back came the big lad:

“Four eggs and two-thirds on the way to lay another.”

Sam Small drew in his breath quickly, for he knew of no stranger who’d been able to answer that problem before. Many a pint of beer had Black Cawper won from strangers in the inn with that one. Moreover, the answer given was the right one, for that’s what the schoolmaster had told them was the right solution when they’d first taken the puzzle to him to be worked out.

When this stranger gave the right answer, Black Cawper nodded his head, for he began to see he was up against a very unusual opponent this time. So he went back to doing a bit of thinking again. He thought and thought until the moon was rising up in the sky. Then he got up suddenly and walking to Sam took the club from his hand. Looking over to see if the stranger was watching, Black took the dobbie from his pocket. Not speaking a word, he threw it up in the air with a fine, careless twirl of his hand, and then swung back with his club. The dobbie flashed up in the moonlight and began to fall. Just when it was a little over waist-high, Black’s club came swinging round and caught that dobbie a crack that sounded sweet and true.

Away that ball went like a line of silver. Then it was gone, slanting up into the night. But even then they could hear it whooshing away with a dying moan in the black quietness. For a long time they waited, breathless, and the minutes passed. Faintly they heard at last the sound of the dobbie tacking and tumbling on the stones far across the valley.

Then Black nodded his head in satisfaction and sat down.

The big man said never a word, but he got up and looked carefully at Black’s club. He took it in one hand and whooshed it round a few times. Black’s club was a special one, so heavy that no man but himself could swing it with the flash of accuracy and speed that knerr-and-spell demands. However, the stranger seemed amused by it and put it aside. Instead he picked up a great ash cudgel and selected a rock. As big around as a man’s two fists, that rock was. But the big chap flipped it up in the air and swung quickly. There was a crash as if the rock had exploded, and Sam Small blinked as if he’d been blinded.

How far that rock went Sam never knew, for as he waited for the sound of it falling, there came a flash of light on the horizon and a mumbling and a bumbling of thunder far away.

“Eigh, they maun be hevin a storm up i’ t’Malvern Hills,” Sam said.

He felt he must say something, for the other two never spoke. They looked at each other, and the blond man smiled. Black Cawper knotted his brows in anger and suddenly cried:

“Ah’ll run thee a race for ten bob!”

“Good! To the tower and back,” the other man said.

At the mention of that tower, Sam did shiver for fair. But Black Cawper hesitated hardly a moment.

“Done,” he said.

“Touch the tower wall and back to Tichie here,” the stranger said.

At this Sam got fair blazing, for although he wasn’t a big man, no one had ever called him Tichie before—for that word means a dwarf man in Yorkshire. But he consoled himself with the thought that now the stranger would be beaten, for few light men were as fast on their feet as Black Cawper, and surely no big man could best him in a footrace. But before he could think much of this, Black shouted:

“Ready? Go!”

Away they went into the darkness and Sam could hear the mighty churning and a whortling of their bodies tearing through the thick bracken and the crashing of their feet upon the rocks. The sounds died away and then grew again. Sam jumped to his feet to see who was first, and when they came into view they were neck and neck. But right at the last moment the stranger seemed to glide ahead without altering his stride and flying past he tapped Sam with the tip of his hand.

It was only a light touch, yet Sam felt as if he’d been struck with a jolt of electricity and he felt himself going rolling and abowling arse-over-ashtip down the rocks. When he picked himself up and got back Cawper was paying off the bet, his forehead knotted in anger.

Now that the blond man had won the footrace, Sam realized that Black Cawper was up against something the likes of which he’d never known before and that this night was to see a contest to be remembered. For Sam knew that Black Cawper would never give in. And neither he did. In that moonlight night up in Wada’s country Black Cawper matched the stranger at all the things he knew, one by one. They matched at games of cunning and games of strength; at jumping for height and jumping for distance; at heaving rocks for yardage and heaving rocks for aim; at lifting boulders of greater and greater size above their heads. And always the stranger won.

Finally Black Cawper had not a farthing left to bet with. So he jumped up in anger and tore off his coat.

“Now lad,” he roared, “there’s nobbut one thing left. There’s gate to be a feight, between me and thee!”

“For what stake?”

“Nay, Ah gate nowt left. We maun feight for t’fun on it.”

“My heart is happy,” the blond man said.

“That’s spoken like a honest chap,” Black said and tore off his shirt.

