Читать книгу Told by Peter - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 7

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CLEM and I woke just before sunrise—pretty bewildered we were, too, just at first, wondering where we were. And not too comfortable, because there are lots of insects in hay, and most of them seemed to have got inside our shirts. We hurried over to the house.

Miss Tarrant was hard at it. She had the fire going, and she was stirring a big black pot of porridge. She didn’t look as if she had slept much.

“Mrs. Dickson’s still asleep,” she said. “The others haven’t come back. Will you boys milk the cows? The porridge will be ready when you come in.”

We went off, feeling very blue. Somehow we’d made sure Dad would have found Timmy. The cows were close up to the milking-shed, and it didn’t take long to finish them. We fed the pigs and calves, and then Miss Tarrant came out and whistled to us softly. We had porridge, topped up with scones and jam. Miss Tarrant couldn’t find anything but flour and oatmeal, but she had made the most of them. She had another big batch of scones in the oven, ready for the next people who wanted breakfast.

“There will be plenty of food soon,” she said. “Your mother will get here early, and I know the kind of car-load she will bring. I do wish your father would bring poor Dickson in. Though for all we know they may never have come across each other all night.”

We knew that was likely enough, and we went on bolting our breakfasts. Miss Tarrant fixed us up with packages of food to take out, and she gave each of us a little bottle of water.

“Timmy’s,” she said, smiling at us. “He’ll need it when you find him.” It made Clem and me feel better, the way she said it.

A sound came from the bedroom, and she dropped her parcels and sprang to the door. Mrs. Dickson came out. She was a little bit of a woman, very thin, and I hope I’ll never see another face like hers was when she looked round the kitchen and saw that Timmy wasn’t there. She could hardly stand. There was an old couch in the corner; we put her on it, and she lay looking at us in a dazed way.

“I must go out,” she whispered.

“Not just yet,” Miss Tarrant said. “Breakfast first. There are other people looking now, Mrs. Dickson—you’ve got to be fit to take care of Timmy when they bring him in. These two hunters are just off.” She made a sign to us to clear out, and we grabbed our packages and went.

But outside the house we stopped short, for there was the Weeroona car bumping along the track leading from the gate. Mother was driving, with Binkie and Mr. Smedley squeezed into the front seat beside her. Behind were Jack and Charlie, two of our men, simply submerged under boxes and bundles and parcels. Jack and Charlie had a side of bacon lying along their knees: we had to lift it off before they could get out. Binkie yelled, “Have they found him?” and we just shook our heads.

Mother had everything people could need: water-bottles on straps, and tiny brandy-flasks and chocolate, all fixed up for easy carrying. She said, “Don’t wait, boys,” as she handed ours over. “Binkie can go with you—but she mustn’t wander away by herself.” I don’t think it was more than two minutes after the car stopped before we were heading for the scrub again. Already we could see clouds of dust along the road beyond the farm—more people coming to help. Mother had kept the telephone busy from the moment she heard what had happened.

“You must have left home before dawn,” I said to Binkie.

“Just at dawn,” she said. “We had breakfast before that. Peter, they can’t help finding him, can they? There’ll be dozens of men here soon.”

I said I didn’t see how they could miss him. The only question was if his strength could hold out—or if he was hurt. And then, there was the river. But we didn’t want to talk about that.

Mr. Smedley asked where Timmy’s track had been seen, and we showed him. He stood still and had a good look round the country.

“I’m trying to imagine myself a small boy looking for a puppy,” he said. “He’d naturally keep on downhill, and when he got into the trees he would probably take the simplest way among the bushes. I can’t see him deliberately turning uphill; he would be tired very soon in any case. Of course, I don’t know how much strength your bush youngsters have.”

“They’re pretty wiry,” said Clem. “But this youngster knew he mustn’t go near the river.”

“But once he was in the scrub he wouldn’t realize he was near it,” Mr. Smedley said. “He’d lose all sense of direction. I’m not saying he has fallen in. But I believe he’s far more likely to be near it than on the higher ground.”

