Complete fictional works.., p.435
Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated), page 435
Pobjoy was eloquent on the Club’s poverty. “I’ve seen the day, Maaster Bill, when twenty lads’d sit down to a smoking loin of pork, and a roast of beef, and a great stew of wild-jucks, and a pigeon pie as big as a horse trough, and old Squire John’d send down lashins of right strong ale from his own buttery. Now, by gob! we’re hard put to it to get some cold pig food and some of them skimpy little meat pies as Hutt the baker makes. They be hard times for us poor folks.”
“Doesn’t Mr. Benison help?” Bill asked.
“Help!” Pobjoy spat savagely. “Them Ben’sons! They keep their own pig club up at the Hall, and I wish their guzzling may choke ‘em. They take no more concern in the parish than a gor-crow that happens over from Alemoor to pick up a pullet.
... And the beer nowadays!”
Pobjoy became savagely reminiscent. “That hog-wash from the ‘Plough and ‘Arrow’ ain’t beer, for it don’t comfort the innards. A man might drink three buckets of it and be none the merrier.”
Bill enquired about the hour of the supper, and was told ten o’clock.
“The Wardsley lads can’t come before.... See here, Maaster Bill, you pass that word on to your Thomas. We used to sit down at nine. I don’t want Thomas to get his shins cold waiting.” With a new confidence Bill watched Pobjoy swing his traps from his shoulder and stamp his feet at his doorstep. He hotly disliked intruders like the Benisons, and he had a furious affection for his own people. Beauty could not be averse to the joyous enterprise which he meditated, and Bands must approve its stern moral purpose. There was a lot in the Bible about humbling the proud and exalting the humble.
CHAPTER VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHRISTMAS PARTY — II.
CHRISTMAS EVE was very cold. Up till then there had been a mild frost with a wind in the north, but on that afternoon the wind swung round to the east and the clouds massed for snow. On Christmas Eve it was the custom for Bill to go to bed at the same time as Peter, and with the expectation of Santa Claus he usually went without protest. Bill was by this time a sceptic on the subject of the visit of the Saint, though Peter was still a devout believer. He knew that his mother would come to his bedside about eleven to fill his stocking, for he had once been awake and caught her in the act.
All this was as it should be. The period between 9 and 10.30 was going to be for him a time of stern endeavour. He had occasional spasms of nervousness, which he quieted by reminding himself that whatever happened he was perfectly safe, if he only kept his head. Whether his staff were Beauty or Bands it could not fail him, since the enterprise combined all the purposes of both.
Bill put on stout knickerbockers and a sweater, for the weather was sharp, and at the same time he dared not cumber himself with too many garments. On his feet were fives-shoes. Then he twirled the stick and wished himself just outside the Hall dining-room windows, and in a second he was standing on gravel which was beginning to be powdered with snow.
The windows were not shuttered, and within a big fire was blazing, which gave light enough to reveal a table loaded with dishes, and another assortment on a long sideboard. A second sideboard held a forest of bottles and glasses, and below it were further bottles in great wine-coolers. There were several gramophones going in the bedrooms, and a great deal of laughter in one of the upper rooms. The inmates would be preparing for dinner, Bill decided, and getting into the fantastic costumes with which rumour had been busy.
Bill padded along the house-back till he reached the servants’ quarters. He made out the butler’s pantry, which he had marked down the evening before by the clump of winter-jasmine outside it. That gave him his bearings and enabled him to locate the housekeeper’s room. In this part of the house the windows were all shuttered and barred, and when he tried the main door he found it locked. There were sounds of many voices inside — no doubt, the staff assembling for their meal. This, he knew, was to be in two places, the servants’ hall and the housekeeper’s room. He stood and pondered for a moment till he remembered the exact lie of these apartments.
Then he made the magic stick take him inside ‘Erb’s cubby-hole, as the safest base of operations. A second earlier and he would have landed on the top of ‘Erb, who was just closing the door behind him.