They both stripped to the waist, and knotted their neckerchiefs carefully about their middles. Black Cawper flexed his knotty arms and lifted his chest, all covered and matted with black hair. The other man’s skin shone in the moonlight, pink and hairless as a baby’s backside.

“Now lad,” Black said, “how’ll us feight—standups or knockdowns? Us maun do this reight and proper.”

“Nay, the way matters not,” the other replied, lightly.

Sam waited anxiously. For there are two kinds of fighting up in Yorkshire. The standup is a softy sort of fighting that is drifting in from the south counties, in which it is very useless to knock a man down, for all you must do then is stand back and let him get up again.

Now the knockdown is the real Yorkshire way of fighting, for if you once strike your man down then everything else follows in a sensible sort of way—for instance, you may jump on him, or kneel on him and batter him, or if you think it best you may stand off and kick him sweetly. This is a most honest way of fighting, especially since the clogs of Yorkshire have fine, pointed toes that are capped with brass, whereas the men from the south counties have only blunt-toed boots.

So Sam waited breathlessly, for a man who feels he is to be beaten will always pick the cowardly southern style which allows him to escape whenever he wishes to lie down and fight no more. But he was proud of Black Cawper when he roared:

“Knockdowns—onless th’art flaid!”

The blond man laughed and waved his hand to say it was all the same to him. Then, bending, their arms hanging low, they began to circle each other on the flat rock. For nearly five minutes they moved thus, and the only thing heard in the clear night was the shifting of their feet on the rock and the deep drawing of the breath into their chests.

Suddenly, without a warning, the blond man charged first. But Black Cawper was ready. Like the blink of an eye he swung his clogged foot and kicked the man in the groin. So fast that you could hardly see it, he kicked again—and a third time. Then they swung around and faced each other once more, and Black Cawper laughed deep in his chest.

The other man should have dropped, but instead he charged in again, and this time from the position of his feet Sam could see he was to kick at Black’s crotch. But Black knew a trick worth two of that. Without giving ground, he half-turned in a flash, standing on one foot and holding the other foot with his hands. He held the foot knee-high, and with the metal-shod sole turned out. He did it just as the other man’s leg swung forward, and it was like a shield in defense. Sam Small heard a sound as if the shin-bone were splintering when the stranger’s leg crashed against the upheld foot.

But the big man gave no sign, and instead kept coming right in and the two locked their arms. For a time they circled, each bent over, head to head like stags in the mating season. They pushed and swayed, each feeling for a stronger hold and kicking at each other’s legs. It seemed to be deadlock, until Black Cawper shifted quickly and reaching under grasped the other’s beard. He pulled down with all his strength, yanking the man’s head down; and at the same time he brought up his knee with a force that smashed it into his opponent’s face and sent him staggering back, with blood gushing from his mouth.

Without halting a second, Black put down his head and charged. He caught his foe in the belly with his head, and the force of the butting charge sent the man flying back. His body went wildly through the air and crashed onto the rocks six feet below the flat crag. Even while it was falling, Black was following up, and charging over the rock he leaped out into space, meaning to come down feetfirst on the body of the man below.

But somehow the man managed to roll aside with a lightning twist, and scrambling to his feet he locked his arms tight about his enemy. Thus they stood, chest to chest, and Black grinned, for he had never yet met a man who could withstand his grip. So he squeezed, tighter and tighter. Sam saw the cords and veins stand out on his neck as he put on the pressure, but the other man only waited.

At last Black was done, and then it was the other’s turn. He pressed, tighter and tighter, seeking to crush in Black’s ribs. But Black, waiting as the other had waited, could not be beaten that way, either.

At a deadlock again, they began trying to lift each other, to pluck their foe from his feet and throw him. But they seemed evenly matched there, too. They swayed and staggered, crashing about and panting.

Thus, while Sam Small watched, Black Cawper and the stranger fought all that moonlight night in the land beside Wada’s Keep. They crashed over the rocks and locked together they rolled down the slopes. They tore themselves free and charged each other. They wrestled and struck and kicked themselves apart and came back to the locked embrace again.

So the moon sloped over the sky and the wind blew cold and the night went past as they fought on.

And then, slowly, Sam saw that Black Cawper was to be beaten. He charged as courageously as ever, but his arms were lifting more slowly. And in a final locked struggle, the bearded man at last bent Black Cawper back, further and further. Then he lifted him from the ground and hurled him across the rocks.

