Читать книгу The Box of Delights; or, When the Wolves were Running - John 1878-1967 Masefield - Страница 7

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When they reached Seekings, there were the Joneses; Jemima very smart, Maria very untidy, Susan like a little fairy and Peter, a good honest sort of chap.

At lunch, Kay said, “What asses we were not to ask that Punch and Judy man to come here to give his show. Don’t you think we might go down and find him and ask him to come? Do let’s; we could have him in the study.”

“Yes, certainly, you can have him, if you can find him, and if he will come.”

“Then I vote we have tea at about half-past four,” Kay said, “and have the Punch and Judy man at about half-past five, if we can get him, then.”

“I do wish,” Maria said, “that we could hear of a gang of robbers in the neighbourhood, come down to burgle while people are at dinner, and hear all their plans, and be ready waiting for them and then have a battle with revolvers.”

“I hope we may get through Christmas without that,” Caroline Louisa said.

“Christmas ought to be brought up to date,” Maria said; “it ought to have gangsters, and aeroplanes and a lot of automatic pistols.”

After lunch, Kay went out with Peter to look for the Punch and Judy man. It was a dark, lowering afternoon, with a whine in the wind, and little dry pellets of snow blowing horizontally. In the gutters, these had begun to fall into little white layers and heaps.

“I say, it is a foul day,” Peter said. “I’ll go back and get a coat. You go on; I’ll catch you up. Which way will you go?”

“Down towards Dr. Gubbinses,” Kay said. “But you’d better ask for the Punch and Judy man: and look for him, not for me.”

Kay went on alone into the street. He thought that he had never been out in a more evil-looking afternoon. The market-place had emptied, people had packed their booths, and wheeled away their barrows. As he went down towards Dr. Gubbinses, the carved beasts in the wood-work of the old houses seemed crouching against the weather. Darkness was already closing in. There was a kind of glare in the evil heaven. The wind moaned about the lanes. All the sky above the roofs was grim with menace, and the darkness of the afternoon gave a strangeness to the fire-light that glowed in many windows.

From the cross-roads behind him a rider came cloppetting up, the horse slipping a little, the rider bent into a long white overall to keep the snow from blowing down his neck. “How d’you do, Master Kay?” the rider cried, checking his horse and looking down upon him. Kay did not recognise the man, but he noticed that his eyes were very bright. The man suddenly put his right hand to his chin. The hand wore a pale wash-leather glove; outside the glove on the middle finger was a gold St. Andrew’s Cross, set with garnets.

“They tell me, Master Harker,” the man said, “that Wolves are Running. If you see Someone,” he added meaningly, “say Someone’s safe.”

“I will,” Kay said.

“And, look out for fun, Master Harker,” the man said, shaking up the horse and riding on. Kay watched him go. He went skittering a little sideways and champing on the bit. It seemed to Kay that the man’s arms were hung with little silver chains which jangled. Later it seemed to him that it was not a horse and rider at all, but a great stag from the forest. Certainly the figure that passed round the bend out of sight was a stag.

“ ‘If I see Someone,’ ” Kay repeated, “ ‘tell him that Someone’s safe.’ I suppose he must mean the Punch and Judy man.”

At this moment Kay caught sight of the village policeman coming from the Beast-Market, and putting on his oil-skin cape.

“If you please,” Kay said, “have you seen anything of a Punch and Judy man in the Beast-Market?”

“Why, it’s Master Kay Harker,” the policeman said. “Why, Master Kay, how you’ve grown. You are back for the holidays, I suppose. Now, a Punch and Judy man, now. Why, I saw one that might be called such with his show on his back. Would it be a one with a brown dog, Master Harker?”

“Yes,” Kay said, “an Irish terrier.”

“Well, I did see such an one,” the policeman said. “He was down by Cherry Fields. He will be in one of the pubs, Master Kay, down by Lower Lock, sure to be. He wouldn’t play in the snow and this bitter cold. It’s going to be a bad fall, by the look of it.”

Kay thanked the policeman and walked on.

The Beast-Market was empty of people, save for one man who had just loaded a pile of hurdles into a cart, and was now turning for home with a horse thankful to be going from the cold.