Bill waited till the footsteps died away in the flagged passage, and then stealthily proceeded to reconnoitre. The humbler diners had assembled. He listened outside the housekeeper’s room, and heard Mrs. Chalk, the housekeeper, who was a Seventh Day Baptist, saying grace. He listened outside the servants’ hall, and heard a cheerful babel of voices, among which he thought that he detected ‘Erb’s. The keys were on the outside of both doors, but he did not turn them. Someone might want to leave on an errand and he had no need to lock in the staff until his job was done. But he slipped along to the outer door of the servants’ quarters, and extracted its key, which he dropped among the logs in a basket which stood outside the wine cellar.
There was a clock in the passage which led to the main rooms of the house, and its hands pointed to twenty minutes past nine. The servants must finish their meal by a quarter to ten if Mr. Blett and the footmen were to be ready for dinner. That meant that Bill had under half an hour for his job, which was none too much.
His first business was to visit the butler’s pantry to see what champagne remained there. There were only two cases, for the contents of the others were now in the dining-room. Bill tiptoed along the corridor, past the connecting door, which he locked behind him, and entered the dining-room by way of the central hall. From the bedrooms upstairs came the sound of laughter and human speech, but all the lower part of the house was very quiet. The silence was broken only by the crackling of logs in the great hall fireplace.
Bill’s heart almost failed him when he snapped the switch and the blue and crimson lights blazed from the eerie walls. This was a horrible place, and it needed all his resolution to quell his tremors.... But presently he was too busy to be afraid. Somehow or other he had to shift several dozen bottles, and he looked round for a means of transport. He found it in a dumb-waiter from which the upper tray could be removed. This he loaded carefully with wine and then wished himself in the Wildash schoolroom.
This was a very humble scene compared with the uncanny grandeur he had left. There was a trestle table covered with a rather ragged oil-cloth, and on it stood several loaves, a dish of butter, a wedge of cheap cheese, some odd-looking plates of meat, and four big brown earthenware jugs of beer. A small fire burned in the grate, and a feeble oil lamp revealed the dingy walls with their ancient oleographs of royalties. Altogether the scene of the Pig Club supper did not suggest revelry.
Bill arranged the champagne bottles on the table and twirled the stick.... The Hall dining-room was as he had left it. Three times the tray was loaded up and transferred to the schoolroom, till there was not a bottle of any sort left behind. Champagne, brandy, liqueurs of many brands, and three decanters of port were now making a brave show on the schoolroom oilcloth. Then he transported the two cases of champagne remaining in the butler’s pantry. And then he paused for a moment to think. The clock on the mantelpiece said 9.30.
He had intended only to take the wine. But the recollection of the Pig Club’s meagre fare suggested an amendment to his plan. He would give them some of the eatables also. So the tray was loaded with Strassburg pâtés, and game-pies, and hams and tongues and galantines, and a basket of hot-house fruits; and to crown all a cake so rich that Bill’s mouth watered at the sight of it. But he realised that he must take nothing for himself, or Bands would have something to say about it. He was no brigand, but a minister of justice.
The transfer of these delicacies took a full ten minutes. Bill, now back in the dining-room, turned off the lights, for the fire gave enough illumination. There was very little solid fare left in that place, and absolutely nothing to drink. No doubt hot dishes would be forthcoming from the kitchen, but the Benisons must make shift without champagne. He did not touch a variety of comfits and sweet dishes, for he remembered that the Wildash Pig Club were simple souls and would make little of such dainties.
He listened, and heard a clock far away strike the three-quarters. Soon there would be movement in the servants’ region, though he had made it impossible for them to reach the dining-room, since he had hidden the key. But the guests seemed to be astir, for he heard steps in the hall. He was just about to take his leave when the door opened.
