ACTON'S CHRISTMAS
I
SNOWED UP
A jollier going away for the Christmas holidays had not taken place foran age.
An old Amorian had done "something good" in India, which had obtained anextra week's holiday for his old school, and the Amorians, a day or sobefore, had beaten the Carthusians, whose forwards had been led to theslaughter by an International whose very initials spell unapproachablefootball.
The station of St. Amory's was crowded with the fellows, all sportingrugs of vivid patterns on their arms, and new and of-the-latest-shape"bowlers" on their heads, and new and fancy trouserings on theiremancipated legs. No more Amorian cap--peak pointing well down theneck--no more trouserings of sober grey-and-black, no more beakishrestraint for five weeks! Couples strolled up and down arm-in-arm; knotsof the Sixth and Fifth discussed matters of high state interest, and theworthies of the lower forms made the lives of the perspiring porters amisery and a burden to them. Prominent Amorians were cheered, and whenthose old enemies, John Acton and Phil Bourne, tumbled out of their cabas the greatest of chums, the fags quavered out their shrill rejoicings,honouring the famous school backs who had stemmed the sweeping rush ofthe Carthusians a day or so before.
There was a rumour that Acton had been asked to play for theCorinthians, and the other athletes on the platform pressed round thepair for information.
Our old friends, Wilson and Jack Bourne, had shut up by stratagem B.A.M.Cherry in the lamp-room, and the piteous pleadings of that youngBiffenite were listened to with ecstacy by a crowd of a dozen, whohailed the promises and threats of the prisoner with shouts of mockinglaughter.
W.E. Grim, Esq., explained to a few of his particular chums, Rogersamong them, the wonderful shooting he was going to have "up at Acton'splace" in Yorkshire, and they listened with visible envy.
"Look here, Grimmy, if you tell us next term that you bagged twowoodcock with one barrel, we'll boot you all round Biffen's yard--sothere."
Acton had, as a matter of fact, invited Dick Worcester, Gus Todd, JackSenior, of Merishall's house, and Grim, to spend Christmas with him athis mother's place, and they had all accepted with alacrity.
The northern express rolled into the station, and Grim was hurriedlyinformed by Rogers that he was to bag the end carriage for Acton underpain of death. Grim tore down the platform, and, encouraged by thecheerful Rogers, performed prodigies of valour, told crams to groups ofdisgusted Amorians, who went sighing to search elsewhere for room,engaged in single combat with one of Sharpe's juniors, and generallyheld the fort. And then, when Acton came running down, and wanted toknow what the deuce he was keeping him waiting for, Grim realized thatRogers had "done" him to a turn. He shouted weird threats as he washurried away, to the bubbling Rogers, and that young gentleman liftedhis hat in ironical acknowledgment. There was the warning shriek fromthe engine, and then the train crawled out, taking toll of all theAmorians going north, and leaving the others to shout after themendearing epithets and clinching witticisms.
For two days before the Amorians were on the wing home there had beenheavy falls of snow, culminating, on the going-away day, in a heavysnow-storm. All the way from St. Amory's the express had been held up bydoubtful signals, and in the deeper cuttings the snow had piled up inhuge drifts. The express had toiled on its northern journey, steadilylosing time at every point. At Preston Acton had telegraphed home thatprobably they would arrive quite three hours late. Thus it was that,tired but jolly, the party of five Amorians got out of the main lineexpress at Lowbay, and, each laden with rugs and magazines, stumbledlight-heartedly across the snow-sodden platform into the local train,which had waited for the express nearly three hours. They foundthemselves sixteen miles from home, and with no prospect of reaching itbefore midnight.
"Raven Crag," the name of Acton's home, was situated just within theborders of Yorkshire. A single line of rails takes you from LowbayJunction up the Westmoreland hills to the top of the heaviest gradientin the kingdom, and then hurtles you down into the little waysidestation of Lansdale, the station for "Raven Crag."
The sturdy tank engine coupled to the short local train was steamingsteadily and noisily, and when the express had rolled heavily out forCarlisle, the station-master hastily beat up intending passengers forthe branch line. Besides Acton's party, there were only two passengers,a lady and a little girl.
"I'll give the old tank a good half-hour to crawl the eight miles to thetop of the fells," said Acton, "and then we'll rattle into Lansdale inten minutes. But she _will_ cough as she crawls up. Look here, Dick,I'll have a whole rug, please. This carriage is as cold as arefrigerator."
The fellows made themselves as comfortable as an unlimited supply ofrugs and a couple of foot-warmers would admit of. Dick Worcester,without a blush, propped his head against a window and said: "Grim,there's a lingering death for you if you fail to wake me five minutesfrom Lansdale." The others exchanged magazines and yawned hopefully,whilst Acton took out his Kipling, and straightway forgot snow, home,and friends.
