Читать книгу The Happy Traveller - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 4

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HE was still jogging steadily two hours later. Now and then he had rested for a few moments, sitting by the roadside to ease the aching of legs unused to steady running; but always fear drove him on and made him forget weariness. And yet he knew that he had not come very far: not into safe country. There were still houses everywhere, linking up scattered outer suburbs, through the outskirts of which he crept like a thief, slinking in every shadow. The paddocks were small and bare, with no hiding-places. Teddy had begun to wonder how far he could run—if morning light would find him still in this horrible network of houses, in which he struggled like a fly in a spider’s web.

He was on a main road, though where it led he did not know. It threaded the little towns on its length like beads on an unending string. Teddy edged away from it when the towns came, but he always found his way back to it again, feeling that it would lead him in the right direction. But it was so mercilessly long.

He had sat down again to rest when the sound of horses’ hoofs and the rattle of heavy wheels sent him scurrying into the shelter of the hedge. A van came round the corner; a huge van, drawn by two horses, its great bulk towering against the dimly-lit sky. It creaked and jangled past him, the horses trotting slowly. Teddy noticed that the near-side one was lame. Apparently the driver noticed it at the same moment, for the van was pulled up suddenly, drawing in towards the hedge where Teddy lay. The driver got out, unhooked a hurricane lantern that swung from the splash-board and, muttering to himself, went forward to look at the limping horse’s hoofs.

There was the sound of a cantering horse approaching, and in a moment the rider pulled up beside the van.

“Anything wrong?” he asked. He was a tall fellow, little more than a boy, riding a fidgety black.

“Oh, she’s only picked up a stone,” the driver answered, putting down the mare’s hoof. He dug his hand into his pocket. “I got a pick in me knife—that’ll fetch it out.”

“Can I help you?”

“No need, thanks—I can do it. Take a bit of time in this light, but it only wants patience.” He laughed. “I was just about asleep, I reckon—sorter felt the ol’ mare goin’ dot-an’-carry-one in a dream.”

“You’re travelling late, aren’t you!” the rider asked.

“Yes, worse luck. We’re movin’ down into the country, an’ I got the loan of the van for twenty-four hours. Got to use pretty well every minute of the twenty-four, but I’ll do it all right. Times is that hard a man’s glad to save cartin’ furniture to the country by rail; them railways charge as much as the stuff’s worth. Travellin’ at night, I’ll get it into the house before the missus and kid come down.”

“That’s right,” agreed the rider. “All the same, I’m glad it isn’t me to be on the road all night.”

“Oh, I’ll be gettin’ a nap now an’ then,” said the driver. “These ol’ horses is that wise they don’t need much lookin’ after.”

He bade the other a cheery “Good night,” stooping over the mare’s hoof as the younger man rode away towards the city. The stone was an obstinate one, as he had foreseen; in the uncertain light of the hurricane lantern it was some minutes before he succeeded in getting it out. He climbed back to his seat, shook the reins with a good-humoured “Gidap there!” and the van rattled down the road once more. The driver settled himself comfortably in his seat and prepared to go to sleep again.

He did not know that he carried a passenger. While he was engrossed with his task Teddy had slipped behind the van like a shadow; and now he was curled up among the furniture at the back, finding what chinks of space he might between the legs of a wash-stand and those of a kitchen safe. It was not comfortable, but Teddy did not ask for comfort. All he cared for was that he was progressing towards his dream-country, and not on his own tired feet. And presently, rooting round quietly in the darkness, he encountered a roll of carpet with his head, and it was more welcome than had ever been the Orphanage pillow. He snuggled against it and fell fast asleep.

The night passed in a succession of uneasy dreams, generally of Mr. Pullinger. That genial soul pursued him throughout his sleep, and no matter where he hid, sooner or later the heavy step sounded, the heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and there was his enemy, grim and triumphant, with the Orphanage in the background, waiting like an enormous trap. These dreams, coupled with the shifting nature of the roll of carpet and the meat-safe legs, which moved with every jolt of the van, prevented his sleep from being restful, and when he came to complete wakefulness in the early dawn he felt as though his whole body were one large bruise. He rubbed his eyes and looked round him in bewilderment, expecting to see the clean and varnished expanse of Dormitory B. Then recollection returned, and he gave a happy sigh.

