Stalky & Co.. Rudyard Kipling
and the boys read on in the rich, warm, sleepy silence.
“Hullo, here’s a keeper,” said Stalky, shutting “Handley Cross” cautiously, and peering through the jungle. A man with a gun appeared on the sky-line to the east. “Confound him, he’s going to sit down.”
“He’d swear we were poachin’, too,” said Beetle. “What’s the good of pheasants’ eggs? They’re always addled, too.”
“Might as well get up to the wood, I think,” said Stalky. “We don’t want G. M. Dabney, Col., J.P., to be bothered about us so soon. Up the wuzzy and keep quiet! He may have followed us, you know.”
Beetle was already far up the tunnel. They heard him gasp indescribably: there was the crash of a heavy body leaping through the furze.
“Aie! yeou little red rascal. I see yeou!” The keeper threw the gun to his shoulder, and fired both barrels in their direction. The pellets dusted the dry stems round them as a big fox plunged between Stalky’s legs, and ran over the cliff-edge.
They said nothing till they reached the wood, torn, disheveled, hot, but unseen.
“Narrow squeak,” said Stalky. “I’ll swear some of the pellets went through my hair.”
“Did you see him?” said Beetle. “I almost put my hand on him. Wasn’t he a wopper! Didn’t he stink! Hullo, Turkey, what’s the matter? Are you hit?”
McTurk’s lean face had turned pearly white; his mouth, generally half open, was tight shut, and his eyes blazed. They had never seen him like this save once in a sad time of civil war.
“Do you know that that was just as bad as murder?” he said, in a grating voice, as he brushed prickles from his head.
“Well, he didn’t hit us,” said Stalky. “I think it was rather a lark. Here, where are you going?”
“I’m going up to the house, if there is one,” said McTurk, pushing through the hollies. “I am going to tell this Colonel Dabney.”
“Are you crazy? He’ll swear it served us jolly well right. He’ll report us. It’ll be a public lickin’. Oh, Turkey, don’t be an ass! Think of us!”
“You fool!” said McTurk, turning savagely. “D’you suppose I’m thinkin’ of us? It’s the keeper.”
“He’s cracked,” said Beetle, miserably, as they followed. Indeed, this was a new Turkey – a haughty, angular, nose-lifted Turkey – whom they accompanied through a shrubbery on to a lawn, where a white-whiskered old gentleman with a cleek was alternately putting and blaspheming vigorously.
“Are you Colonel Dabney?” McTurk began in this new creaking voice of his.
“I – I am, and – ” his eyes traveled up and down the boy – “who – what the devil d’you want? Ye’ve been disturbing my pheasants. Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye needn’t laugh at it.” (McTurk’s not too lovely features had twisted themselves into a horrible sneer at the word pheasant.) “You’ve been birds’-nesting. You needn’t hide your hat. I can see that you belong to the College. Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye do! Your name and number at once, sir. Ye want to speak to me – Eh? You saw my notice-boards? Must have. Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye did! Damnable, oh damnable!”
He choked with emotion. McTurk’s heel tapped the lawn and he stuttered a little – two sure signs that he was losing his temper. But why should he, the offender, be angry?
“Lo-look here, sir. Do – do you shoot foxes? Because, if you don’t, your keeper does. We’ve seen him! I do-don’t care what you call us – but it’s an awful thing. It’s the ruin of good feelin’ among neighbors. A ma-man ought to say once and for all how he stands about preservin’. It’s worse than murder, because there’s no legal remedy.” McTurk was quoting confusedly from his father, while the old gentleman made noises in his throat.
“Do you know who I am?” he gurgled at last; Stalky and Beetle quaking.
“No, sorr, nor do I care if ye belonged to the Castle itself. Answer me now, as one gentleman to another. Do ye shoot foxes or do ye not?”
And four years before Stalky and Beetle had carefully kicked McTurk out of his Irish dialect! Assuredly he had gone mad or taken a sunstroke, and as assuredly he would be slain – once by the old gentleman and once by the Head. A public licking for the three was the least they could expect. Yet – if their eyes and ears were to be trusted – the old gentleman had collapsed. It might be a lull before the storm, but —
“I do not.” He was still gurgling.
“Then you must sack your keeper. He’s not fit to live in the same county with a God-fearin’ fox. An’ a vixen, too – at this time o’ year!”
“Did ye come up on purpose to tell me this?”
“Of course I did, ye silly man,” with a stamp of the foot. “Would you not have done as much for me if you’d seen that thing happen on my land, now?”
Forgotten – forgotten was the College and the decency due to elders! McTurk was treading again the barren purple mountains of the rainy West coast, where in his holidays he was viceroy of four thousand naked acres, only son of a three-hundred-year-old house, lord of a crazy fishing-boat, and the idol of his father’s shiftless tenantry. It was the landed man speaking to his equal – deep calling to deep – and the old gentleman acknowledged the cry.
“I apologize,” said he. “I apologize unreservedly – to you, and to the Old Country. Now, will you be good enough to tell me your story?”
“We were in your combe,” McTurk began, and he told his tale alternately as a schoolboy and, when the iniquity of the thing overcame him, as an indignant squire; concluding: “So you see he must be in the habit of it. I – we – one never wants to accuse a neighbor’s man; but I took the liberty in this case – ”
“I see. Quite so. For a reason ye had. Infamous – oh, infamous!”
The two had fallen into step beside each other on the lawn, and Colonel Dabney was talking as one man to another. “This comes of promoting a fisherman – a fisherman – from his lobster-pots. It’s enough to ruin the reputation of an archangel. Don’t attempt to deny it. It is! Your father has brought you up well. He has. I’d much like the pleasure of his acquaintance. Very much, indeed. And these young gentlemen? English they are. Don’t attempt to deny it. They came up with you, too? Extraordinary! Extraordinary, now! In the present state of education I shouldn’t have thought any three boys would be well enough grounded. But out of the mouths of – No – no! Not that by any odds. Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye’re not! Sherry always catches me under the liver, but – beer, now? Eh? What d’you say to beer, and something to eat? It’s long since I was a boy – abominable nuisances; but exceptions prove the rule. And a vixen, too!” They were fed on the terrace by a gray-haired housekeeper. Stalky and Beetle merely ate, but McTurk with bright eyes continued a free and lofty discourse; and ever the old gentleman treated him as a brother.
“My dear man, of course ye can come again. Did I not say exceptions prove the rule? The lower combe? Man, dear, anywhere ye please, so long as you do not disturb my pheasants. The two are not incompatible. Don’t attempt to deny it. They’re not! I’ll never allow another gun, though. Come and go as ye please. I’ll not see you, and ye needn’t see me. Ye’ve been well brought up. Another glass of beer, now? I tell you a fisherman he was and a fisherman he shall be to-night again. He shall! Wish I could drown him. I’ll convoy you to the Lodge. My people are not precisely – ah – broke to boy, but they’ll know you again.”
He dismissed them with many compliments by the high Lodge-gate in the split-oak park palings and they stood still; even Stalky, who had played second, not to say a dumb, fiddle, regarding McTurk as one from another world. The two glasses of strong home-brewed had brought a melancholy upon the boy, for, slowly strolling with his hands in his pockets, he crooned: – “Oh, Paddy dear, and did ye hear the news that’s goin’ round?”
Under other circumstances Stalky and Beetle