“Please have you seen a Punch and Judy man?” Kay called. The man was singing:

“Though blind the seed, and dull the earth,

Yet sweet shall be the flower.”

The horse’s excitement, his song, and the noise of the great wheels on the paving kept him from hearing the question. He went on over the ridge and away.

At the top of the ridge, Kay saw the woodland about the camp known as “King Arthur’s Court” standing up black against the West. There was a stab of savage yellow and red over the wood. Every tree stood out distinct and seemed very near. He thought that he had never seen a landscape look so awful.

Kay went on to Lower Lock, which was a sort of double alley of very old houses near Tibbs’s Wharf where the barges were lying up for Christmas. The two alleys were known as Lockside and Quayside. There was a brew-house at Lockside, and in between the two alleys was a little public-house known as the Lock and Key. A lot went on down at Tibbs’s Wharf, around the Lock and Key. The barge-men used to come there, “just like pirates from foreign parts,” so Ellen said, and would fight the landsmen for half-a-crown or a gallon of ale (or for the fun of it if times were hard). Then the poachers used to bring their game there, and plan their big drives with the men from the city shops. Then there was cock-fighting, and sometimes dog-fighting; and men would come in sometimes from the cities, to nobble a horse at the races, or to burgle a house, and so away. No matter at what time of the day or night you came near to Lower Lock you would always meet a dirty boy doing nothing in particular hanging about on the approaches. If the boy whistled “God Save the King,” it was a sign that you were all right, but if he whistled “Holy, holy, holy,” all those who felt uneasy used to get under cover.

There was said to be a great deal of cover, in between the two alleys, chimneys which would hide a couple of men, doors which opened from house to house, false floors, under which a man could hide or a body could be hidden, traps which took one into a cellar, or into a vault or into the big old drain of the monastery: there were hiding-places above and below everywhere, where wanted men could lie; and in the old brew-house who knew what went on?

However, Kay used to enjoy going down to Lower Lock, to look at the barges and at the small sea-going vessels, colliers, topsail schooners, brigantines, and barquentines which sometimes came there. He saw the usual dirty boy as he drew near. He recognised the lad as one called Poppyhead, which is the country name for ringworm. Poppyhead was sucking a straw, under the lee of the bridge, and beating his hands to try to warm them. On seeing Kay, he took the straw from his mouth and stared, but did not whistle. “Please,” Kay said, “do you know where the Punch and Judy show went?”

“What?”

“Do you know where the Punch and Judy show went?”

“Ah.”

“Where did it go?”

“He’s gone.”

“Do you know where to?”

“He went along.”

“Up this way, was it?”

“Ah.”

“Was it this way?”

“He didn’t say.”

“But did he go this way?”

“I don’t know.”

“But did you see a man with a Punch and Judy show, passing along here?”

“Yes, I saw a man go.”

“Had he a Punch and Judy show with him?”

“I don’t know.”

A couple of ragged little boys crept out from under the bridge: they stared, with their fingers in their mouths.

“What does he want, Poppy?” one of them asked.

“I don’t know,” Poppy said.

“The man with the Punch and Judy show,” Kay said.

“He’s not there,” a woman who was passing said. “He’s gone up to Cockfarthings in the Bear-Ward.” She was all wrapped against the snow in a grey plaid, and Kay did not know who she was, but he saw a pair of very bright eyes, and noticed a gold ring of odd shape on the bare hand that clutched the plaid close. She passed on over the bridge at once, without heeding Kay’s word of thanks. Kay turned in the other direction for Cockfarthings. The three little boys called out to him to give them some ha’pennies, and as he did not, they flung stones after him and called him a Dinjer; but there were not many stones lying handy, nor could they aim well, with the snow whirling into their eyes, like gritty dust.

A very long time before, when the Abbot had ruled there, someone had kept bears for the amusement of the pilgrims coming to the monastery: part of the village was still called the Bear-Ward, though perhaps no bears had been there for four centuries. Cockfarthings was the name of a man who kept a pub called the Drop of Dew there. There had been two brothers Cockfarthings, John and Henry, but John was now dead. Henry Cockfarthings made baskets when not serving in the bar. So Kay walked up to the Drop of Dew and again admired the sign, which showed a drop of dew as big as your head, all frosty with dust of glass. He went into the bar, expecting to see Henry Cockfarthings, but Henry was somewhere in the backyard doing something with a mallet, it seemed.