Bill, crouching behind the table, lingered spellbound. The newcomer was a tall man, and he was dressed to resemble an African witch-doctor — at least, after the first moment of scare, this was Bill’s verdict. He had horns on his head and a necklace of bones round his neck, his face was horribly painted in white and red, and he seemed to be naked except for a loin cloth of skins. He closed the door very softly behind him and made no attempt to turn on the lights. Evidently he knew his way, for he advanced to the sideboard. Bill decided that he was suffering from a great thirst.
Now Bill had pulled out the biggest wine-cooler from below that sideboard in order to extract the bottles, and he had not pushed it back. The visitor was feeling along the sideboard top with his face to the door, and, oblivious of his danger, he took a step backwards. In a moment an African witchdoctor was sitting in six inches of ice and water, wailing like a sea-bird.
Bill waited no longer. This was an unrehearsed effect, but it was proof that the fates recognised the justice of his enterprise.
The fire in the schoolroom was burning a little more cheerfully. Bill turned up the lamp to contemplate his handiwork. The trestle table groaned under its load of rich provender, and the bottles made a shining forest about it. The shabby oilcloth was completely hidden by them, and the shabbier tin plates and broken-handled knives. Bill stirred the fire, and set all the chairs he could find in order round the board. At the far end of the room the school benches had been piled, and these made a screen behind which he ensconced himself.
He wanted to see the expression on the faces of the first arrivals.
He was disappointed. The Wildash Pig Club were men of iron, immune from nerves and very willing to accept the gifts of a mysterious Providence. When they lumbered in, with the slow step of those who have been labouring hard all day, and the glory was revealed to them, Pobjoy rose to the occasion. He ceremoniously locked the door. Then he sat down in the presidential chair and said grace huskily. Then he demanded a corkscrew.
That Pig Club supper was to remain a hallowed memory, not in Wildash alone, but in all the Seven Towns of Alemoor. They drank up all the champagne, but not neat, for neat it seemed to them to be but a cold and comfortless beverage. With the beer they made a new shandygaff, and with brandy and liqueurs they concocted heart-stirring mixtures, worthy to wash down food which was a heavenly revelation. Instead of the low mutter of casual talk which commonly attended the supper, they soared into Bacchanalian happiness. They drank each other’s healths with due honours, and the Wardsley keeper proposed the toast of Pobjoy, whose poaching instincts he had hitherto distrusted, dwelling eloquently on his talents as a sportsman and his worth as a citizen. Repeatedly they honoured the memory of old Squire John, with whom they somehow connected their good fortune. Men who had not sung since their schooldays were moved to melody.
They did not return soberly to their wives at midnight, as had been their custom. The school-mistress next door was kept awake by their revelry far into the small hours. When, just before dawn, they emerged into a snowy world, the sharp air turned even those seasoned vessels into madcaps. Springwell, the thatcher, was found by the Vicar before the morning service asleep in the church porch, and Noggin the blacksmith was discovered in his own smithy with his head on a heap of iron filings. The Coldeaston shepherd was, after much searching, disinterred from a hay shed many miles distant from his dwelling, while Martin the ditcher having safely reached his cottage, was so ill-inspired as to don his morris-dancer’s clothes and caper in the village street to the accompaniment of the village church bells.
Pobjoy alone was unshaken. He marched steadily home, announcing to the world that the fly was on the turnip and that he preferred turnip-hoeing to any other earthly occupation. But even Pobjoy wept happily for some time on Jum’s neck.
CHAPTER IX. THE ADVENTURE OF UNCLE BOB — I.
BILL was snug in bed before his mother appeared at eleven o’clock to fill his stocking. He put up a very good imitation of healthful slumber, and fortunately she did not notice the heap of wet clothing tumbled in a corner. When she had gone, he rose and so disposed of that clothing that it should not catch the eye of Elsie in the morning.
Christmas dawned upon a white world. Bill was wakened by an excited Peter displaying the treasures of his stocking, and lay for a little trying to reconstruct the events of the past evening. He waited eagerly to hear the news of them — eagerly, but with a little anxiety too. All had gone according to plan, but there were the after-effects to reckon with. The simple course would have been to seek out Thomas the keeper, who would be found in the gunroom preparing for the Christmas shoot. But Bill decided that he had better hold himself aloof.
