Читать книгу The Wolf Patrol: A Tale of Baden-Powell's Boy Scouts - Finnemore John - Страница 11

On a Sunday afternoon, some three weeks after the contest round the Beacon, Chippy was crossing the heath towards the little village – or, rather, hamlet – of Locking, three miles from Bardon. He was taking a message from his mother to his grandmother, who lived in the hamlet. The latter consisted of not more than half a dozen scattered cottages, tucked away in a quiet corner of the heath – a lonely, secluded place.

Chippy's destination was the first cottage beside the grass-grown track which was the only road into Locking. He lifted the latch of the gate and entered the garden. Standing in the garden was a young man whom Chippy had never seen before. Chippy looked hard at the stranger, and the stranger took his pipe out of his mouth and stared hard at Chippy.

'Hallo, nipper!' he said at last.

Chippy acknowledged the politeness by a nod, and went up the paved path to the cottage door. His grandmother was busy about the wood-fire on the broad hearth, making the tea, and she told him he'd just come at the right time to have a cup with them.

'Who's that out in the garden, gra'mother?' asked Chippy.

'That's my lodger,' replied the old woman.

'I never knowed yer 'ave a lodger afore!' said Chippy.

'No; I never did,' she replied. 'But he come here an' he begged o' me to gie him a room, an' I did. 'Twas Jem Lacey's mother as brought him. He's come from Lunnon. His name's Albert.'

At this moment the latch of the door clicked and the lodger came in.

'Tea ready, Mrs. Ryder?' he asked.

'In a minute,' she replied. 'This here's my grandson. He've a-come over from Bardon.'

The stranger gave Chippy a cheerful nod, and they soon fell into conversation, and Albert proved very talkative.

'First-rate place to pick yer up, this is!' remarked the lodger.

'Been ill?' asked Chippy.

'Ain't I just?' replied the other. 'I'm boots at a big 'otel in the Strand, an' there's a lot o' them Americans come to our place. An' I can tell yer their stuff tykes a bit o' handlin'. Them American women, they travel wiv boxes about the size of a four-roomed cottage, more or less. An' I got a bit of a strain pullin' of 'em about. Then I ketched a bad cold, an' it sort o' settled in the bellows!' – and the stranger gave himself a thump on the chest – 'so I had to go on my club, an' I was laid up eight or nine weeks. Well, arter I'd been on the box that time, the doctor, 'e says to me, 'e says: "What you want now is a change an' fresh air." So Jem Lacey – he's porter at our place – put me up to this spot, an' it's done me wonders!'

'Yer look all right now,' said Chippy, and Chippy spoke truly.

The lodger appeared the picture of health. He was tall, broad, of fair complexion, had sandy hair and blue eyes, and, as he drank his tea, he looked as fit as a fiddle.

'Ah, it's a healthy place here on th' old h'eth!' said Mrs. Ryder.

'Look at me!' said Albert. 'I'm a livin' example!'

The conversation now turned on Bardon, and the stranger showed keen interest in the ships which had lately gone up and down the river.

'I know a bit about ships,' he remarked, 'I 'ad a brother as went for a sailor.'

After a time he returned to the garden to smoke his pipe, and Chippy looked after him through the window.

'He seems a smart un!' remarked the boy.

'Ay, that Lunnon do mek 'em lively!' replied Mrs. Ryder. 'He's the best o' comp'ny – a very nice young man, I'm sure! He's no trouble at all – blacks his own boots, an' looks arter hisself all ways! I worn't willin' at first to let him have my empty room, but I'm glad I did. The place has done him a power o' good, though he didn't look very ill time he come down!'

'What's his name?' asked Chippy.

'Albert,' replied the old woman.

'I know that one,' said the boy, 'What's t'other name?'

'I dunno,' returned Mrs. Ryder. 'He told me to call him Albert, and I niver asked his other name.'

Everything that happens, everyone that appears, must furnish food for practice for a Boy Scout, and Chippy ran his eye over Albert from head to foot, and noted every detail of his perfectly commonplace appearance. Then the boy followed him into the garden, and, true to the habit which was rapidly becoming an instinct, he dropped a glance on Albert's track. There was a patch of damp earth near the door, and the lodger's footprint was plainly stamped on it. At the first swift look Chippy gathered that there was something slightly different from usual about the heel-print. He did not look closely, for you must never let anyone know that either he himself or the trail he leaves, is being watched; but there was something. Chippy strolled forward, but no other mark was to be seen; the garden path was hard, clean gravel.

Albert had seated himself on a bench nailed against an elm in the garden fence, and was smoking calmly in the sunshine. As Chippy drew near, he turned his head and smiled in a friendly fashion.

'I s'pose you know all the creeks along the river pretty fair?' he asked.

'Most of 'em,' replied Chippy.

'I've heerd Jem Lacey talk of a place they called Smuggler's Creek, where the old smugglers used to run their boats in,' went on Albert; 'I should like to 'ave a look at that. When I was a kid I used to be fair crazy arter tales of old smugglers an' that sort o' thing.'

'I know it all right,' replied Chippy. 'There ain't no 'ouse nor anythin' for miles of it.'

'Not nowadays?' cried Albert.

'Yus!' returned Chippy. 'It's just as quiet as it used to be.'

'Could a boat from a ship in the river go up it?' asked Albert.

'Oh, easy!' replied Chippy; and, in response to the other's request, he gave clear directions for finding the spot.

'I'll 'ave a look at it,' said the lodger. 'I like a good long walk. The doctor told me as that was the best thing for me. So I got a good strong pair o' trotter-cases, an' I tramp out wet an' dry.'

He raised one of his heavy boots for a moment, and let it fall.

'Got it,' said the pleased scout to himself, but gave no sign of his discovery. The heavy iron tips on Albert's heels were screwed on instead of nailed on, and the groove in the head of each screw had left a small but distinct ridge in the earth at each point where the screws came in the heel.

It was only practice, but Chippy was as keen in practice as he was when chasing the thievish tramp for the lost basket. He had mastered the idea that it will not do to be keen by fits and starts: you must be on the spot all the time. So he took away from Locking that afternoon one fact which he had discovered about his grandmother's lodger – the boots from a London hotel – that the tips on his heels were screwed on, whereas the common method is nailing.