The only person in the bar was the little old bright-eyed man for whom he was looking. He sat in the settle by the fire looking at a book, which he closed and put into his pocket as Kay came in. Kay, who had very quick eyes, noticed that the book was full of coloured pictures. Kay never quite knew why, but as soon as he saw the old man sitting there in the lonely bar he said, “If I saw Someone, I was to tell him that Someone is safe.”

“Ah,” the old man said, “but I say that that’s more than anyone knows when Wolves are Running, Master Harker.”

“Please,” Kay said, “will you tell me what you mean by ‘Wolves’?”

“If you keep looking out for fun,” the old man said, “you will see the Wolves as like as not. Or won’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Kay said.

“And now, Master Kay Harker,” the old man replied, “you want me to go up to Seekings with my Punch and my Judy, and at half after five.”

“Did Peter tell you?” Kay asked. “Did my friend, Peter Jones, find you?” The old man paid no attention to the question.

“I will be there, Master Harker,” the man said, “with my Punch and my Judy and at half after five. And perhaps,” he added, “maybe I’ll bring more than my Punch and my Judy, for a travelling man collects as he goes, or doesn’t he?”

“I should think he would,” Kay said, not knowing what else to say.

“Ah,” said the little old man. “You would think he would. You’re one that thinks right, then. And now, Master Harker, as I’ve heard tell that you’re fond of birds, maybe you will tell me what bird you’d like best to see, of all the birds there are.”

“There is a bird,” Kay said, “that I’d like frightfully to see, but I’m afraid it doesn’t really exist.”

“Ah, but perhaps it does exist, Master Harker,” he replied. “Come, look now at the desert sands, where the pebbles are diamonds: look now, the spice tree; smell the spice upon it.”

As he spoke he pointed at the fire. The kettle on its hob was steaming a little but not enough to dim the glow in the grate. As Kay looked, this seemed to open into a desert all glittering with jewels. Kay knew that it was an Arabian desert, for, somehow, Egypt with the Pyramids were behind him, and mirages were forming far, far in the distance. Then, lo, in the midst of the desert was the sole Arabian tree, oozing gum, its leaves dropping crystals of spice, its flowers heavy with scent, and its fruit shedding sweetness. Leaves, flowers, and fruit all grew upon it at the same time.

As Kay looked, a wind parted the boughs, and, within, on a nest of cinnamon sticks, was a Phœnix. “It’s a Phœnix!” Kay said. “And now, I can say I have seen one. Oh, I wonder, will it begin to sing?” The Phœnix did begin to sing. She lifted her head, and the plumes changed from white to gold, and from gold to orange. As the song increased, so as to shake the very house, the plumes changed from orange to scarlet, and, lo, they were no longer plumes, but flames, which burned up the Phœnix, so that the song died away, and at last there was no Phœnix, nor any nest, only some ash blowing away in the wind and a few embers.

“Watch now,” the old man said. Kay watched. Something stirred among the embers. Something was being thrust from among the embers, so that it fell with a little click upon the jewels at the tree-foot. Kay saw another thing fall, and then saw that these things were white fragments of egg-shell, which the wind carried away.

Then out of the embers in the tree a little unfledged Phœnix rose. It hopped onto a branch, pecked a flower, then pecked a fruit and crowed.

“There,” the little old man said, “that is the bird you were afraid didn’t exist. But now, Master Harker, Master Cockfarthing is coming; so you shall see me at Seekings, with my Punch and my Judy and my little dog Toby at one half after five.”

“Oh, but please,” Kay said, “I was to settle with you how much we were to pay for the performance.”

“As to that,” the man said, “suppose you were to dig down at Seekings, and found the way into what was, what would you pay for going in?”

“I don’t know,” Kay said.

“And suppose,” the man said, “you were to dig through at Seekings, and found the way into what is, what would you pay for going in? One silver sixpence with a hole in it, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Kay said.

“And I don’t know,” the old man said, “that what you give me for my great show will be a fair pay for all the wonders seen. But five new silver shillings won’t break you; that and a biscuit for my Toby, and a dish of eggs and bacon afterwards for me.”