The news must come to him — he must not go to seek it.
So he was a little abstracted at breakfast, though ceremonially grateful for his Christmas gifts and inclined to frown on Peter’s extravagances. At church he felt self-conscious. There was no member of the Pig Club there, and he did not know about the Vicar’s discovery of the sleeping Springwell in the porch, but he suspected that even the most decorous worshippers must have spent the morning discussing the doings at Wildash.
The killing of the Christmas pheasant in the afternoon was as much a part of the family ritual as church, and Bill, who from his pre-occupation with other things, escaped his besetting fault of overkeenness, managed to get five to his own 16-bore. As the birds were being collected he realised that his father was being told a tale by the beaters, and he could scarcely refrain from joining the group. His father’s laughter reassured him; that must mean that there had been no regrettable incident.
The story came out at tea. Bill had never seen his father so amused.
“Best thing I ever heard of! The Benisons had one of their freak parties last night, and were laying themselves out for a vulgar jamboree. Some genius came along, locked up the servants and pinched all the wine and most of the food. Was there ever a finer case of the biter bit? Those brutes got some of their own medicine, and I hope they enjoyed it.
“And that’s only half the fun,” his father continued. “The same good fairy transported the Benisons’ provender to the Wildash schoolroom, and the Pig Club, when they arrived for their modest supper, found a feast of fat things. Like sensible fellows they asked no questions, but ate it all up. Drank it all up, too, with the result that the Pig Club to-day seems to be dispersed over the countryside. Old Loveday says that there are still search parties out.... I gather they had nothing to do with the plundering of the Benisons — only found the stuff on their supper table and very naturally demolished it. Loveday says that every man-jack of them has a water-tight alibi, and can account for every minute till he arrived at the schoolroom. The Benisons of course are furious, and have turned on the police, but it looks as if they could do nothing. I hope to goodness they don’t catch the sportsman who did the trick. I wish I knew who he was, for I’d like to shake hands with him. Hang it all, Mary, the whole country should subscribe to pay his fine, if they catch him, and present him with a piece of plate.”
Bill, feeling that some observation was expected from him, enquired if Thomas the keeper had attended the supper.
“Thomas was there,” said his father. “He was looking a little pink about the gills this afternoon, and drank a lot of water. When I spoke to him he only grinned, for with the police court in view Thomas is not going to give himself away. But I seemed to detect a holy joy in his eyes.”
The period between tea and dinner on Christmas Day was by custom consecrated to reading aloud in the library. Bill scarcely listened to the stirring tale of Jim Hawkins, for his soul was bubbling with satisfaction. He had brought off a feat for which his father thought a piece of plate a fitting recognition. He had executed justice upon the disturbers of the local peace. He had given a number of honest men the high moment of their lives....
But one obstinate question remained to disturb his mind. He was not yet clear whether his staff was Beauty or Bands, and till he had settled that problem he could have no true confidence. Last night’s escapade had been a suitable task for either.
When his mother and Barbara had gone up to dress Bill was left alone for a few minutes with his father. Now was the chance to see if any enlightenment could be got from the old book. He plunged boldly into the subject, and asked for more of the tale he had been told three nights before. His father got down the folio and looked up the passage.
“There isn’t much more here,” he said. “You see, the writer is dealing with St. Egbert’s contests with the Devil, and only brings in the Beauty and Bands story as an illustration.”
“Did the magic staff play tricks with people if they used it wrongly? I mean, did it take them to some queer place and then refuse to work, or anything like that?”
“I don’t think so. The staff wasn’t mischievous, even if Bands was mistaken for Beauty or Beauty for Bands. So far as I can make out, if it was offended it merely took the huff and quietly disappeared. That must be so — if it had been otherwise this old fellow would have had something to say about the staff putting its owner in the cart. That’s just the kind of yarn he would have loved.” Bill went up to dress with his mind at ease.