“So do I,” said Binkie. “I vote we keep near the river—I’m going to, anyhow.”

So we went off that way, and spread out in a line. We didn’t see much of Mr. Smedley. He kept to the edge of the bank, and half his time he was in the shallow water, looking in holes where the bank shelved over. The river was very low; except in winter there’s never very much water in it, and in the hot weather it is scarcely more than a creek. Mr. Smedley must have explored pretty thoroughly; by the time we did come across him he was soaked up to his waist and covered with mud.

Clem and Binkie and I kept in touch, because we were deadly scared of losing Binks in that tangle. It was worse than yesterday’s going: I take off my hat to Binkie for the way she stuck it. Of course, she was wearing breeches and leggings, or she could never have got through. Bran seemed to understand better that morning; he went poking about the bushes on his own as if he was really seeking, just as we were. Now and then he got terribly excited over a snake, so perhaps it was only snakes he had in his mind. There were plenty about. Each of us carried a good whippy stick, and we killed several browns and blacks, though we never saw a tiger. I don’t suppose any of us saw a snake without wondering if young Timmy had met one.

Before long the bush seemed full of voices. Men had come from all round the district, with a sprinkling of women, and we could hear voices and whistling from every direction, and dogs barking, though actually we only met a few men, the scrub was so thick. We saw Dad once. He looked nearly done, and he had his arm round Dickson, half-carrying him. He wouldn’t let us stop to help him. Dickson didn’t speak: he was moving like a man half-asleep, scarcely able to lift his legs, but his eyes kept roving in every direction.

About one o’clock we three got together and decided it would be sensible to go down to the river and have lunch: we were horribly thirsty, and of course we couldn’t drink the water in our bottles. We whistled for Mr. Smedley and managed to head him off. He knew a good clean pool close by, so we camped beside it for half an hour, and I think we drank it nearly dry.

“It beats me,” Clem said, “how that kid can keep out of sight. There are goodness knows how many people searching for him by this time; you’d hardly think it was possible they could all miss him.”

“And only five years old, too,” said Mr. Smedley. “I should have imagined that most youngsters of that age would just have sat down and howled after a while—and stayed sitting and howling until somebody came.”

Binkie said, “Mother was telling me of lots of cases where lost kids don’t seem to have had as bad a time as you’d think. She knows of some who wandered an extraordinary distance, eating blackberries and drinking from puddles in little hollows, and the queer thing was, they hadn’t been afraid. Almost as if, somehow, they’d felt someone looking after them.”

“But how could they?” Clem said.

“I don’t know,” said Binkie, “But it’s what Mother told me.”

I said, “Well, I hope it’s the way with young Timmy. He’d need it badly enough.” And we all got up and went on the hunt again.

It got to feel more and more useless as the afternoon dragged on. I suppose we were all getting a bit tired, what with the heat and the flies and being always thirsty. It was an effort to keep calling Timmy’s name. I don’t think any of us still listened for the sound of shots from Dickson’s place that would signal that someone had found him. We just went on in a dogged way, with the feeling that every place had been searched over and over. My shirt was nearly as ragged as Dickson’s had been, and the strap of the water-bottle had worn it through and was like a hot bar on my shoulder. So if I felt uncomfortable, Binkie and Clem must have felt a long sight worse.

Binkie did look pretty well finished when I ran into her about five o’clock. I wanted her to knock off and go home, but I might as well have talked to a gum-tree. So I got her to sit down on a log with me for a few minutes. She was very despairing by this time, and I believe she was close up to crying. This is most unusual with Binkie, and I expect I shall have to scratch out that bit if ever she is allowed to see what I am writing.

She saw me looking at her, and she said crossly, “You needn’t look like that. It’s only because I’m hot, and ... and I’m so sick of snakes. I’ve seen dozens.”

“Well, you never care a hoot for snakes,” I said. “You’ve been killing them ever since you were six.”

