by A. A. Milne
‘Of course there’s something about the country,’ said May quickly, to hide her embarrassment, ‘I mean the real country, that does make it different, I mean from a place like Tunbridge Wells, I mean right in the country, I mean like you are.’
‘Well, of course,’ said Nina, ‘I do think you want to be one or the other. I mean——’
It was at this moment that Jenny came to a decision. Even at the cost of a pain in the forehead, she must finish her ice in four minutes so as to follow Nina into the real country, where it was different from a place like Tunbridge Wells . . .
The three bills were paid. May gathered herself and her bangles together and came out of her seat. There was a good deal to come, and Jenny, following her to the door, thought: ‘Of course a lot of it’s bone, but I believe if she did something, but I suppose it’s too late now. Anyhow I shan’t lose sight of her, which is lucky.’ She lingered at the next shop window, so that she should not seem to follow, and then hurried up the hill, a little anxiously at first, but, reassured by unmistakable glimpses of May from the south, soon more leisurely, until she found herself again within earshot of the bangles and the voices, and knew that she was safe. They came to an omnibus.
‘Well, we’re in time all right,’ said May, looking at her watch, and Nina, looking at the omnibus, agreed. Nina said: ‘Don’t bother to wait,’ and May said that perhaps she had better get back, as Aunt Jane generally liked to be read to about that time. Nina asked her if she had read A Flock of Sheep, and May said wasn’t it funny she was just going to ask Nina if she had. Apparently they had both read it, and thought it was lovely. May said that some friends of theirs, the Graysons, knew a great friend of Archibald Fenton’s, and that he was just like that himself, and that all the Circus part was drawn from his own experiences, when he had run away from school. Nina said: ‘Oh, I thought he was at Eton,’ and May said she didn’t think so, but she might be wrong. They both seemed to feel that nobody would want to run away from Eton.
Meanwhile Jenny was walking round the omnibus, to see if it would tell her where it went to. Not that she minded, so long as it went away from Tunbridge Wells; but she felt that a girl with two large parcels under her arm would not just be taking the parcels for a drive into the country, but would have some definite destination for them in her mind. She might sit next to Nina, but on the far side of the conductor, and say whatever Nina said. But then that would fix her in Nina’s mind, and she didn’t want to be fixed in anybody’s mind. Besides, Nina might have a return ticket, if they had return tickets on country omnibuses. They didn’t have them on London ones, of course.
The omnibus said that it was going to Maidstone. One of the less useful things which Jenny had learnt with her second governess was that Maidstone was the capital of Kent, and what was now proving to be one of the more useful things which she had learnt with her third governess was that the capital town of a county was where the county gaol was. So she decided not to go to Maidstone. In fact she had almost decided not to use the omnibus at all, owing to its unfortunate connexions, when a little woman in black came up to the driver and said ‘Do you go through Endover?’ and the driver said ‘Near as may be, mother,’ and she said ‘Thank you’ and went inside. There and then Jenny made up her mind to sit as far away from the little woman as she could, and whisper Endover to the conductor as quietly as possible, and get out at the next stopping-place after the little woman had got out, and (most important) pay for her ticket with half a crown to be on the safe side. Because anybody going to Endover with two parcels obviously lived at Endover, and ought to know how much the fare was.
Nina was getting in. May was saying ‘Tell Mrs. Anderson I asked after her,’ and Nina said ‘Yes I will,’ this further glimpse of Mrs. Anderson leaving Jenny much where she was. The omnibus started. May and Nina waved to each other, May with the more abandon, as befitted one in the more spacious surroundings. Then May went slowly up the hill to her Aunt Jane, jingling as she went, and telling herself that Nina wasn’t exactly stuck-up, but wasn’t nearly as nice as she used to be; and Nina sat in the omnibus, looking as if she had never waved at anybody, and telling herself that May wasn’t a bad sort, but a little —you know, and perhaps it was as well that they needn’t meet again . . . And the omnibus went on; and by and by the little woman got out, and went off down a side-lane, and a quarter of a mile farther on they came to a village. This, then, thought Jenny, must be Endover. So she got out with her parcels, looking as if she had known the village all her life, and the omnibus growled its way out of sight . . . and Jenny Windell stood there, watching it go, and telling herself that so far everything had worked out beautifully.
She was just preparing to take to the fields, when the dashing Hussar had one of his most dashing ideas. He whispered to Jenny, who was standing outside the village stores, and pointed to something in the window. Gurgling to herself she went in and bought it. She also bought two oranges.