“Indeed, you shall have all that,” Kay said.

“In my box,” the old man said, “that I carry about with me, I’ve other delights besides my show.” He tapped a little flat wooden box, covered with some black, shining waxed or tarred cloth against the rain. “But perhaps you shall see that later, Master Harker, while I eat my eggs and my bacon, with my good grinder teeth.”

Kay thanked him very much, and went out from the Drop of Dew into the snow, which was now powdering the world and making all things dim. “How on earth did he show me the Phœnix and know that I was thinking of it?” he wondered. “And how did he know me, and all about me? I have never seen him before.”

Though he had not been long at the Drop of Dew, the storm had grown much worse while he had been there. It was so bad that he thought it wise to take the short cut to Seekings, through Haunted Lane as it was called, which was a way he did not like, for it was a very dark lane of old houses some of which were still marked with red crosses on their doors to show that within them, two centuries before, someone had lain sick of the plague.

He was very glad to get out of the lane into the open, and so over the fence into the garden and into Seekings out of the snow. In the house he found Peter.

“I say, Kay,” Peter said, “I’ve been all over the place and couldn’t find your Punch and Judy man.”

“I’ve found him,” Kay said. “He’ll be here at five-thirty. And now let’s get ready for Robber Tea.”

Robber Tea was one of Kay’s delights. It was a game only played in winter evenings, in the dark old study that had shelves full of old books, and old guns on the walls above the shelves.

At the beginning of the game, the window curtains were drawn, so as to make a darkness. Then, the fire was built up with wood and coal, so as to make a hot toasting fire. Then, the table was pulled to one side of the room against the bookshelves, and some dark curtains were brought down and spread over the table and adjoining chairs, so as to make an inner cave. When the cave had been rigged, it was lit with some lanterns that had coloured glass slides. When all this was ready, a waterproof sheet was spread on the hearthrug with a supply of toasting forks, sausages, bread, butter, dripping and strawberry jam. Then, the robbers lay in the glow of the fire toasting bread and sausages, and afterwards eating them in the inner cave.

When they had feasted, the robbers decided to turn in for the night with Peter as a guard outside. The clock on the mantel struck for half-past five. There came a noise of pan-pipes outside the window.

“Here is the Punch and Judy man,” Kay said. “I’ll fetch him in.”

As he opened the door a whirl of snow sped in. There was the showman bent under the frame of his show, looking rather like a giant without any head or arms.

“Do come in out of the snow,” Kay said. The man came in and stamped the snow from him onto the mats, put down his show, and brushed the sleeves of his coat.

“Wild weather, Master Harker,” he said.

“It is wild,” Kay said. “Would you like a cup of tea before you play?”

“No, I thank you, Master Harker, but it is as wild a night as any I’ve known, ever; and I’ve been a long time on the roads, Master Harker, first and last.”

“How long, sir?” Kay asked, for the man looked very old, although his eyes were so bright.

“I get a little out of my reckoning,” he answered. “First there were pagan times; then there were in-between times; then there were Christian times; then there was another in-between time; then there was Oliver’s time; and then there was pudding time: but there’ve been a lot since them and more coming: but the time I liked best was just before the in-between time, what you might call Henry’s time.”

Kay didn’t know what the old man was talking about, but by this time, he had brushed off the snow and was ready to begin his play: so, as soon as the room was ready, and everybody comfortable on the floor, he came in and played his Punch and Judy play.

“And now, Master Harker and friends,” he said, coming outside his stand, “now that I’ve played my play, I’ll play more than my Punch and my Judy, for a travelling man collects as he goes, or doesn’t he?”

“He does,” little Maria said.

“Ah, he does, the bright Miss Maria says,” he repeated. “He collects: and what he collects he shows.”

He propped his theatre against a bookcase, sat cross-legged in front of the door and produced a little white ball, which he tossed into the air. It broke into two balls while it was aloft, he tossed them repeatedly, till they broke into four balls, which shone as they flickered up and down. Presently, while three of the balls were in the air, he beat the fourth into the ground, where it became a little bright mouse which ran away into a hole: then he tossed another ball to the ceiling where it became a shining bird which flew away: then he caught the remaining two balls one in each hand: one turned into a red rose which he gave to Jemima, the other to a white rose which he gave to Susan.