The station master, and the driver, and the guard held an animatedconversation round the engine. "Strikes me, Bill, the old engine'llnever get t' top of t' bank to-night!" said the guard. "The snow must beterrible thick in Hudson's cutting."
"She'll do it," said the driver,--"wi' luck."
"Got another engine with steam up," inquired the guard, "to give us alift behind?"
"No, they're all shut down, and we couldn't wait now. You'll have to runher through yourselves," said the station-master. "Nearly four hourslate already! Off with you!"
"I'm doubting we can't do it," said the guard, thoughtfully. "To-night isthe worst night I can remember for years. The expresses could justmanage it."
"Oh, well," said the driver, "we're down to run it, and we're going totry."
"There'll be drifts twenty feet deep in the cutting, and it'll be likerunning into a house," said the guard, slowly, "but I suppose we've gotto try, anyhow."
He walked away thoughtfully to his van, and a moment later there was ashrill whistle, and the Lansdale local ran out into the night.
And it _was_ a night! There was no moon, and not the least glimmer of astar overhead; an utter darkness shrouded the world. The wind was highand steady, and its mournful howling through the rocky cuttings of therailway sounded unspeakably melancholy. Driven by the gale, thesnowflakes had in five minutes covered the windward side of the trainwith a winding-sheet, inches deep, and when Gus Todd, from curiosity,opened the window to peer out into the night, the flakes, heavy, large,and soft, whirled into the carriage a very cataract of snow.
"Don't, Gus, please," pleaded Acton, looking up from his book inastonishment at the snow glittering in the lamp-light; "I prefer thatoutside, thanks."
"It's an awful storm, Acton," said Gus, hastily drawing up the window."Allah! how it snows!"
"Is this up to the usual sample here?" asked Senior, nestling nearer thedozing Dick.
"Well," said Acton, listening a moment to the stroke of the engine, andthe roar of the wind, "I think we may say it is."
"Blizzard seems nearer the word, old man. The flakes come at you likesnowballs."
"Shan't be sorry when we tread your ancestral halls. This weather istoo-too for comfort. And don't we crawl!"
"We're rising," said Acton, "and it is uphill work. Hear the old tankgroaning?"
In fact, the train, labouring up the heavy gradient, did barely morethan crawl through the snow and wind, and the slow beat of the enginetold how hard it was even to do that. Acton added thoughtfully, "We'vequite four miles yet to the summit, and there's a chance we mayn't----"
"Mayn't what, Acton, please?" said Grim, putting down his magazine.
"Get there, Grimmy."
"To the top? Oh, rot!" said Senior.
"I can't quite remember such a crawl as this, Jack; listen how theengine coughs."
"If we can't get to the top of the incline--what then?" asked Grim.
"Go back, I should say."
<
br /> "To Lowbay?"
"Yes. But while we _do_ crawl there's no need to fret."
"That would mean goodbye for the present to your place, old man?"
"Yes. 'Twould be a horrid nuisance, wouldn't it?"
The Amorians listened anxiously to the engine toiling up the incline;but the howling of the wind almost drowned every other sound. The pacewas still a crawl, but it was a steady one.
"Oh! she'll worry through after all," said Acton.
Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the train pulled up with ajerk that sent Senior and Grim flying forward into the unexpectant armsof the dozing Dick and Gus Todd. The luggage rattled out of the rack ininstantaneous response, and whilst all the fellows were staring blanklyat each other they heard the crunching of the brake, and felt that thetrain had come to a dead stop.
"What ever is the matter?" gasped Worcester, quite wide awake by now.
"We've landed into a drift, I fancy," said Acton, "and there's no homefor us to-night. What beastly luck!"
There was now no sound but the roaring of the storm; the engine gave nosign that they could hear, and Acton impatiently let down the window,but was instantly almost blinded by the snow, which whirled through theopen window. Crossing over, he tried the other with better success, andthe first thing he saw was the guard, waist deep in snow, trying to makehis way forward, and holding his lamp well before him. "What's happened,guard?" he asked.
"Matter!--why, we're off the line for one thing, and----"
Forward, they could hear the shouts of the driver above the hiss ofescaping steam.
"Let me have your cap, Grim," said Acton, all energy in a moment. "I'mgoing forward to see what is up. Back in a minute."
He slipped out carefully, but seeing the predicament of the guard, hedid not jump out into the snow, but advanced carefully along thefootboards, feeling his way forward by the brass-work of the carriages.To the leeward the bulk of the train gave comparative shelter from thefury of the storm, and Acton was in a minute abreast of the guard,floundering heavily in the drifts.
"This is a better way, guard. Take my hand, and I'll pull you up."
"All right, sir. Here's the lamp."
