Читать книгу Nutbrown Roger and I, A Romance of the Highway - J. H. Yoxall - Страница 7

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The moment I was out of sight of Nathan I sat down on a heap of gravel by the roadside and began to devour the great hunch of bacon-and-bread.

I was ravenous; hunger had been plaguing me for hours. Only a sorry breakfast had been given me, and dinner had been withheld until I should perfectly know my lesson. With what a relish, then, I ate the coarse bread, the fat and “reesty” bacon! But it was a heavy meal for a lad of fourteen, accustomed to meagre if more dainty fare, and I felt very sleepy after it. As by this time the afternoon was glaring and sultry, the heat and my weariness combined with the meal to invite me to nap. Tying up my diminished bundle, I made a pillow of it, and nestling into the warm and yielding sandy gravel, in five minutes I was fast asleep.

Five minutes afterwards—as it seemed to me—I was roused by the touch of a whiplash on my ill-defended shins. Dazed and startled I sat up, rubbing my eyes and blinking. By the length of the shadows on the yellow road I could tell that I had slept for hours.

“Why, it must be five o’clock and after!” I was thinking, when “swish” came the whiplash, gently curling round my legs again.

“Is the boy deaf? Is the boy dumb? Is the boy a fool? Now then, boy, now then, boy, what are you doing there—hey, boy, hey?” was barked at me in sharp, quick tones.

The words came from a short, stout, funny-looking old gentleman, sitting in a ramshackle old gig, drawn by a fat sleepy-looking old pony.

“Pills and powders! what do you mean by it—hey, boy, hey? Sleeping on a gravel-heap in the bare sun! Catch your young death of sunstroke! Come off it; come off it this instant, young dog! Up you jump, or I’ll tickle those ragged breeches of yours with whip-cord, hey!” said the short, stout, funny-looking gentleman in short, sharp barks, with a warning flick of the lash in the air around my head.

I did not hesitate. I jumped up, shouldered my stick and my pitiful little bundle, and stood silent and watchful, with my feet in the ditch by the side of the road.

“Is the boy deaf? Is the boy dumb, I say?” barked the old gentleman. “Is the boy a fool, hey? Hasn’t the young dog a tongue? Lungs and lancets! but I’ll make him speak!”

“Flick, flack!” went the warning whip again.

“Who are you, boy? and what’s your business, boy? and where on earth are you going to—hey, boy, hey?”

“I am going to—to—to Redwych first, sir,” I answered, with a puzzled look at this queer old man.

His short stout form was clad in a plain broad-skirted coat of blue with gold buttons, and he wore a long buff waistcoat, whitish knee-breeches, black gaiters, and heavy shoes. Above all this was a round rosy face set in high collars, curly black wig, and a broad beaver hat. The rosy round face with its blue eyes and hundred wrinkles smiled down at me, and the kindly-looking mouth barked out:

“Going to Redwych, hey? Then why on earth don’t you jump in and ride, boy, hey? Don’t stand there looking like a waxwork! In with you, or——” and “flick” went the whip.

“Your bark is worse than your bite,” thought I, and I climbed into the gig.

“Kee-e-up, Paregoric!” called out the old gentleman.

Instantly the fat old pony woke out of his nap and started off at a most astonishing trot.

“That’s the way, my beauty!” cried the old gentleman, dropping the whip into its socket.

“Didn’t think he could go like that, did you, boy? Kee-e-up, my Paregoric!”

“Soon be in Redwych now, boy,” said the queer old fellow, when we had silently ridden a mile. “Ever been there before, boy, hey?” he questioned, with a sharp sideway look.

“Yes, once or twice, Doctor Arbuthnot,” was my unguarded answer.

“Hum, hum! Knows my name, hey? Seen me before, boy—hey, boy, hey?”

“Once, sir. I saw you come to the ostler’s broken leg at the ‘Solway Arms’.”

“Hum, hum! And what may your name be, young sir? And where do you hail from, hey?”

I stammered, and then paused. The doctor looked me up and down, scanning my face and hands and shabby dress.

“I—I would rather not tell, sir,” I said at last.

“Hum, hum! You won’t say? Then I must get to know elsewhere, boy—hey, boy, hey?”

Not another word was spoken, and presently we drove into Redwych town.

The little place lay straggling on the summit of a little hill. Past tiny cottages, tiny shops, and tiny blooming gardens, we drove up to the Green, the open grassy space around the tiny church. The doctor pulled up Paregoric outside that ancient hostelry, the “Fox-and-Goose”.

“Out we get, boy, and in we go,” he said, and we entered the great inn-kitchen.

A blast of noisy singing met us at the door. I knew the ballad, it was of a famous robber-captain and his deeds.

“He-e cock’d a pistil an’ he draw’d a knife,

An’ he blow’d on a whistle shrill,

An’ four-and-twenty robber-men

Come a-troopin’ o’er th’ hill.”

It ceased as we entered the kitchen.

“Good d’en to you, men,” said the doctor. “You’re merry betimes, hey? ’Tis hardly seven by the clock. But don’t let me spoil sport. I’m gone in a moment. Does any of you yeomen know this young sir by name? that’s what I want to know. I found him on the Beolea road, and I think he is running away from his home.”