Читать книгу Bill of Billabong - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 6

Table of Contents

The small boy who stood in the doorway of the first-class carriage could not, by any stretch of the imagination, have been called pretty. He was thick-set and sturdy, with large hands and feet; and his undistinguished features were so covered with freckles that comparatively little ordinary skin was visible to the casual glance. Brown eyes, set widely apart; a nose that tilted upwards; a wide mouth set in a straight line that made smiles seem far from it; a good forehead, topped by a shock of unruly red hair. Add a distinctly sulky expression, and it is not to be wondered at that an elderly lady, seeking a seat, took one glance at Percival Blake and hurried on to another compartment.

Old Mr. Vernon, on the platform, surveyed the boy with a worried air.

“I wonder if that lady was going far,” he said. “It would have been nice to have her in your carriage.”

“Don’t want her,” said Percival, sullenly.

“That, I am afraid, was evident,” Mr. Vernon remarked. “But I would much prefer to think of your travelling with some responsible person.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” grunted the boy. “Don’t you worry about me.”

“Well, you are in the guard’s charge,” said the old gentleman. “But do not leave your carriage at any station, or you may find yourself left behind.”

“Um,” said Percival.

“And do be careful not to lean out of the window. I know of a boy who was killed that way, although he had been repeatedly warned not to do it.”

“Silly bloke he must have been,” was Percival’s comment.

“I hope you will not use words like that at Mr. Linton’s,” Mr. Vernon’s voice was pained. “Indeed, I can only trust that you will give as little trouble as possible at Billabong. As I told you last night, Percival, you will not find Mr. Linton and his family as lenient as Mrs. Vernon and I have been. They are, I believe, busy people, all of them: they will not have time to put up with irritating mischief. Remember that, my boy, and you will doubtless have a happy time. Otherwise you will probably discover that Mr. Linton is not a man to—ah—spare the rod.”

“You told me that twice already,” said Percival, with surprising energy.

“Do not be rude, Percival. Rudeness gets a boy nowhere. Or it gets him to unpleasant places. Be a little gentleman, as I know you can be if you try, and remember that you must consider the feelings of others. I have grave misgivings about sending you to Mr. Linton—but I know he will be firm with you. So, I should say, will be his young people: from what I can remember of his enormous son you are not likely to find undue leniency.”

“Might’s well go to gaol, I believe,” mumbled Percival.

“Oh no, no. Your treatment depends entirely on yourself. Be a good little boy, don’t give trouble, and—Ah, here is the collector. Have you your ticket handy?”

Percival produced it, holding it out in a hand that bore many traces of rubbing along the edges of the doorway. Mr. Vernon shuddered faintly.

“You had better wash your hands before you eat your sandwiches. And again before you reach Cunjee, where you get out. Is your money safe?”

“Um,” said Percival, diving an exploratory hand into his pocket and jingling coins.

“And you have your book?”

“That’s a rotten book,” said the boy, casting a glance at a volume lying on the seat. “Can’t I get a comic?”

“Mrs. Vernon told me it was a very nice book for a boy. And comic papers are worthless. Wretched stuff to fill your mind with.”

“Dad always lets me have comics on a train journey.”

“Well—if he does——” said the old gentleman, uncertainly. “But——”

Percival waited for no more. He left the carriage with a flying leap that carried him past his guardian, and sped to the bookstall, cannoning into more than one person on his way, while the old gentleman watched him with an air of anguish, which deepened as he observed the guard preparing to wave his green flag. A whistle sounded. Doors banged. Percival shot from the bookstall with a bundle of vividly-coloured papers, darted across the platform and sprang into the carriage, a porter holding open the door and remarking, “Cut it pretty fine, didn’t y’?” The train moved off slowly, while Percival leaned from the window, exhibiting a face which seemed mysteriously to have gained streaks of grime. He waved his cap, his red hair flaming gallantly.

“G’bye, Mr. Vernon!”

“Good-bye,” said Mr. Vernon, faintly. He would have said more, had words been at his command in time. But the train disappeared round the curve, the red head was withdrawn. Percival had gone.

“Well—David Linton can deal with him!” murmured Mr. Vernon. He turned away into the roar of the Melbourne streets, an elderly gentleman suddenly relieved of the custody of high explosives.

Alone in his compartment, Percival began immediately to dispose his possessions so that any intruder might feel discouraged. A small suit-case, hauled down from the luggage-rack with a vehemence that sent it hurtling to the floor, was tossed into one corner, an overcoat into another, a large package of food into a third. In the fourth the boy settled himself with his bundle of literature, sorting comic papers from penny-dreadfuls with an expert hand.