“Oh, I know,” she said. “Only, somehow they make me think to-day ... you know ... if a snake has got Timmy.” Just then Bran barked sharply, and she glanced up. “Look, there’s another—do kill the beastly thing, Peter.”

Sure enough, there was a black snake slipping through the grass, very anxious to get away from Bran. He made for an old stump a few yards away, and I picked up my stick and went after him. But I caught my foot in a tangle of creeper and came an awful cropper, landing against the stump with a bang that fairly shook me. The stick went in one direction and the snake in another, and that was the last we saw of that particular snake.

I picked myself up: most of the breath had been knocked out of me and I was rather glad to lean against the stump for a moment. Binkie was a bit scared, because she thought I was really hurt. She came over and wanted to feel if I had any bones broken, and I told her not to be a donkey. I was feeling a pretty good imitation of one myself, and it made me a bit wild.

Binkie turned away without saying anything. I knew I had hurt her feelings; even though I knew, too, that she wouldn’t have dreamed of being hurt if she hadn’t been so tired and miserable. So I was preparing to say something to make her feel a bit better, when I heard her give a sort of gasp.

“Peter! Oh, look here!”

I swung round. The stump was hollow; she was on tiptoe beside it, peering down into it. And there, curled up among a lot of bracken fern, was little Timmy Dickson.

His eyes were shut, and for a moment we clutched each other, afraid that he was dead. But there was nothing dead about Timmy. As we stared down at him he wriggled and rolled over, and then opened his eyes and looked up at us, and grinned all over his dirty jolly little face. Then he looked puzzled and said, “Where’s Mum gone?”

“We’ll take you to Mum,” Binks said.

“Want a dwink,” said Timmy. “Let me out.”

I said, “You bet we’ll let you out, old man,” and I climbed over the edge of the stump and slid down beside him. I had to be careful, for there was only just room for him and me. Binks had her water-bottle ready; I sat down and held him on my knee, and there wasn’t much left in the bottle when Timmy had finished with it. I felt him all over. There was nothing wrong with him, beyond a bruise or two from falling down inside the stump. So I put him on my shoulder and Binks lifted him out and hugged him.

“Yell, Peter!” she said.

In our first astonishment we’d actually forgotten to coo-ee, but we made up for it then. I stood in that stump and coo-ee’d until I had no breath left, and then I climbed out and began again. Binkie never stopped at all. Bran looked at us in amazement, and then began to bark for all he was worth. Nobody answered at first, and I put Timmy on my back and we started for home, Binks feeding Timmy with bits of chocolate—and did he wolf them!

Then Clem came running through the scrub. You could see he was nearly done, but he forgot about it when he saw what I was carrying. We went along together, trying to find out from Timmy what had happened to him. But he hadn’t much to tell. He’d wandered about in the scrub and slept all night in a hollow tree; now and then he’d found a little water in a hole in a gully. He didn’t seem to know how long it was since he’d climbed up the stump and fallen down inside it. We reckoned he must have stunned himself and lost count of time. But the queer thing was that he seemed so little the worse for it.

It was slow going, carrying him, and presently Binkie had an idea.

“Look here,” she said, “we’ve got to get the news quickly to the Dicksons. You’re the fastest runner, Peter—you go on ahead, and Clem and I can take turns to carry Timmy.”

“Timmy can walk,” said Timmy. But when I put him on the ground, just to see, his legs crumpled up and he sat down immediately, looking very surprised. I left him to Clem and legged it for the farm as fast as the scrub would let me.

That wasn’t as fast as I’d have liked it to be. I hoped I’d meet a man who could go harder than I could, but I didn’t, though goodness knows there were enough searching. I hadn’t any breath to spare for coo-eeing, either. It just seemed ages before I got through the worst of the scrub and came out into clearer country. In the bush I’d begun to feel that I couldn’t go much farther, but the air was fresher outside, and I got a bit more energy. But I could only raise a jog by the time I got near the Dicksons’ paddock.

