Читать книгу Over the Hills - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 7
ОглавлениеTELLS HOW I RECEIVED A STRANGE PRESENT
It was next morning as I sat crouched above my desk copying a deed, that I heard a familiar sniff, and, glancing round towards the open casement, beheld old Zachary, the village sexton, nodding and beckoning.
"Be Master Bragg safe out o' t'road?" he questioned in hoarse whisper.
"Yes," I answered, laying down my quill.
"Then dang 'im!" quoth Zachary aloud. "And now, lad, I got a bit o' wonnerful noos: They soldiers was back again las' night."
"Ay, I know this, Zachary."
"Aha, but they cotched a pris'ner—one o' they rebels!"
"I know this, also."
"Ah, but wait, lad, wait! I ain't told ee my wonnerful bit yet—and no more I beant agoin' to nohow unless thee hold thy dratted tongue!"
"I'll be silent, Zachary."
"Well, then, this yer rebel-prisoner, spite them soldiers, wi' arl their guns, an' swords, an' bagnets, an' locks, an' chains, an' sich loik, goes and vanishes away afore their very eyes in a cloud o' brimstone fire! An' wot d'ye say to that now, Adam?"
"Wonderful! But who told you all this, Zachary?"
"'Tis no matter oo, but I heered it. Some says it be the devil's doin's, an' some says witchcraft, and do blame it onto old Pen, 'er being a witch——"
"No, no, 'twas never poor Penelope!" said I. "Why should the fools blame her?"
"Why, ye see they soldiers says as someone throwed a broomstick at 'em—an' oo should be going about wi' broomsticks but a witch—ah, an' wot be more, old Pen do ha' vanished away, too! And wot d'ye think o' that now?"
"Poor old Pen! I wonder she hasn't vanished before now seeing the way folk treat her—the fools!"
"You be a strange b'y, Adam, to hold wi' sich a brimstone witch as old Pen."
"She's been good to me, and I love her."
"Well, so 'ave I been good to ee, ain't I? Wasn't it me as——"
"Yes, yes!" said I, grasping the old man's gnarled hand, "you have been kind and good to me also, Zachary."
"Well then, Adam, I'm a goin' to be good to ee again, for 'ere be I come to give ee j'y, lad, for to-day be's thy birthday."
"Birthday?" I repeated bitterly. "Ah, Zachary, you know very well I can't have 'em, not knowing when I came into this pestilent, cruel world."
"Pest'lent? Nay, but it be's thy birthday sure'ly, Adam, for 'twere nineteen year agone this very day as I found ee a'layin' 'neath the stoile in the dead arm's o' your pore——"
"Ah, would to God you'd left me there!"
"Nay, 'twould ha' been the death o' thee."
"So much the better!" said I, scowling at the sunshine.
"Wern't much of ee, I moind—a poor, little scrimp of a atomy you was, lad; so small an' weak—though you bean't no giant, to-day, Adam, no—you ain't growd overmuch, seein' as you be nointeen year old."
"Well, I'm—what I am!" said I, miserably.
"Ay, you be a scholard, for sure, an' 'tis a gert thing to be a scholard, so they say—though, to be sure, ye can't do much but read an' cypher——"
"I can swim, Zachary; there's no one in the village can swim so far or stay so long!"
"Ay, ay, lad, 'tis wonnerful, an' you s'small an' arl!"
"I'm as big as you!" said I, frowning at the little, old man; but, seeing his stricken look, I reached out and clapped his bowed shoulder. "But, indeed, for your age you're a wonder, Zachary."
"So I be, so I be, sure-ly! I can eat an' drink wi' the best—specially drink, ah, that I can! And as for thee, Adam, tidn't thy fault thour't such a weevily scrimp—no! 'Tis the Lard be to blame for mekkin' thee such a whipper-snapper! No offence, lad!" said he, for I had turned away lest he see how the word stung. "Blame it on the Lard, lad!—And I do loik thee moighty well, whipper-snapper or no. So never turn thy back on old Zachary."
"No, no," said I, with rueful laugh, "for thour't right—whipper-snapper am I, indeed, and a spiritless slave to sit and drudge here all my days for a rogue-rascal."
"Do ee mean thy master, lawyer Bragg, dang 'im?"
"Ay, him."
"A man wi' no bowels, an' empty o' all compassion! They do say as 'e 'ave turned old Pen out of her bit o' cottage."
"Ah, has he, Zachary?"
"Ay, and 'er so old, tu—to be sure she be a witch but——"
"But I love her!" said I. "She was always kind and good to me!"
"Well, I be full o' kindness for ee likewise, Adam."
"Ay, I know, I know—you and old Pen and Squire's lady, God rest her, you three are the only folk ever showed kindness to me since I came into this hard world."
"And to-day be thy birthday, so I've brought a present for ee—leastways 'tis summat as I found in the churchyard—layin' ahint Gaffer Brewster's tombstone, it were, and a foine praper pistol it be, Adam, leastways to look at!"
"A pistol?" I repeated. "Show it me, Zachary."
Sniffing loudly, the old man delved into capacious pocket and slowly drew thence a small, beautifully finished weapon, ornate as to mountings and slender stock enriched with silver-work.
"It beant able to go off, lad, seein' as th' trigger-spring be broke-loike," explained Zachary, holding the pistol up for my inspection. "So it can't nowise do ee nor nobody never no manner o' harm, but it du be a right praper pistol t'look at—eh, lad?"
"Indeed," said I, turning the weapon in my hand, "'tis mighty fine!"
"So it be, Adam, so it be, sure-ly! 'Twere lucky me findin' of it, seein' 'tis your birthday, an' the buryin' trade bein' s'bad 'count o' me not never 'avin' nobody needin' no graves! Nobody don't never die 'ereabouts, lad, more's the pity!"
"'Tis a fine piece, 'spite of its broken lock," said I, examining my new possession, "and I thank you right heartily, Zachary."
"Why you an' me is friends, lad, ever an' allus—eh, Adam?"
"Ever and always, Zachary. Friendship is a rare, good thing in this world."
"Ay, lad, it du be a bad world sure-ly for them as be poor an' friendless, or weak and small—not as 'tis any shame to nobody bein' small, mind—no! Small 'uns be generally allus quiet 'uns, not bein' made for no fightin' an' deviltry—so weak 'uns be generally scholards seein' as they be's generally stay-at-homes, an' like 'andlin' books and pens better nor swords and pistols. So you be dooly thankful, Adam, as the good Lard ain't made ee girt an' strong, for gert, big men gen'rally turns out bad uns—cut-throats, pirates or 'ighwaymen and gets theirselves 'ung for bloody rogues—an' a good job tu! So be j'yful as the A'mighty made ee little an' not over strong, Adam—an' theer be passon a-beckin' me! I'll lay it be Joel Jordan's 'ogs a'wallerin' among my graves again, dang 'em! Many 'appy returns, Adam lad, and O be j'yful!" So saying, the old man smiled, nodded, sniffed violently and hobbled away, leaving me to stare down at the weapon in my fist, and scowling blacker than ever.