As he finished this task, the book on the seat caught his eye. He picked it up with an air of loathing. It was a bright blue book, entitled Little Joe: or What Use Am I?; and it opened at a picture where Little Joe was shown on his way to school. A lad of surpassing worthiness, evidently, in a velvet sailor suit. He had golden curls. Percival gazed at the picture malevolently.

“Blitherin’ calf!” he ejaculated hotly. His eye wandered to the cover of one of the penny-dreadfuls, where a hero in cowboy outfit was depicted in the act of hurling a Mexican over a cliff: and there was no doubt as to which picture soothed the soul of Percival.

“I’d like to see you handlin’ a Mex.!” he remarked to little Joe. “Handlin’ a white mouse ’ud be about up to you!” His anger kindled against the curly-headed one. The book shot into the air, and as it came down he caught it on his foot and kicked it to the roof, narrowly missing the lamp. Then a Berserk rage seized him, and he kicked the book violently until he realised that crawling under the seats to retrieve the victim for further punishment was turning his blue serge suit into something distinctly second-hand. So he projected his person half-way through the window and whizzed Little Joe at a cow, peacefully grazing near the line. The cow, struck on the flank by this unexpected missile, flung up her head and galloped off. Percival subsided with a chuckle.

“Jolly good shot! An’ that’s all about Joey.”

He looked about him. Slowly the joy of being alone, of owning no man—or woman—master; the buccaneer spirit of high adventure, took hold of him. He danced wildly up and down the floor, leaped on the seats, climbed into the luggage-rack and performed complicated gymnastics, singing a loud, tuneless chant. Finally he missed his footing and came headlong to the floor, and the chant ceased abruptly. He picked himself up and discovered that his nose was bleeding freely.

“Broken, by the feel of it,” he remarked into his handkerchief. “Golly, it hurts!” He sought the wash-basin.

When he reappeared he was sobered, and considerably cleaner, though his swollen nose shone with a lustre that even its freckles could not hide. He opened his parcel of food, not because it was luncheon time or even that he was hungry, but because it was a joyful thing to eat, when and how he chose. Between sandwiches and comic papers the hours flew pleasantly. He ate oranges at intervals, throwing the peel on the floor. But this brought him back to the realisation that law and authority still existed in his world, for the guard appeared at the window during a stoppage and regarded him with an air of heavy disapproval.

“Here, I say, young feller, you can’t turn a carriage into a dirty uproar like that,” stated the guard.

“ ’Snobody here,” retorted Percival.

“Might be, any minute. Anyhow, I’m here,” said the guard, firmly. “Just you pick up all them peels an’ pips. Lively, now!” He watched while the unwilling Percival obeyed; there was something compelling in the eye of the guard, who looked as though he had small boys of his own.

“Now just you be’ave. No more nonsense, even if you are a man on your own,” said the guard. “Want anything?”

“No, thanks,” said Percival, sulkily. He returned to his paper, with the air of one who desires no further conversation.

There was a halt at a refreshment station an hour later, and the guard reappeared.

“Want dinner?”

“Had it,” said Percival, who was, indeed, replete. “But I’d like a cup of tea or something to drink.”

“Well, go ahead,” said the guard. “Refreshment-room’s over there.” He jerked a thumb in a vague direction. “Plenty of time, but don’t cut it fine, like you did at Spencer Street.”

Percival grunted. Life to him was mainly composed of grown-ups who reminded him of his former errors. He supposed they liked it, and anyhow, you didn’t have to listen. He found his blue cap on the floor, brushed it negligently on his knickerbockers, and dived into the throng on the platform. Mr. Vernon had told him not to leave the train, but his new caretaker had said he might. That, too, was like grown-ups: you never could be sure that one would forbid what another permitted. There was no counting on them. But Mr. Vernon, with his innumerable “Don’ts,” was fast receding from his horizon. Ahead of him lay a new world that seemed likely to be very unpleasant: a stern world, peopled by large, busy people who would stand no nonsense. He hated them all—these people who did not “spare the rod.” But the moment was his own, and he could forget the dark shadow of Billabong.