Other people might not have thought his surroundings exhilarating. He was crouched in an incredibly small space amid the furniture, which towered round him and crowded upon him as though resenting the fact that he was there. It was poor enough furniture—deal cupboards and tables, wooden chairs, fragments of dismembered iron bedsteads, and piles of packing-cases, reaching to the very roof of the van. A catastrophe had evidently taken place in a case near him, from which came a clinking of badly-packed bottles and jars, while a stream of what looked like jam had found its way through a crack in a board and was struggling across the van floor. Teddy moved hastily to avoid it—Matron was short in the temper if you got jam on your clothes. Then he remembered that there was now no Matron for him, and in the exultation of the thought he almost moved back towards the oozing stickiness. But not quite: Teddy had natural ideas on being clean. Instead, he wriggled upon his hands and knees and peeped out over the tail-board of the van.

They were going slowly between hawthorn hedges that lined each side of a very wide road. The track for vehicles ran in the middle, and on either hand were stretches of short grass, with occasional trees. Beyond the hedges were paddocks, dotted with cattle and horses; a few houses were in sight, but there was no sign of any town. Then Teddy’s investigations ceased suddenly, for the van stopped and he heard the driver’s feet on the road. Was he coming round to the back? Teddy scuttled away like a panic-stricken rat, crawling into the deepest recesses he could find among the furniture.

But the driver did not appear. Instead Teddy heard him speaking to the horses.

“Guess you’ve earned a bit of a spell, ol’ mokes,” he said. “How about nose-bags, eh? An’ I could do with a drop of tea meself. I guess you thought I was never goin’ to get to this creek. Get back, Blossom, if you want me to get this trace undone.”

Teddy crouched, motionless, listening to the rough, good-tempered voice and to the clatter of the harness as, bit by bit, the horses were released. Then he heard them led away slowly, and he guessed that they were being taken to the creek for a drink. Should he slip away now while the driver’s back was turned? But he did not know how near the man might be, and there was risk in it; if he were caught, how easy it would be to take him back to the Orphanage when the van made its return journey that afternoon. Most men would think it was the right thing to do. In the end Teddy decided to remain where he was, and to trust to luck for a better chance of getting away without being seen. After all, the farther he let the van take him, the better; every mile was something that put him farther from the righteous annoyance of Mr. Pullinger.

But it was weary work, waiting during the hour’s halt. The horses were led back near the van and provided with nose-bags, and soon he heard the merry crackling of burning sticks and smelt the sweet wood-smoke that he had not known for three long years. That was good: but it was less pleasant to picture the driver brewing tea and stretching himself lazily on the grass to eat his breakfast. Not until then had Teddy realized how desperately thirsty he was. His long run through the first hours of his flight had been enough to make him want a drink badly before he gained the shelter of the van; there the dust from the floor and the packing-cases, together with his uneasy sleep, had given him a mouth like a lime-kiln. He tried to nibble some of his crusts of bread as he crouched in his hiding-place, but they were hard and dry, and he could not swallow more than a couple of mouthfuls. There was nothing to do but to endure as best he might. He remembered having heard that thirst-smitten castaways found relief in sucking some hard object, and as his precious half-crown was the only clean thing about him, he sucked that. It did not help his mouth much, but he fancied it comforted him a little.

It seemed ages before he heard the welcome sound of jingling harness once more. Not until the van was in motion did he dare to crawl out of his nook to the comparative air and space of his first hiding-place. He prodded the roll of carpet into a position that would give him greater comfort, and, leaning against it, watched the trees and hedges as they went by. But for his devouring thirst he would have been happy, weary and aching as he was. And at last neither thirst nor weariness troubled him, for the little body sagged down on the carpet, and Teddy was asleep.

* * * * * * *

“Well, I’m blessed!”