“These are all little things,” he said, “which a travelling man collects as he goes.”

After this, he turned to Maria, who was the smallest person there. “And you, Miss Maria,” he said, “I’m told you are fond of guns and that, so shall I see what will happen if I blow my bugle? But first I must tap the wainscot, to see if there’s any gate there.”

He walked across to the western wall and tapped the wainscot. It was all dark old wood there, with no hole or cranny in it, yet now, after he had touched it, there was a tiny double gate of bronze, with gilded pinnacles, in the wood. As they all watched this, the old man blew a little bugle, and instantly from within the wainscot a little bugle answered. Then suddenly a little tiny voice called out an order from inside the wainscot, and instantly two little tiny men pushed the double gates open and stood aside. Then a lot of little drums and fifes and trumpets struck up a march, and out came a band of soldiers headed by a drum-major. There must have been at least a hundred of them. They had big drums as big as walnuts and little drums as little as filberts; and tiny white ivory fifes and lovely little brass trumpets. They were playing Green Sleeves. They wore scarlet coats, with white facings, and neat little black trousers, but the beautiful thing was the way they marched. Then after them, there came a regiment of foot-soldiers, then a regiment of cavalry on little horses, and the horse of the Colonel, which was a white charger, shied at little Maria: then after these there came a regiment of artillery with guns and ammunition wagons: then after these there came wagons full of supplies of all sorts. The band halted in the middle of the room: but went on playing while the army marched about. Then presently, the army halted: the foot-soldiers piled their arms: the cavalry dismounted and tethered their horses; the artillery men parked their cannon and put their horses into lines; then they unpacked the wagons and put up tents, unrolled blankets, lighted camp-fires, cooked their suppers and went into the tents to sleep, except the sentries who marched about, and sometimes said “Who goes there?” Presently the buglers came to the tent doors to blow the waking call. Everybody sprang at once to work: some struck the tents: others lit fires and cooked bacon and made coffee, or loaded up the wagons, or rubbed down and harnessed the horses, after giving them their feed. Then, when the men had breakfasted, they all fell in, the horsemen mounted, the artillery men climbed onto their guns, and away they all marched as the band played, three times round the room and then through the double bronze gates which closed behind them. After they had closed, the children heard the band fading away into the distance till it was silent. As they looked at the little gates, they began to fade, till in a minute no trace of them was there: the wainscot was old, dark wood, in a solid panel.

“That was lovely,” Maria said.

The old Punch and Judy man said, “I seem to remember that little Miss Susan was once very fond of butterflies. I’ll see if I can’t call a few, in spite of the cold.”

He began to blow a low note upon his pan-pipes. Presently he said, “The leaves are falling. All the cocoons are in the leaves.” It seemed to the children that the ceiling above them opened into a forest in a tropical night: they could see giant trees, with the stars in their boughs and fire-flies gleaming out and ceasing to gleam among the lower sprays. Heavy leaves began to waver down onto the floor, where they lay crackling, till it grew brighter, when lo, the sun was shining among the tree-tops, green and grey parrots and scarlet cardinal birds came pecking the fruits, and now, out of the fallen leaves, there came butterfly after butterfly, bursting out of cocoons and chrysalides of many strange forms into images of lively beauty, bright as jewels. They sunned themselves for a moment, then leaped into the air and flew about. “Put a little sugar from the bowl into your hands,” the old man said to the children, “then they will perch on your hands.” The children put sugar into their hands, moistening it from the milk-jug, and lo, the lovely gleaming blue and scarlet and golden creatures perched on their hands and glistened and quivered there, as they thrust long snouts into the sweetness. Little Susan had as many as nine on her hand at once, as well as a big shining blue one which perched on her hair. When all the butterflies had had some sugar, they flew up into the air, and danced in and out in a maze, as gnats will, but the maze danced by them was all in order and very beautiful. At last they all went spiring up into the bright tropic day, and flickered away among the trees, going round and round and round till they were out of sight, so far up. Then the tropic forest disappeared: it was the study ceiling again.