The platform was full of strolling people. Few seemed to notice him, though he fancied he caught an occasional glance at his red hair. How much that hair had to do with Percival’s prickly attitude towards life only he himself knew. He hated it with a vehemence of which not even his mother dreamed. Nobody could ever let it alone. His family lamented it: ladies who came to call commented on it: boys in the street sang out “Hullo, Ginger!” as he passed. Its flaming tint seemed to lend flame to his thoughts. It was a thing you never could forget if you owned it: it shrieked at you from every looking-glass. That was one reason why Percival rarely looked into a mirror, but trusted to luck about his appearance, though he knew luck often failed him, so that grown-ups made caustic remarks and sent him back to make himself tidy. But even if you dodged mirrors you caught lurid glimpse of your head in shop-windows. And even if you didn’t, the world never let you forget that your hair was red.

He found the refreshment-room, decided that lemonade was better than tea, and drank it luxuriously through a straw—though his enjoyment was embittered by the fact that the waitress, with a sly glance at his head, had suggested ginger-ale. There was time for the leisurely inspection of the engine which he had wanted to make at Spencer Street, only Mr. Vernon had been too fussy about missing the train. The engine-driver, a friendly man, was toasting sausages in the furnace, and Percival watched the operation with breathless interest. That was a true meal for a man! The driver, his cooking finished, caught sight of his eager face, grinned, and offered him a sausage already cooling on a piece of tin. Percival did not want it, but no fear of discomfort would have made him refuse such an offer: he accepted it gratefully, and they ate together while the driver explained the finer points of the engine. The bell rang as the sausages came to an end: Percival licked his fingers and rubbed them on his trousers, as did the driver, and raced back to his carriage.

Time dragged a little after that. Reading began to bore him, and he found little to amuse him in looking out of the window. The label on his suit-case caught his eye, and he found some satisfaction in scratching out “Percival” with his knife, for he hated his name as heartily as he hated his hair. The result did not entirely please him, so he erased also the “Master” that Mr. Vernon had carefully written. It looked better when the label simply said “Blake.” The knife led him to attempt a little enlargement of the lettering on the carriage door; but a jolt caused an ugly gash on the smooth red wood, and a wholesome awe of the guard made him decide that carving might have unpleasant consequences. He looked at his watch. Three hours yet. He sighed heavily. There was a faint inner conviction that it might have been wise to have refused the sausage.

The train stopped at a station where a vast array of milk-cans to be loaded promised an unusually long stoppage. Percival got out. He dodged past the porters who were banging the cans into an empty truck, and strolled down the platform. Beyond the guard’s van was a crate, from the bars of which protruded the heads of half a dozen hens. Percival’s eyes brightened.

He flipped a head with his cap, and the hen withdrew it with a protesting squawk. Tail feathers came into view, to Percival’s mind simply asking to be pulled; and he pulled them. Chaos began to reign within the crate and unholy joy in the small boy. The next few moments were busy, both for Percival and the hens. So interesting was this game of heads and tails that he did not notice the ringing of the bell. Only when the whistle from the engine woke the echoes, drowning the frantic cackling of the hens, did he look round. Then he jumped.

The train was already moving slowly. Percival uttered a loud yell and began to run desperately after it. Simultaneously the guard caught sight of him from the open doorway of the van. The guard also yelled. There was a moment of frantic running, a porter dashed forward, heads craned from the windows. Then the boy found himself, between the guard and the porter, swung into the van, landing in a heap upon a pile of mail-bags. The station disappeared.

“Well, if you aren’t more bother than a ’bus full of monkeys!” ejaculated the guard, angrily. “Haven’t you any sense? By rights they ought to send a nursemaid out with you.”

Percival had no reply, even to this bitter insult. He had no breath. He remained upon the mail-bags, panting heavily.

“Whatcher want to be leavin’ your carriage for?” demanded the wrathful guard. “Goodness knows, I’m busy enough, ’thout lookin’ after you at every station!” He stared at him contemptuously. “Sulky, eh? Well you just sit there, anyhow. If I’m to land you safely at Cunjee I’ll keep you under me own eye.”

Percival sat there. The guard, muttering darkly, turned to his shelf and made laborious entries on long sheets of paper, licking his little stub of pencil between each entry. Percival watched him anxiously for a few minutes, wondering if he were writing about him—being painfully familiar with the notes of complaint his school-mistress was wont to send to Mrs. Vernon. Then his attention wandered to his new surroundings.

He decided that they were more interesting than the first-class carriage. The van was large and very crowded. A pile of luggage occupied one end: he could see his own trunk, and he wished that he dared move to scratch out the “Percival” that stared at him on its label—deciding that it might be done when the guard got out at a station. There were boxes and parcels of every shape and size, crates of fowls, young fruit-trees tied up in sacking, bags and baskets of mail, hampers of pigeons, motor tyres, petrol-cans, machinery parts; even the propeller of an aeroplane, at which he gazed with awe and longing. Bicycles hung from the roof. In one corner was tied a collie-pup, whining distressfully from time to time. In Percival’s horny little soul there was one soft spot—he loved dogs. Looking at the guard’s back, he wondered if he dared crawl over and talk to the pup.