He woke with a great start and a stifled cry of terror—again in his dream he had been fleeing from Mr. Pullinger. But it was not Mr. Pullinger who stood looking at him with a face of comical dismay.

The van was standing still, and there was no sign of the road. So much he realized; but nothing else was clear except the face of the driver looking at him over the tail-board of the van. Teddy blinked back at him stupidly, struggling to collect his thoughts.

“An’ where d’you think you come from?” demanded the driver. “You don’t tell me I brought you all the way from Town?”

Teddy shook his head.

“No, sir. I got in on the road.”

“Well, you got a pretty good cheek of your own, haven’t you?” The driver looked at him, and a slow grin overspread his face. “S’welp me if you aren’t about the dirtiest youngster I ever saw! Was you white once, or was you always like that?”

“Am I dirty?” Teddy looked at his hands, and grinned in spite of himself. “They are black, aren’t they?”

“They aren’t a circumstance to your face,” stated the driver. “Here, tumble out of that till I get a look at you.”

Teddy crawled out into the sunshine, stiffly, and stood before his captor, a huddled, miserable figure. The driver looked him over carefully.

“Well, you’re a pretty object,” was the conclusion of his inspection. “An’ if you was my kid what’s at home I sh’d say you could do with a drink.”

“I could so!” said Teddy fervently.

“Well, there’s tea yet in the billy,” the driver said. “About cold now, but I don’t s’pose that’ll worry you.” He poured some into a tin pannikin and handed it to the boy, watching silently as he drained it. Then he held out his hand for it, refilled it, gave it back, and watched him again. After a third time, all in silence, he did not offer to refill the cup, but exhibited the fact that the billy was empty.

“That was the best drink ever I had,” said Teddy solemnly. “Thanks, sir. An’ I’ve got half a crown, if that’ll pay you for the ride.”

“Bloomin’ rich man you are, aren’t you?” demanded the driver, with interest. “I’ll see presently what the meter says on me taxi.” He chuckled deeply over this thought. “And wot about a bite of breakfast? You’ve had the lodging, so you might as well have the board.”

“I guess I’ve had the board all right,” said Teddy, rubbing an aching leg. “Feels like it, anyhow.”

The driver’s chuckle became almost dangerous, bordering on choking.

“Haw, haw! Good for a joke yet, ain’t you, son? I’ll bet you weren’t on any bed of roses on the old van floor. I ain’t as skinny as you, but I wouldn’t care for it meself. Well, I’ll find something for you to get your teeth into, and then we can see what’s to be done with you. I guess it ain’t a hangin’ matter.” He turned to the van and took out a battered basket from which protruded greasy papers.

Teddy hesitated. He was hungry, but he had been bred to cleanly ways.

“Wonder if I could get a wash first, sir? I’m too jolly dirty to eat.”

“Sure you can,” said the driver cheerfully. “This is me property, an’ even if it ain’t no Buckin’am Pallus we ain’t short of water.” He waved his hand, and Teddy realized that the van had come to a resting-place at the back of a small wooden house standing in a bracken-grown paddock. “There’s a tank over there, an’ if you look on the stand behind it you’ll find a bit of soap I lef’ when I was doin’ odd jobs last week. An’ here’s a bucket. You get along, son, an’ remember your face is about two shades worse than your hands.”

He filled his pipe as he watched the boy hurrying across to the tank. The water splashed into the bucket as Teddy hunted for the soap; then off came his coat, and in a moment the dark head, now grey with dust, disappeared altogether. It came up dripping; then followed a vigorous soaping and the head vanished once more. The driver’s grin widened. He was still smiling when Teddy trotted back in a few moments, dripping and cheerful.

“Blest if I ever saw such a boy to wash!” said the driver. “Now my young Jimmie at home, he’s that scared of soap you’d think it was a tiger. Sorry I ain’t got a towel, but you’ll soon dry. Feel better?”

“Miles!” said Teddy briefly.