Chapter Seven
Hussar’s Daughter
I
Jenny sat down, not unwillingly, by the side of the little river, and unpacked her parcels. Not until everything was safely in the knapsack could she consider herself a real hiker. But with the contents of the parcels on the ground beside her, she asked herself ‘What would a real Hussar do first?’ and knew by instinct that the answer was: ‘He would load and place in position Watson’s Wonderful Combination Watch-dog-and-Water-pistol. ’
She took it from its box. She followed the instructions with a solicitude which would have charmed the author of them; doubtless Watson himself. No pistol was ever more tenderly loaded. But all the instructions of the armament ring would not solve the problem which now faced her. Which leg? Hero and villain alike, as she well knew, drew from the hip. Hips, however, were not in the picture. If Jenny drew, it would be from the calf, or no, not the calf, since Nancy’s skirt was a little short for the fashion, but from a point six inches above the knee. Which knee? The fact, impressed upon her by her second governess, that Madrid was the capital of Spain, gave her no clue to the romantic Spanish mode, but she knew (who better?) where English Hussars carried so dashingly their swords. Over the left hip. Bother! Hips again. Well, then, romance must make way for the practical. A simple trial urged the claims of the knee which came nearest. The right . . . So the pistol was fixed there, and for the first time in the history of the elastic trade a pair of garters found themselves, to their surprise, upon the same leg.
It was a practical Jenny also who packed the knapsack. Change of clothes at the bottom; then the pyjamas; then the articles of toilet; then the towel; then the food. There! The knapsack was strapped up; the brown paper and string pushed down a rabbit-hole—(‘It’s all right,’ Jenny told herself, ‘because they do have another way, because of ferrets’); the knapsack hoisted on to her shoulders; and there was Gloria Harris, complete from head to foot, from shoulder to knee, the bachelor girl on holiday.
Now to walk and walk and walk. She walked round a bend of the river, no farther, and stopped dead. A little cry escaped from her. His boots by his side, his back against a tree, the most unattractive man she had ever seen was taking his siesta.
At the noise of Jenny’s cry, he opened his eyes.
‘Gor’,’ said this unattractive man slowly, ‘two ruddy females.’
Jenny stood there. Her heart was beating ridiculously, right up in her throat. It was silly, because she was the daughter of a soldier; not just a soldier in the Manchester Regiment, but a real Hussar. ‘Courage, Jenny,’ he was saying. Or was this Gloria Harris, to be so frightened?
She greeted him bravely.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said with a gulp.
‘One ruddy female,’ said the Tramp, correcting himself.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Jenny, but with the intonation now of one who was leaving. She took a step forward.
‘What’s the hurry?’ said the Tramp.
&n
bsp; Jenny knew, but thought it bad manners to explain. She smiled apologetically, and stopped.
‘Fellowship ruddy road,’ said the Tramp, and as a development of the theme, added ‘Ships parss night.’ He was silent for a little, and then explained ‘Ruddy night,’ in case Jenny hadn’t understood.
She had seen him somewhere before: on the stage or in the pages of Punch. His nose and eyes were inflamed; he had a month’s beard all over him; his hands were horrid, his feet showed through his socks . . . and yet . . . and yet . . . somehow through the mat of hair which hid him there gleamed—something. Something, as it were, alive, human, companionable; or something of this that would be there when he was sober.
‘Siddown!’ commanded the Tramp with sudden violence.
Jenny sat down shrinkingly.
‘Stannup!’
Jenny stood up.
‘Do what you ruddy well like,’ said the Tramp, exhausted by so much authority. He closed his eyes.
Jenny sat down. It was now or never, she felt. If she were frightened now, then she might as well go back to London. But it was idiotic to be frightened. She and Hussar and Watson —three to one! She sat down and took off her hat . . .
‘Wojjer think I’ve eat to-day?’ asked the Tramp with his eyes closed. And he answered: ‘Two ruddy chesnuts.’
‘Is that all?’ asked Jenny.
‘Two ruddy ’orse-chesnuts.’
Jenny said that she had always thought that horse-chestnuts weren’t ripe until September.
‘Ripe?’ said the Tramp scornfully. ‘Two ruddy unripe ruddy ’orse——’ he paused for a moment as if not quite sure about this, and then added ‘ruddy chesnuts.’
‘Would you like some chocolate?’
‘No,’ said the Tramp with absolute conviction.
There was another silence. It was very peaceful by the little river, and Jenny decided that she was not afraid of anybody now.
‘Two ruddy ’orse-chesnuts off of a nolly-tree,’ he mumbled, ‘and I ses to ’er “Is this the way to Paradise?” and she ses——’ He opened his eyes suddenly and shouted ‘Stannup!’
‘Why?’ asked Jenny bravely, not moving.
‘’Cos you’re sitting on a ruddy wopses nest.’
Jenny jumped to her feet with a scream.
‘Siddown,’ said the Tramp, ‘’cos it’s a false alarm.’ He chuckled to himself ‘Ruddy female,’ and closed his eyes.
‘I’ve a good mind to go altogether,’ said Jenny severely, ‘if you can’t behave properly.’
She sat down again, a little farther away, having made quite sure that there were no nests of any kind underneath her.
‘I’ve got a wife and six starving children,’ said the Tramp with his eyes shut. ‘Don’t be ’ard on me.’ He wagged a hand at her by way of withdrawal. ‘Seven,’ he amended. ‘I was forgetting ruddy ’Orace.’
‘What are the names of the others?’ asked Jenny.
‘Wot others?’
‘The other six.’
‘Six wot?’
‘Six children.’