He decided that it was worth risking. Very cautiously he crept to the corner, putting out a hand which the pup welcomed with an eager red tongue. Percival sat on a box, and they talked together silently, finding comfort in each other. Presently the guard turned round, and relaxed into a faint smile.

“Found the pup, have y’? Well, two pups can keep each other in order. Just you stay quiet there, an’ don’t get in my way—there’s mighty little room in this van.”

Percival was content. He talked to the pup openly, and the pup answered with a wagging tail, nosing about him happily. They drew into a station, and he plucked up courage to speak to the guard as the tram slackened speed.

“He’s hungry.”

“Reckon that’s likely. The chap that put him aboard didn’t leave him any food.”

“I say,” Percival ventured, “I’ve got lots of sandwiches in my carriage. Can’t I make a dart for them when we stop, and feed him? I won’t be half a jiffy.”

“Sure you won’t go missin’ the train again?”

“No—true’s life, I won’t. I’ll run like fury.”

“Well you got four minutes, an’ the dog’s hungry, right enough. All right—but no tricks, mind.”

Percival attempted no tricks. He ran like a hare to the deserted carriage, rescued his sandwiches, with complete disregard of his other belongings, and was back at the van in two minutes. The puppy welcomed him joyously, becoming wildly excited at the sight of food. The train went on, and the guard looked at them with something like approval.

“Guess he’s happy now. I’ve been sorry for the little chap—I gave him water, but I hadn’t any food for him.”

“Have some,” suggested Percival. “He won’t eat all these.”

“You will, though,” said the guard, laughing. “Never saw the small boy yet who had too much tucker.”

“I’ve had too much already,” confessed Percival, truthfully. “Go on: have some.”

“Well—if you’re sure,” said the guard, yielding. “I’ve been too busy to think of food.” He took a sandwich, and ate it in one bite: and then several more. Peace descended upon the van. It was clear that the guard was a man who, having eaten a friend’s salt, forgot his former misdeeds. He talked of the troubles that beset the life of a guard, and Percival listened, making sympathetic sounds at intervals.

Another station came, and the guard became very busy, handing out boxes to a lad-porter. Just as he waved his flag Percival noticed a motor-tyre bearing the name of the station. He sprang to the door with it.

“I say—did you forget this?”

“By George!” said the guard. “Here, Bill, catch!” He bowled the tyre across the platform and leaped in as the train gathered way.

“Good boy—I’d clean forgot that one. And them motor chaps do get nasty if their tyres don’t turn up on time. Well, you got some sense, anyhow.”

After that, the journey became pure happiness for Percival. The guard permitted him to act as a junior assistant, gathering up the goods for each station and helping to hand them out. He became very friendly and companionable, explaining the ways of the road, the failings of station-masters, and the iniquities of regulations and inspectors. He did not ask his name, to Percival’s relief, but called him “Son,” which had a curiously heartsome sound. As the stations came and went Percival developed a superior attitude towards the porters, directing them firmly as to their activities in the van—which the porters were too busy to resent, whatever they may have felt. The hours flew by.

“Well, the next’s Cunjee, an’ I’ll be sorry to lose me mate,” said the guard at last. “Comin’ back, are y’?”

“Some time—month or two.”

“Well, if I’m on board you can travel in the van if y’ like. What say?”

“Rather!” The boy looked up delightedly. “I like vans much better than carriages.”

“Mightn’t say that if you always travelled in ’em,” said the guard. “Anyhow, I’ll take you along any time.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re behind time—have to hurry at Cunjee. You cut along for your other things soon’s we stop: there’s nobody been in your carriage. Someone meeting you, son?”

“Mr. Linton, I s’pose.”

“Goin’ to Linton’s, are you?” The guard suddenly became aware that his assistant was deeply travel-stained. “My word, I’d have sent you along to have a wash-up if I’d known that. Here, you rub yourself down a bit.”

He produced the remains of a grimy towel, and Percival rubbed down heartily. The result was not brilliant.

“Well, you seem to have it all over now, instead of only in streaks,” commented the guard. “Can’t be helped. Not the first time Mr. Linton’s seen a boy grubby, I’ll be bound. An’ there’s the whistle, so be ready. So long, son, an’ good luck.”