“There’s no denyin’ that you look better now you’ve come out of the cloud,” said the driver. “Breakfast next, I guess.” He handed him a couple of enormous sandwiches. “Now, you get busy on that, an’ tell me what you mean by sneakin’ rides in private kerridges.”

Teddy took a huge bite—partly because he was hungry and partly to gain time. Since it was clearly impossible for him to speak, the driver contemplated him patiently.

“I wanted to get to the country,” the boy said. “I’m looking for a job.”

“You’re just about the size to be wantin’ one,” said his companion. “A bit of station-managin’ ’ud be about your line, eh?”

“No, a job on a farm,” Teddy said seriously. “Lots of boys younger’n me work on farms.”

“Sure, they do. An’ where’s the farm?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find one, though, when I’m in the country.”

“Well, you might. An’ what do your dad and mother say about it?”

“They’re dead,” said Teddy steadily. But there was something in his voice that wiped the smile from the driver’s face.

“By Jove!” he uttered. “Poor kid! An’ where you been livin’?”

“Oh—at a place,” Teddy answered vaguely. He felt his colour rising and forced himself to meet the driver’s look. “I haven’t done anything wrong—not really wrong,” he faltered. “Please don’t ask me any more.”

“Well, you don’t look exactly a hardened criminal,” said the driver, after a pause. “An’ I s’pose if a feller does sneak a ride it don’t give one any reason to boss him. ’Tain’t my business where you come from, ’s far’s I can see. An’ you got two-an’-six to start on?”

“Yes, sir. But I owe you that.”

“Can’t be done,” said the driver. “I ain’t got no licence to carry passengers, an’ the p’lice ’ud be down on me quick an’ lively if I took money from ’em. Awful knowin’, the p’lice. Another sandwidge?”

“No, thanks, sir. I’m not hungry any more.”

“Well, now, look ’ere,” said his friend. “I got to get all this stuff into the house, an’ mighty little time to do it in. Say——”

“Can’t I help? I’m awful strong, truly, sir,” Teddy interrupted.

“I was comin’ to that when you butted in,” said the driver severely. “Say you give me a hand. You can save me no end, even if you ain’t a giant, ’cause none of this stuff’s heavy. An’ there’ll be something to eat in the middle of the day, an’ a bob or two when we’re done to help you on the road. That a bargain, son?”

“I’d like to help you, but I don’t want pay,” Teddy said, flushing.

“Lor, don’t talk like that!” uttered the driver, in mock alarm. “You seem clean set on landin’ me in trouble. Wot ’ud the Trade Union say to me if I employed a man without payin’ him? They’d have me blood, sure’s you’re born. Well, if the argument’s over, s’pose we begin luggin’ things about?”

There followed for Teddy the first day of absolute happiness that he had known for more than three years. From some of the labels on the cases he gathered that the driver’s name was John Price; and before an hour was over Teddy would cheerfully have fought anyone who had hinted that John Price was not the finest man in the world. A companionable man with a never-failing twinkle; a man who treated you exactly as if you were another man, never bossing, only suggesting, and accepting help with not a hint of patronage. And Teddy worked like a beaver, intent on showing himself worthy of such a man. Together they unpacked the van and carried everything into the little wooden house, which was already clean and shining, for Mrs. Price also had been down to do odd jobs. They arranged the furniture in the rooms; they placed the kitchen china neatly on the shelves; they made the beds; they even filled the jugs with water and put soap in the soap-dishes. John Price found a hammer and nails, and they hung the few poor little pictures on the walls, and put the clock on the mantelshelf with a china dog on each side of it. In short, they made a home. And you must have been in an Orphanage for three years to know just what that meant to Teddy Winter.

They boiled the billy outside when dinner-time came, and ate their meal sitting on the little verandah, where they talked of all that John Price meant to do. The farm was small and poor, and there would be hard scratching for a few years; but already he had ten cows, and Jimmie could milk, and success was only a matter of time. Mrs. Price, it appeared, was a wonderful manager: the sort of woman who could make a dinner fit for a king out of an old mutton-bone and three onions. A great gardener, too: Teddy listened respectfully to the list of vegetables they meant to grow. They had been stuck in the city for a long time while they had saved money to start the farm; but now that was all over, and before they knew where they were they’d be buying a motor. Jimmie was wonderful knowledgeable about cars. As they talked, Teddy felt each moment that he loved John Price and his wife, but he could not bear the thought of Jimmie—Jimmie, who was to be heir and sharer of all this magnificence; Jimmie, who had a father and mother.