Black Cawper, his face covered with blood, lifted himself up and came back, but again he was thrown. For a second time he lifted himself, shaking his head savagely as if to get it clear. He charged in once more, and once more was thrown. And this third time, try as he might, he found himself unable to rise. He pushed with his arms upon the ground, but they would not lift his body.

But even then he was not beaten in spirit, for as the blond man advanced, instead of wrapping his arms about his head to protect his skull, the way beaten men do, Black Cawper lay there proudly and defiantly, looking up sidewise at his enemy, but without any pleading in his eyes.

The big man jumped down to where Black lay and drew back his foot. Then he said:

“All this night we have contested, thee and me.”

Black Cawper did not answer. All there was to hear was the breath coming and going as his chest heaved for air. He tried to lift himself and managed to push up his shoulders with his straightened arms. But he could get no further though he tried until the beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

Then, with a quick movement, the blond man reached down and with a great lift hauled him to his feet. Without saying a word he helped Black into his shirt and coat. When that was done he lifted his head and looked about and said:

“But a little while longer and tha wouldst have beaten me.”

His voice sounded sad and far away as he went on:

“Ah, and if tha nobbut had! For when there comes another like unto me, then Ah am released and may go ma way!”

Black sat with his head bowed. The big man looked about him, turning his head.

“Eigh, but Ah maun go. Fare thee well, lad.”

Black Cawper rose suddenly and held the other’s arm.

“Nay, tha maun’t go,” he said. “Ah want thee to coom hoam wi’ me and meet ma wife.”

“Thy wife? What for?”

Black Cawper stood up firm and held the other’s hand proudly.

“Well lad,” he said, “Ah’m a Yorkshireman born and a Yorkshireman bred, soa Ah can nobbut speak like a true sportsman. Tha’s bested me at cunning and tha’s bested me at speed; tha’s bested me at strength and tha’s bested me at feighting. Soa there’s nobbut one thing left for an honest lad to do.

“Ba gum, Ah’d like to tak’ thee hoam and hev a pup off’n thee!”

The blond man shook his head, quickly.

“Nay, Ah maun be off,” he said.

He started away, and then suddenly he stopped as if struck by a surprising idea. He spoke almost as if to himself.

“For when there is another like unto me, then am Ah released and may go ma way,” he said. “And another can guard the Keep against the invader.”

Quickly, gladly, he reknotted his kerchief. He started to smile and say: “Ah’ll go wi’ ye,” but then faintly, yet loud as faint sounds are at dawn, there came a cockcrow from the village far away. Sadly, sadly, the blond man looked at the east and cried:

“Nay, nay! Ah maun go!”

He turned and raced away before they could stop him and was gone from sight like the winking of an eye. But from the hills came his booming voice, fading away, and Sam says he heard him call, saying:

“A month from today! Full moon! Ah’ll be back and tak’ ye up on that—a mooonth from todaaay!”

Then his voice rumbled off into the hills and became one with the muttering thunder of a dawn storm.

Now that is the story that Sam Small tells. He says he can remember the exact date—as most men in the village can. For Sam was young then, and worked as a collier lad. It was long before he went into the mill and invented his famous self-doffing spindle.

And coming down from the moor that gray morning, Sam Small and Black Cawper were so late they had no time to go home to their cottages. For they were on the 6 A.M. shift at the pit, and so they went right to work.

And that very day was the day of the big do at the Silkstone Pit Number Two. It was the day of the disaster when Sam, racing from his gallery, saw Black Cawper standing like a Colossus, his great back arched and holding up a sagging cross-timber.

Everyone knows that is true, for they still tell you about it in Polkingthorpe Brig—how Black Cawper held up that great timber and roared in his bull voice to the men to hurry, and how as the men in his gallery ducked under his arched body that great timber pressed him down, lower and lower.

Black Cawper never came out of that pit, for as Sam Small ran along toward the shaft there came a rumble and a roar and the roof behind them caved in. Sam Small and seven others reached the cage in safety, but in that level sixty-seven lives were lost. Sam and the other seven came out to tell the story.

So no one can mistake the date on which Black Cawper died. And no one can mistake the date on which Ian Cawper was born—ten months later.

Now we are not too handy on arithmetic and such tricky matters; but, as we say in the village, there seems to be summat varry, varry foony soomwheers.

But, naturally, nobody ever says anything much about it because—well, Ian’s affable enough most of the time; but if he ever got real angry, and ever took such an idea in his big, blond head, why he could break any man in two with his bare hands. It’s almost supernatural, how strong Ian Cawper is.