Dickson was standing at the fence. I mean, he was leaning on it as if he needed it to hold him up. He had his arms on the top rail, and his face hidden in them. I yelled, and put on a bit of a spurt; and he lifted his head and stood there, hanging on to the fence and staring at me as if I was a ghost. I waved, and tried to grin at him, to show him that everything was all right, and then he did exactly what Timmy had done: his legs crumpled under him and he sat down. At first I thought he had fainted, but he hadn’t: it was just that he didn’t have one bit of strength left.

“We’ve got him!” I shouted. “He’s right as rain.”

Dickson did what I’ve never seen a man do before, and I don’t want to see it ever again: he began to sob like a kid. It made me feel awful, and my own voice went queer. I got through the fence and said, “They’re bringing him along—I’m off to tell Mrs. Dickson.” He didn’t even look up, poor beggar. I knew I couldn’t do him any good, so I went on, but I couldn’t run any more.

Then I saw Mother, and gosh, I was glad. She came out of the Dicksons’ back door and looked down the paddock and saw me. I stood still and collected all my breath and yelled “He’s—all—right!”—hoping frightfully that she would hear the words, because I had no more breath. She heard. She waved at me, and turned and ran back to the house. I didn’t know she could run so fast. In a minute I heard two shots fired.

Well, I sat down then. In fact, I lay flat on my back on the grass, feeling absolutely lazy. It was a fool thing to do, if only I’d thought a minute, because the next thing I knew was Miss Tarrant tearing down to see if anything was the matter with me. She’d actually brought some weak brandy and water, and she made me drink some, though I told her flatly I didn’t want the beastly stuff.

“You take it,” she said quite fiercely. “You’ve got to get up to the house and tell Mrs. Dickson all about Timmy.”

I said, “Oh, all right—but you’d better go and give the rest to Dickson. He needs it more than I do.” So she went on to the fence, and I went to the house, feeling rather light-headed, and had some difficulty in making Mrs. Dickson believe that Timmy wasn’t damaged in any way worth talking about. She was lying on the old couch in the kitchen, holding Mother’s hand; Miss Tarrant told us afterwards that she’d hardly let it go all day. I had to tell her everything I could think of about Timmy: she simply couldn’t realize that he wasn’t crying or frightened, even when I said how he had laughed and gobbled chocolate and asked about his puppy. To tell the truth, I had been a bit surprised that he had never said a word about his mother, so I was glad she didn’t ask if he had.

When I’d finished she started trying to thank me, but of course I told her I hadn’t a thing to do with it—it was entirely Binkie’s doing. If you come to that, I suppose it was really the black snake’s; but for him we’d never have gone near the old stump. It made me feel rather shuddery to think we might have gone past that stump a dozen times and never guessed that it was hollow: it looked perfectly solid from the outside. She wanted to know how Timmy had managed to climb up it, and I told her it had a lot of knobs that made footholds for him. After that she didn’t say anything for a bit. Then she said:

“Well, it just looks like as if he was guided to it. Just the sort of place he likes climbing, an’ so easy for him to tumble down inside. An’ there he was, potted up like, quite safe, waiting until you an’ your sister come along. If he hadn’t been there he might of been killed in a dozen ways, or nobody mightn’t ever have found him—not in time, at least. Lor’, Mrs. Forsyth, don’t it look as if something looked after little kids in the bush?”

Mother said, “Well, why not? It’s a good thing for mothers to believe, at all events.”

And then we heard voices and cheering, and I ran out. There was a regular procession coming up the hill: someone had come across Binkie and Clem and Timmy and began coo-eeing, and then the shots had been heard, and everyone had made for home. Timmy was perched on Dad’s shoulder, and two men were helping Dickson; and all the others seemed to be making as much row as they could.

Everyone crowded into the kitchen and Dad marched in and put Timmy down on top of his mother. Timmy said a funny thing. He said, “Hullo, Mum—why did you go away from my stump?” Then he put his face down in her neck, and she held him tight. The men brought Dickson in, and we all cleared out.

“I yelled at Bran to get back, and caught up another stick.”

Told by Peter)(Page 44