The Happy Warrior Part 24

"Were you laughing all the way down?"

"Anybody would laugh at a whizz like that."

The plump tutor has a close acquaintance with one person who would not.

The remark p.r.i.c.ks him and he finds a comforting answer. "Only very silly people laugh at danger."

"Well, I didn't know it was danger," said Percival; and Mr. Purdie first looks at him thoughtfully and then gives one of his shrill, absurd chuckles.

III

Happy, happy time! There were the visits to Mr. Hannaford, always made on a whole holiday because an early start was necessary, where the little 'orse farm was progressing famously and where Percival was made quite extraordinarily welcome. Terrible leg-and-cane cracks would announce in which quarter of the farm Mr. Hannaford was to be found, and Percival would discover Mr. Hannaford watching a little circus 'orse at exercise, or watching the builders at work in the brick stables that were slowly displacing the line of sheds, and watching all the time to the accompaniment of bellowing instructions punctuated by leg-and-cane cracks of astounding volume.

Percival would plant himself squarely by Mr. Hannaford's side in Mr.

Hannaford's position--legs apart, head thrown back--and would eagerly follow the proceedings until Mr. Hannaford suddenly would observe him and would cry in a voice the whole farm might hear: "Why, it's the little Pocket Marvel! Bless my eighteen stun proper if it ain't!

However long a you been there, little master?"

Percival, beaming all over his face and putting his small hand into the tremendous shake of Mr. Hannaford's shoulder of mutton fist: "Only about ten minutes, thank you, Mr. Hannaford. Don't you mind me, you know. I like watching."

"Ah, and I've got something for you to watch," Mr. Hannaford would say.

"Now you come over here with me. Got that little lords.h.i.+p with you?"

"Not come back yet," Percival would reply, capering along, tremendously happy. "How are you going along, Mr. Hannaford? Properly?"

"Properly to rights! Look at that now!" And with a terrible leg-and-cane crack Mr. Hannaford would pause before the new stables and call Percival's attention to some new feature that had arisen since his last visit. "Names on the doors, d'you see? 'Crocker's' on that door, 'Maddox's' on this door. Do a deal in little 'orses with Crocker's circus; take your gross profit; set aside share of expenses; set aside wear and tear; set aside emergency fund; take your net profit; build your stable; call it Crocker's. Same with Maddox: deal, gross, share, wear, emergency, net, stable--call it Maddox! What d'you think of that for a notion?"

"Why, I call it jolly fine, Mr. Hannaford," Percival replies. "I call that a proper notion. Reminds you how you did it, doesn't it?"

"Why, that's just exactly what it does do!" cries Mr. Hannaford, enormously delighted. "Just the very notion of it, bless my eighteen stun proper if it ain't! Now you come along over here." And Mr.

Hannaford would leg-and-cane crack, and Percival would trot and chatter, over to another marvel, where a similar performance would be gone through, owner and spectator tremendously happy, and both profoundly serious.

Mr. Hannaford would usually propose lunch after this. Mr. Hannaford permitted no women in his establishment; but the long, low-roofed dining-room in the old farmhouse was kept at a s.h.i.+ning cleanliness, and the meal was invitingly cooked, by a one-armed man of astoundingly fierce appearance and astonis.h.i.+ngly mild disposition, who answered to the names of Ob and Diah accordingly as Mr. Hannaford preferred the former or latter half of the Obadiah to which the one-armed man was ent.i.tled, and who had left the greater part of his missing arm in the lion's cage he had attended when travelling with Maddox's Monster Menagerie and Royal Circus.

Three places were always set at the table when Percival visited. One for Mr. Hannaford at one end, one at the other end for brother Stingo--"in case," as Mr. Hannaford would say--and one on Mr.

Hannaford's right for Percival. There was a tremendous silver tankard of ale for Mr. Hannaford, a similar tankard for Percival--requiring both hands and containing milk--and always, when Mr. Hannaford raised the dish-cover, there developed from the cloud of steam a plump chicken which Mr. Hannaford called chick_un_ and Percival chick_ing_ and which they both fell upon with quite remarkable appet.i.tes.

"Well, it's a most astonis.h.i.+ng thing to me," Percival would say when the cover went up, and the chicken settled out of the steam. "Most amazing! You know I like chicking better than anything, and every time I come you just happen to have chicking for dinner! Most amazing to me, you know!"

And Mr. Hannaford would lay down the carving knife and fork and stare at the chicken and say: "Well, it is a chickun again, so it is, bless my eighteen stun proper if it ain't!" and would give a tremendous wink at Ob in order to enjoy with him the joke arising from the fact that directly Percival was sighted on the farm a messenger was sent to Ob to prepare the meal that Percival liked best.

Then they would eat away, and pull away at the colossal tankards, and Percival would always make a point of saying: "Stingo not home?"

A long pull at the tankard and a heavy sigh from Mr. Hannaford: "Not just yet, little master. Still restless, I'm afraid. Still restless."