“And now,” the old man said, “I’ll show you yet another little play, which many an ancient queen has watched, in her palace by the banks of the Nile.” He produced two cubes of ivory, one red, one white; they looked like dice.

“Now,” he said, taking one in each hand and shaking them, “look at these.”

He was shaking the dice in a strange way, so that suddenly the moving rhythm of the hands became waves of the sea; the little red cube was a tiny little red shark, snapping after a little white skate; he swam round and round the room after it, always just missing it, and at last, when he had almost caught it, the skate turned into a skylark and went up singing to the ceiling. Instantly the shark turned into a hawk and went after her. They went round and round the room up and down: always the hawk nearly caught her, and once it seemed had caught her, but the lark turned into a little deer and ran among the children. The hawk turned into a wolf and chased her; yet just as he was about to pounce, the deer turned into a princess on a little white pony, and galloped away. The wolf turned into a red knight who called for a black horse and presently galloped away after her. The children could hear the hoofs dying away and away and away. A lot of little green fairies came dancing down onto the forest track by which the riders had gone. They pulled the sides of the forest inwards, so that at last there was the study wall again.

“Now,” the old man said, “if you’ve been pleased with my shows, if I may have my silver shillings, my biscuit for my Toby, my egg and my bacon for myself, I will be taking my way.”

Kay paid him the silver shillings, and brought in biscuits and some good meaty bones for Toby, and then a supper of eggs and bacon, with hot buttered toast, and a jug of sweet chocolate.

The old man seemed suspicious about the French window. Before he sat to his supper at the table, he went to it, to make sure that the curtains were drawn completely across it.

While he ate, the children sat round the fire, talking of the wonderful show, and telling each other what they would like to see again. Suddenly the dog Barney pricked his ears and from just outside the French window two key bugles and an oboe struck up the tune of “O come, all ye Faithful.” Some twenty singers outside in the snow broke into the hymn.

“Carol-singers,” Kay said, “and very good ones. How silently they came up. I didn’t hear a single step.”

Peter went to the window and twitched back the curtain a little. “It’s deep snow already,” he said peering out. “They have got Japanese lanterns. Do look how beautiful they are!”

Outside was a party of twenty men and women wrapped against the snow, and bearing big Japanese lanterns hung upon sticks. Snow was whirling all about them. Their shoulders were covered white with snow. Their faces glowed in the lantern-light. The musicians had music-stands with electric torches.

“That’s not the Condicote Choir. We’ve not got a style like that. Who are they?” Kay said.

“That’s the Cathedral Choir from Tatchester,” Caroline Louisa said. “There are the Canons and the Precentor, and that’s the Bishop himself.”

When the hymn had finished Kay and Caroline Louisa went into the hall to the side door. The Bishop and his singers moved towards them as they opened.

“Good evening, Bishop,” Caroline Louisa said, “come in into the warmth, while we brew some cocoa for you.”

The party came in stamping the snow onto the door-mats. They stood in the hall while Kay ran to fetch Jane, Ellen and Joe. Then they all sang “Good Christian Men, Rejoice,” “Christians Rejoice,” “Deep was the Night,” “O Night peaceful and blest” and “Noël.” When they had sung, Kay and the others brought buns and hot cocoa for the singers. They sat about in the hall and ate and drank.

“And now,” the Bishop said, “we have finished our tour here and must be thinking of getting back. I want you all to come tomorrow night to the Palace at Tatchester. We are having a children’s party, with a Christmas Tree, at five o’clock, and I shall expect you all.”

The children said that they would be delighted and thanked him for the thought.

“Then, another thing,” he said: “I want you all to come on Christmas Eve to the Midnight Service of the Thousandth Christmas Celebration in Tatchester Cathedral. There has been a midnight Celebration every Christmas Eve since the Foundation. We wish this Thousandth Festival to be really memorable.”

The children loved any festival which would keep them out of bed at midnight like grownups. They said that they would love to come.

He looked about the faces gathered in the hall: “Ha,” he said, “I think I have seen that face before. Aren’t you my little friend, Miss Maria? Well, I am glad to see you again.”

Little Miss Maria showed some small confusion, for once, only a year before, she had started the Bishop’s motor-car and driven it into a lamp-post. However, the Bishop seemed inclined to forgive and forget.