‘’Oose children?’
‘Oh, never mind,’ said Jenny.
‘I don’t,’ said the Tramp. ‘Not one ruddy barnacle.’ He roused himself and came to business. ‘’Ow much money ’ave you got?’
‘I—I haven’t counted,’ said Jenny. She put a hand under her skirt—ready.
‘Got the price of a pint?’
‘A pint of what?’
‘Gor’! These ruddy females. Better ’and it all over, and I’ll give you back what I don’t want.’
‘No,’ said Jenny.
‘Owjer mean No?’
‘I mean, Don’t be silly.’
‘Look ’ere,’ said the Tramp reasonably, ‘jer wornt to be strangled?’
‘No.’
‘Or ’it over the ’ead with a banana-skin?’
‘No.’
‘Jer wornt to wait until I’ve got me boots on, so’s I can jump on yer defenceless stomach?’
‘No.’ (Suppose it didn’t work, didn’t fire properly!)
‘Then ’and over.’
‘Not like that,’ said Jenny bravely.
‘Like wot?’
‘If you ask nicely, and say “Please,” I might give you sixpence. That’s a penny for each of your family.’
‘Wot family?’
‘Oh, never mind.’
‘Wot about ruddy ’Orace?’
Jenny realized that the conversation was getting them nowhere. She slipped the pistol out of her garters, and held it behind her back. Then she stood up, her hat in her left hand.
‘Good-bye,’ she said. ‘I’m going now.’
‘Well ’and over first.’
‘Please don’t be silly.’
The Tramp hoisted himself with care and dignity to his feet.
‘Boots or no boots,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to strangle one ruddy female.’ He spat on his hands, and shuffled towards her.
With a prayer in her heart to Hussar, to Watson, to Mr. Sandroyd, to God—‘oh, please let it be all right’—she pointed the pistol. ‘Go away,’ she said, ‘or I shall fire.’
(‘He laughs brutally. He realizes that she will never have the courage’ . . . Jenny waited for the brutal laugh. It didn’t come.)
‘Gor’,’ said the Tramp, surprised, ‘she’s got a ruddy gun.’ He took a quick step back, trod firmly on a thistle, yelled, jumped high to avoid another one, and sat down heavily. ‘Now then, now then,’ he said, ‘none o’ that.’
‘I’ve a good mind to shoot you,’ said Jenny severely.
‘You can’t,’ said the Tramp, feeling his foot tenderly.
‘Why not?’
‘’Cos I’ve trod on a thistle and ’urt the ball of me toe.’
‘That’s no reason.’
‘Wot isn’t?’ He was peering at his foot.
‘Lots of people get shot when they’ve hurt their toes.’
‘Trod on a thistle and ’urt the balls of their toes?’ said the Tramp surprised.
‘Yes,’ said Jenny.
‘Their ruddy big toes?’
Jenny nodded.
‘I suppose’, said the Tramp, leaving it there for the moment, ‘you ’aven’t got a tweezies in that bag o’ yours.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Not got a tweezies?’
‘No.’
‘Then ’ow,’ said the Tramp, returning to his foot, ‘ow’ does a ruddy superfellus female remove ’er ruddy superfellus ’air, if she don’t twitch it out with a tweezies?’
Jenny decided not to go into this.
‘I must be going now,’ she said firmly.
‘Bye-bye,’ said the Tramp.
‘Good-bye,’ said Jenny.
She walked off. At the next bend of the river she looked round. The Tramp was still deep in the mysteries of his foot. Jenny turned the corner, her heart, her whole body, singing with happiness . . .
II
Jenny came to a haystack at about 9.30 that evening, and decided to sleep there. Almost immediately she made her second discovery of the day. The first had been that Tramps were Harmless—and this of course depends on whether or not you have Watson’s Wonderful Combination Watch-dog-and-Water-pistol strapped to your leg. The second discovery was unconditionally true: being the notorious fact that it is always the other side of a haystack which affords invisibility.
As soon as Jenny saw the haystack, she decided to undress behind it. She went behind it . . . and found that she was visible to the whole of Kent. Realizing that, by a silly mistake, she had got, not behind, but in front of the haystack, she went round to the back, and again found herself in front of it. The remaining two sides, promising as they seemed, proved to be no more trustworthy. She realized th
at you cannot undress behind a haystack.
She now began to wonder what people meant when they talked about ‘sleeping under a haystack’. Not only had a haystack no behind, but it had no underneath; it seemed to be strangely ill-equipped. Did they mean sleeping on the top of a haystack? She walked round it again . . . and there was a ladder! She sat down, caring nothing for visibility, and thought it out.
The hayfield ran down to the river, and by its banks there were still a few haycocks uncarried. The unfinished haystack meant not only that a farm was near, but that early in the morning men would be coming back to the field. It also meant, thought Jenny, that the farmer was not afraid of rain, and farmers always knew about the weather. Moreover, and this was important, they always got up very, very early. So what it came to was: she could sleep without fear of rain at the top of the haystack, but she would have to wake up very early, so as to get away before the farmer came.