And Percival, in the old phrase and with the air of a grandfather: "Well, he'll settle down, you know. He'll settle down."

"Why, that's just what I say!" Mr. Hannaford would exclaim, immensely comforted. "Settle down--of course he will! Just what I'm always telling him, bless my eighteen stun proper if it ain't!"

Always the same jolly lunch, always the same mingled seriousness and jolly fun, always the same jokes. Percival did not know that much of it was carefully planned by Mr. Hannaford that he might enjoy the fullest relish of the Pocket Marvel's visit. There was the great chicken joke, there was also the killing joke for the production of which by Percival Mr. Hannaford would dawdle lunch to an inordinate length.

At length it would come: "Nothing I can have a ride on, I suppose, Mr.

Hannaford?" Percival would say with careful carelessness.

"Never a norse fit for it," Mr. Hannaford would reply, equally off-hand.

A heavy sigh from Percival: "Oh, dear! Sure, I suppose?"

"Certain! Got a little brown 'orse--but there, you'd never ride him."

"I bet I would! I bet I would!"

Mr. Hannaford, looking terribly fierce and in a very violent voice: "Bet you wouldn't!"

"Try me, then! Only try me!"

And Mr. Hannaford would bounce up and seize his cane, and they would rush off, and the saddle would be put on the little brown 'orse, and Percival would mount him and gallop him and cry "You see! You see!"

And Mr. Hannaford would pretend huge amazement and declare that Percival was a proper little Pocket Marvel, bless his eighteen stun proper if he wasn't.

Once or twice Stingo would be there, and then the jolly fun would be jollier than ever; and in the evening Mr. Hannaford's gig with the big black mare would come around and the brothers would labour up into the seat and Percival would squeeze in between them and they would let him drive and he would pop the mare along at a las.h.i.+ng speed and there would be the highest good-fellows.h.i.+p. He would be set down at the top of Five Furlong Hill--nothing would induce Mr. Hannaford to come into the village where women might be met. "Well, good night, Mr.

Hannaford; good night, Mr. Stingo. Thank you most awfully for all your kindness to me. I hope I'll come again soon."

The brothers would usually wait until he reached the turning to the village; setting up, the one a husky shout, and the other a terrible bellow, in reply to the faint "Good night!" that came to them through the dusk.

"I never in all my life took to nothing, not even a little 'orse, like I have to that little master," Mr. Hannaford would say. "Never seen such a proper one, never."

And Stingo, with painful huskiness: "Ought to ha' been a little lords.h.i.+p!"

"Why, that's just exactly what I say," Mr. Hannaford would reply, enormously pleased. "Bless my eighteen stun proper if it isn't!"

IV

Happy, happy time! There were the visits to mild old Mr. Amber in the library at Burdon Old Manor. Strongest contrast, the delights here, to those enjoyed among the little 'orses. Strongest contrast, mild old Mr. Amber with his stooping shoulders and his gentle ways, to tremendous Mr. Hannaford with his l.u.s.ty back and his vigorous habits.

But the same eager welcome: "Well, well, Master Percival, this is indeed a pleasant surprise! And we are just sitting down to our tea--and I declare Mrs. Ferris has sent us some strawberry jam! Now if that isn't too fortunate I don't know what is!"

"Well, it's awfully jolly," Percival agrees. "Mrs. Ferris makes very nice strawberry jam, doesn't she?"

In the act of pouring tea, mild old Mr. Amber sets down the pot and emphasises with his gla.s.ses. "My dear sir--my dear Percival, she makes the very best strawberry jam! Mrs. Ferris has made that strawberry jam for forty years--to our certain knowledge, for-ty years."

Percival's rounded eyes show his appreciation of this consistent industry. "Must have made a lot," is his comment.

"Tons," says Mr. Amber. "My dear sir--my dear Percival, I should say--tons." He stabs the gla.s.ses at his listener. "And every berry, sir, every single berry, wet season or dry, from our own gardens!"

It always comes back to that with Mr. Amber. The old Manor, the House of Burdon, is his world and his life, and he is mightily jealous you shall know their quality.

There is generally a little interlude of this kind in the course of the visit. Its effect stays for a few minutes, Mr. Amber slowly repeating to himself "every berry--every single berry, sir," in the tone of one impressively warning against any challenge of his statement; and then he simmers down and recollects that his visitor is the Percival who occupies a large portion of his heart. He likes to take Percival's hand. He likes to feel that warm young grasp within his own chilly old palm. He likes to lead the boy and feel those st.u.r.dy young fingers twitch to the excitement of what tales he can tell or what treasures he can show.

"Now what have we got to show you in our shelves this evening? Nothing much, we fear. Oh, yes, we have, though! Those folios--we've rearranged them so as to fill the ninth and tenth in this tier. That was your suggestion, wasn't it? I agree, you know, I quite agree.