A Drake by George! - The Original Classic Edition. Trevena John
latest triumph of scientific inbreeding," the Captain shouted.
"Oh no, sir! Ours be bred all nohow," said the timid lady.
"Don't the monkeys tease 'em, Captain?" asked the Gentle Shepherd.
"The simians have sufficient intelligence to understand that my felidae are famous for the claws. Beneath that tree," continued the Captain, "about three paces from the side of my nephew, you see the giant tortoise, which is the greatest antiquity that I possess-- next, of course, to the Egyptian mummy. That tortoise, my friends, has lived in this world during the last five hundred years."
"Ain't that wonderful!" gasped a lady.
"I captured it upon the beach of one of the Galapagos Islands, where it had just succeeded in laying an egg."
"Him lay eggs! Then all I can say is he'm the funniest old bird I ever did set eyes on," cried a lady who was famous for her poultry.
"How did you manage to get hold of his birth certificate, Captain?" asked Squinting Jack.
"Tortoises live for ever, if you let 'em alone--that's a proverbial fact," stammered the Captain, somewhat taken aback. "You can tell his age by--by merely glancing at his shell. This tortoise has his shell covered with tarpaulin to prevent the newspaper cuttings from being washed off by rain; but if it was removed you would see that the shell is yellow. It is a well known scientific fact that the shell of a tortoise is black during the first century of its life; takes on a bluish tinge for the next two hundred years; and becomes mottled with yellow when it approaches the enormous age of five hundred years."
"Same as me," said the Yellow Leaf sadly. CHAPTER III
THE CAPTAIN MAKES HISTORY
One day George entered the churchyard and set his face towards a big sycamore, with the resolution of setting his back against it. He had been tempted by the wide trunk and smooth bark for a long time; but his attempt to reach the tree failed entirely because it stood upon the unfrequented side of the churchyard, and was surrounded by an entanglement of brambles and nettles some yards in depth.
Determined to reach that sycamore somehow, George complained to his uncle about the abominable condition of the churchyard; and Captain Drake reprimanded the vicar for "allowing the resting places of our historic dead to become a trackless jungle;" and the vicar once more implored the sexton to give up the public-house; and the sexton declared there were no such blackberries in all the parish as could be gathered from those brambles.
The matter would have ended there had it not been for Captain Drake, who visited the territory, explored to within fifteen feet of
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the sycamore, then called a meeting of parishioners and, with the aid of diagrams, showed how the foremost line of nettles was advancing so rapidly in a north-westerly direction as to threaten the main approach to the vestry; while a screen of brambles had already reached a nameless altar tomb whereon the youth of the place by traditional right recorded their initials.
The seriousness of the weed peril had not been realised until then; as the Dumpy Philosopher remarked, they had all been asleep
and thus had been taken unprepared; but, when the parishioners did realise it, an army of offence was raised quickly; the nettles were eradicated and the brambles uprooted; that portion of the churchyard was thrown open to the public; and George attained his resting place beside the sycamore.
He had lounged against it several times before his eyes fell upon an inscription which appeared familiar, although obscured by moss and yellow lichen. As the tombstone was not more than three yards away, he was able to reach it without much difficulty. Reclining upon the turf, he summoned up energy to open his pocketknife and to scrape away the lichen until the full meaning of the discovery burst upon him.
Later in the day the Yellow Leaf met Squinting Jack, and said, "I saw Mr. Drake running like wildfire down the street this forenoon.
If I hadn't seen 'en wi' my own eyes, I wouldn't ha' believed it."
"I saw 'en too wi' my own eyes," replied Squinting Jack. "And still I don't believe it."
Captain Drake would have run too had there been less of him. George had never been a liar--the poor fellow had no imagination and rarely picked up a newspaper--still his story sounded too impossible to be true. They reached the newly discovered tombstone; the Captain read the inscription; and in a voice trembling with emotion murmured, "Amelia Drake, of Black Anchor Farm, in this parish."
The portion of stone which bore the date of her departure had sunk into the ground. "George, my lad," cried the Captain, "this is the grave of my long-lost great-grandmother."
"The missing link," added the nephew, with the joyous certainty of one about to negotiate a loan.
"Our pedigree is now complete. I am certain my father used to speak of a rumour which insisted that his grandmother's name was Amelia; and now we have discovered she lived in this parish, at Black Anchor Farm, which no doubt had passed to her husband-- who is down on the pedigree as having been probably lost at sea--from the lineal descendant of the great Founder himself. The name of the farm proves that. You see, George, the reference is to a black anchor, a new freshly tarred anchor, not to an old rusty red one. I must have the stone cleaned. And we will show our respect by planting roses here."
"If it hadn't been for me, this grave would never have been discovered," said George, ready to produce a statement of his bank-ruptcy.
"That's true, my lad. It's the best day's work you have ever done in your life." "Skilled labour, too," reminded George, still advertising.
"I won't forget," his uncle promised.
Black Anchor Farm was situated about two miles from the centre of the village. It was not a place to covet, consisting of a mean
little thatched house; stable and barn of cob walls propped up by pieces of timber; and half a dozen fields which brought forth furze and bracken in great abundance. People named Slack occupied the place; the man was a lame dwarf who tried to work sometimes,
but honestly preferred poaching; the woman went about in rags and begged; while the children were little savages, kept from school
by their father, and trained to steal by their mother.
The Captain refused to be discouraged when he visited the home of his ancestors and discovered a hovel; but wrote to the owner for
information, interviewed the vicar, turned up the registers, and consulted the Yellow Leaf.
The letter was answered by a solicitor, who expressed his sorrow at never having heard of the family of Drake. The vicar mentioned that the name Anchor occurred frequently in the neighbourhood, and was undoubtedly a corruption of Anchoret, which signified a person who sought righteousness by retiring from a world of sin. He considered it probable that the site had been occupied formerly by the cell of a hermit who had distinguished himself by wearing a black cloak.
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Although the Captain gave days and nights to the registers, he could find no entry concerning his family, of whom most, he was convinced, had been lost at sea, apart from the funeral of Amelia Drake. The Yellow Leaf, after remaining some days in a state of meditation, distinctly recalled a tradition concerning a lady (the Captain thanked him for the lady) who had lived alone at Black An-chor Farm for a number of years, receiving no visitors, and leaving the place only to obtain fresh supplies of liquid consolation. The end of her history was so unpleasant he did not care to dwell upon it, but apparently this lady was discovered at last ready for her funeral, and according to report it was a pity she had not been discovered earlier.
Still the Captain refused to be discouraged. His nobility of character would not permit him to disown the memory of his great-grandmother, although he thought it terribly sad she should have sunk so low. If she, during recurring fits of temporary insanity, had disgraced the great name, he had added lustre to it. If the former country residence of Sir Francis Drake had fallen into a ruinous condition, it should be his privilege to restore it with a few magic touches of the pen. He resolved to devote the remaining years of his life to the writing of A History of the Parish of Highfield.
"The vicar