A moment later he caught sight of the Punch and Judy man, who was packing his puppets into a box.

“Ha,” he said, “isn’t this the famous Punch and Judy man, Cole Hawlings? We have met before, I think.”

“You’ve seen me a many times,” the old man answered. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“And you’re just the very man I was hoping to see; a Punch and Judy showman,” the Bishop said. “At this party tomorrow we shall have a great many children. Would you consent to come to play for them?”

“Right gladly,” the old man said. “I will bring my Punch and my Judy and my dog, Toby; for I have played a Christmas play on that Night ever since pagan times, so to speak.”

“Thank you,” the Bishop said. “Will you be at the Palace at half-past four, then, tomorrow? Good. And now ‘Good Night to all of you; a merry Christmas and a most happy New Year, and many, many thanks for your most warm welcome.’ ”

As the members of the Choir swathed themselves up against the snow before venturing forth, most of the children scattered upstairs. Kay waited to open the door for the Choir and, while standing near the door, he heard, or thought that he heard, the noise of swift padding feet. The thought flashed into his mind, he did not know why, that these were the Alsatian dogs again. “They move just like wolves,” he thought. The noise ceased and he thought that he must have been mistaken. Then he saw that the dog, Barney, had pricked his ears and was staring towards the door. Barney uttered a little yap.

“There was something passing,” Kay said to himself.

But now the Choir was ready to start. He opened the door and, as he opened it, he saw that three men were there at the French window which led into the study. Undoubtedly, they were trying to peer in through the window; as the door opened they wheeled round.

One of the first of the Choir to leave the house was the Precentor who lifted his Japanese lantern to see who the men were, and Kay saw that one of the men was the foxy-faced man who had done the card trick in the train.

He cried, “Aha, Precentor, we were just too late for your concert, what?”

He and the other two caught step with the Precentor and passed along with him. Kay could not hear what the Precentor called them nor what they talked about, for the other members of the Choir were filing past, each saying something, such as: “Burr-r-r, what a night!” “I say, isn’t it snowing!” “Don’t you stop at the door, Kay. You’ll catch cold,” etc., etc.

Kay noticed that Cole Hawlings came to the door as the last of the Choir passed out; he leaned from it to watch the departing party. As he turned back into the house, Kay thought that his face was very white. He noticed that he walked somewhat unsteadily back into the study. “He didn’t like those three men,” he thought.

As Kay shut the door and slipped the chain onto it, he heard the bell of the back door violently rung. Someone beat on the knocker there. Jane and Ellen hurried to the kitchen to see who was knocking. Then the telephone bell in the porch began to ring. Caroline Louisa went to the telephone.

At this instant, little Maria, who was with the other children upstairs, leaned over the banisters and cried, “Buck up, Kay! We are going to dress up and play Pirates.”

“All right. In a minute,” Kay said.

He went back into the study to look after the old man. He noticed that the curtains, which had been disarranged when Peter and the rest had stared at the carol-singers, were now carefully re-drawn over the French window. The Punch and Judy man stood in the corner near the door, looking very white and tense, as though the earth were about to open.

“So, Master Harker,” the old man said, “we always used to say, ‘It’s the snow that brings the wolves out.’ Many a bitter night did we stand the wolf-guard. Now here, once more, they’re running. We must stand to our spears.”

“Everything’s all right,” Kay said.

“Where did those three men go?” the old man asked in a whisper.

“I think they went with the Choir,” Kay said, “but I couldn’t see.”

The old man shook his head and pointed at the dog. Barney had stiffened in his tracks, with a bristling fell. He was showing his teeth and staring at the curtained window. There could be no doubt that somebody was outside.

The old man lifted a finger to the dog, perhaps to keep him from barking. He then shut his eyes and muttered something. It seemed to Kay that he was in great distress of mind. Then, as he opened his eyes, it seemed to Kay that he had found comfort, for he smiled, pointed, and whispered to Kay, “Master Harker, what is the picture yonder?”

“It is a drawing of a Swiss mountain,” Kay said. “It was done by my grandfather. It is called the Dents du Midi, from the North.”

“And do I see a path on it?” the old man said. “If you, with your young eyes, will look, perhaps you will kindly tell me if that is a path on it.”