All the work was finished at last, even to cutting firewood and laying a fire in the kitchen stove, ready for Mrs. Price to apply the match. John Price looked round his home, his honest face very content. The van was loaded with the empty cases, the rubbish of unpacking swept up and burned. Nothing was left that could fail to delight the gaze of Mrs. Price.

“Well, we’ve made a job of it,” said Price. “Thanks to you, Ted. I’d never’ve got the half of it done if I hadn’t had a mate.”

“Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Price. I didn’t do much.”

“Well, you ran like a redshank the whole bloomin’ day, that’s all,” said his friend. “All I know is, you’ll get a job all right if you work like you done to-day. I’d have got the things into the house some fashion, o’ course, but I cert’nly wouldn’t have been able to leave them fixed up all dossy like they are. The missus’ll think it’s Christmas! Here’s your two bob, son, an’ I’d make it double if I could. An’ now what’s to become of you?”

“Oh, I’ll go on an’ find a job,” Teddy said sturdily.

“I don’t like it,” John Price said, looking doubtfully at him. “You’re too little to be strollin’ round the country on your own. Wish I could give you a job meself, but if the estate supports three for a year or two it’s about all it’ll do. Honest, now, Ted—ain’t you got anyone belongin’ to you? Anyone as ’ud look after you?”

Teddy shook his head. “Honest, I haven’t, Mr. Price. And I’ll get a job all right. Don’t you worry.”

He rose, fearing more questions, and put on his coat hurriedly, while John Price watched him with a moody eye.

“That’s rather a queer sort of kit of yours, ain’t it?” he questioned. “Where’ve I seen boys wearin’ duds like that? Somewhere, I know.” He knitted his brows over the problem, and Teddy turned scarlet. “By—Jove!” said John Price slowly, light dawning on his brain. “So that’s it, is it? You’ve cut an’ run. From the Orflingage. Well, poor kid!”

Teddy flung himself at him.

“You won’t take me back, Mr. Price! You won’t tell them! Say you won’t—I’d rather be dead than go back.”

“Me take you back? Not much,” said John Price decidedly. “I’ve wondered sometimes what it ’ud be like to think of Jimmie in a place like that. Dessay they’re kind enough, but it always seems to me a bit like jail. An’ you got away! How d’j’ manage it, son?”

Teddy told him.

“Well, it ain’t for me to interfere with your chance—but I’m afraid they’ll get you, all the same,” John Price said. “Lor, I wish I could take charge of you. It’s tough, bein’ poor. The duds are the trouble—I’d give you some of Jimmie’s, only you couldn’t get into them.”

“Don’t you bother, Mr. Price,” Teddy begged. “There’s heaps of farms; I’ll get a job all right.”

“Well, I expect you will—if they don’t get you first. But if things don’t go right, son, you make back here, an’ I’ll fix you up somehow—we’re comin’ down in three days.”

He put out a great hand and shook Teddy’s solemnly. Then he climbed into the van and the boy ran to open the gate for him. He watched him as he shut it carefully.

“I don’t like leavin’ you, an’ that’s a fact,” he said. “But I got to be gettin’ back—an’ it’s time you were findin’ a place to stay the night. You write a postcard sometime, and let’s know how you get on: an’ remember I’ll never see you stuck. So long, mate.”

“So long,” said Teddy. He forced a smile as the van lumbered into the road. It hurt to see it go—the friendly van that had sheltered him in the night. It hurt to turn his back on the little wooden house that they had made into a home. But his hand yet tingled with the ache of John Price’s farewell grip, and he had called him “mate.” And yesterday he had been merely an orphan. Teddy went down the road with his head well up.