As they stared at the picture, it seemed to glow and to open, and to become not a picture but the mountain itself. They heard the rush of the torrent. They saw how tumbled and smashed the scarred pine-trees were among the rolled boulders. On the lower slopes were wooden huts, pastures with cattle grazing; men and women working.

High up above there, in the upper mountain, were the blinding bright snows, and the teeth of the crags black and gleaming. “Ah,” the old man said, “and yonder down the path come the mules.”

Down the path, as he said, a string of mules was coming. They were led, as mules usually are, by a little pony mare with a bell about her neck. The mules came in single file down the path: most of them carried packs upon their backs of fallen logs, or cheeses made in the high mountain dairies or trusses of hay from the ricks; one of them towards the end of the line was a white mule, bearing a red saddle.

The first mules turned off at a corner. When it came to the turn of this white mule to turn, he baulked, tossed his head, swung out of the line, and trotted into the room, so that Kay had to move out of his way. There the mule stood in the study, twitching his ears, tail and skin against the gadflies, and putting down his head so that he might scratch it with his hind foot. “Steady there,” the old man whispered to him. “And to you, Master Kay, I thank you. I wish you a most happy Christmas.”

At that, he swung himself onto the mule, picked up his theatre with one hand, gathered the reins with the other, said, “Come, Toby,” and at once rode off with Toby trotting under the mule, out of the room, up the mountain path, up, up, up, till the path was nothing more than a line in the faded painting, that was so dark upon the wall. Kay watched him till he was gone, and almost sobbed, “O, I do hope you’ll escape the wolves.”

A very, very faint little voice floated down to him from the mountain tops. “You’ll see me again”; then the mule-hoofs seemed to pass onto grass. They could be heard no more. “He has gone for ever,” Kay thought, as he watched.

There came, as it were, a little gust of wind, blowing what looked like snowflakes from the mountain path. The snowflakes flew out into the room and fluttered about the ceiling, growing rapidly larger. They resolved themselves into shapes of coloured tissue-paper, such as the caps and crowns sometimes found within crackers: there were also little paper balloons, in the shapes of cocks, horses, ships and aeroplanes: these floated and lifted and drifted down. Kay saw that there was one of a different shape and colour for each child there: and printed, too, with his or her name. Thus:—

For little Maria,

from Cole Hawlings.

Shoot Not, Shock Not.

For Master Kay Harker,

from Cole Hawlings.

The Wolves are Running.

For good Miss Jemima,

from Cole Hawlings.

Happy Is that Happy Makes.

When the coloured papers had all floated to the floor, the lights seemed to grow dimmer. Caroline Louisa came into the study.

“Kay,” she said, “I am so very sorry to upset your holiday. My brother is very ill again, in London, with his recurrent fever: and there is nobody to look after him at all. I’m afraid I must go up to him by the seven train tonight. Celia has been cabled for and should be on her way to him now: I ought to be there until she comes. I hate to leave you on the first night of the holidays, but I hope it won’t be for more than just tonight, or perhaps tomorrow night as well.”

“I say, I’m most awfully sorry,” Kay said. “I do hope you’ll find your brother better. I say, can’t I drive you to the station?”

“No, indeed, Kay, thanks,” she said. “You will not drive any car for five years.”

“Well, can’t I see you off?”

“No, no, thank you. I’ve told Joe to take me. He’s putting on the chains now.”

“I will see you off though,” Kay said. “It’s an awful night. I hope your train won’t be snowed up.”

“It’s not so bad as that,” she said. “Now I must run and be ready. I shall telephone to you at ten tomorrow morning.”

“You won’t,” Kay said. “All the wires will be down from the snow.”

While she ran to be ready, Kay slipped out of the front door to the garage, where he found Joe chaining the car-wheels to keep them from slipping in the snow.

“Even with the chains her’ll slither in the drifts,” Joe said.

Indeed, when they started for the station a few minutes later her did slither in the drifts. Kay went to the station to see Caroline Louisa away, and much enjoyed the car’s skidding and the appearance of the engine of the express, glowing with fire and steaming, yet all hung with icicles from snow which had melted on the boiler and frozen as it dripped.