Acton's hand closed on the guard's wrist, and in a moment the youngathlete had the man beside him. Together they made their way forward,and by the light of the lamp they saw what had happened. The engine hadtaken a drift edge-way, had canted up, and then rolled over against thewalls of the cutting. Luckily, the carriages had kept the rails. Thedriver was up to his neck in the snow, but the fireman was not visible.
Acton availed himself of the overturned engine, which was makingunearthly noises, and reached out a hand for the driver. The latterclutched it, and scrambled out.
"Where's your mate?"
"Tom jumped the other way, sir."
Acton swung the lamp round, sending its broad sheet of light into thedriving snow. For a moment he could see nothing but the dazzling whitefloor, but next instant perceived the fireman, whose head rested againstthe horizontal wheel of the overturned engine.
"This man is hurt," he said, when he saw a crimson stain on the snow."Take the lamp, guard."
Acton clambered over the short tender, seized the man by the shoulder,and, with an immense effort of strength, pulled him partly up. The mangave no signs of life.
"Bear a hand, driver, will you? He's too much for me alone."
The driver hastily scrambled beside Acton, and in a minute or so theyhad the insensible man between them.
"He hurt himself as he jumped," said Acton, looking with concern at agaping cut over the man's eye. "Anyhow, our first business is to bringhim round."
It was a weary business lifting the unconscious fireman into an emptycompartment, and still more weary work to bring him round, but at lastthis was done. Acton tore up his handkerchief, and with melted snowwashed clean the ugly cut on his forehead, and then left the fireman incharge of his mate.
"We'll have to roost here, sir, all night. There's no getting out ofthis cutting, nohow. Thank you, sir; I'll see to Tom."
Acton and the guard made their way back to the rear of the train, wherethe Amorians were awaiting their schoolfellow with impatience andanxiety.
"The engine is off the rails and the stoker is damaged above a bit,"said Acton, seriously, "and we're fixtures here until the company comesand digs us out. There's only one thing to do: we must make ourselves ascomfy as possible for the night. I must see that lady, though, before wedo anything for ourselves. Back in a moment."
Acton sallied out once more and devoted a good ten minutes to explainingmatters to the very horrified and nervous lady and her tearful littletwelve-year-old girl.
"I'll bring you some cushions, and I'll steal Dick Worcester's pillowfor the little girl," he explained cheerfully. "You have one rug, I see.We can spare you a couple more. No danger at all, really, But isn't itreally horrid? We have not a morsel of food to offer you, but I dare sayyou can, if you don't worry over it, put up with a makeshift bed--onlyfor one night, I'm sure."
Acton relieved Dick Worcester--who plumed himself on his pillow--ofthat article, and one of Senior's rugs.
On his return he confronted the dubious looks of his chums with hisinvincible cheerfulness.
"Now, you fellows! we're to sleep here. Two on a seat is the order, andone on the floor, that's me. Dicky, darling, please don't roll off yourperch. We've plenty of rugs and overcoats: enough to stock Nansen, Grim,so we shan't all wake up frozen to death."
Gus Todd smiled dutifully at this bull.
The guard came with a modest request.
"Can you roost with us? Oh! certainly. Bag another cushion for thefloor, and then you're all right. More, the merrier; and let theventilation go hang. If Mr. Worcester doesn't fall on you, guard, I daresay you'll live to tell the tale."
The Amorians, who trusted to Acton as they would have trusted to no oneelse on earth, entered into the fun of the thing, and the last joke ofthe night was a solemn warning to Grim from Dick Worcester to avoidsnoring, as he valued his life.
"We can manage like this for one night, anyhow," whispered Acton to theguard, "for we really keep each other warm. We'll get out of thisto-morrow."
The guard did not reply to this for fully a minute. He whispered back,"Listen to the wind, sir. The storm isn't half over yet. I've got mydoubts about to-morrow. We're snowed up for more'n a day."
II
OVER THE FELLS
When day dawned, and the snowed-up travellers began to look around them,they found that, though the snow was not descending nearly as heavily ason the night before, the wind was still strong and the weather bitterlycold.
On the windward side of the train the snow had drifted almost up to thewindow panes, but on the leeward there was considerably less. Looking upand down the line, they could see their train surrounded by its dazzlingenvironment, and the drifts were so high that they had filled the lowcutting stretching towards Lowbay level to its top.
The train was an island in a sea of snow.
The Amorians, stiff and cramped with their narrow quarters of the night,dropped off into the snow on the sheltered side and explored as far asthe overturned engine, now stark and cold, with wonder and awe.
"Why, we're like rats in a trap!" exclaimed Gus Todd.
"We'll have a council of war now," said Acton, as he saw the driver andhis mate floundering towards them, "and then we can see what's to bedone--if anything can be done."
It seemed the result of the council was to be the decision that therewas nothing to be done. To go back to Lowbay, or forward to Lansdale,was plainly impossible, and neither guard nor driver thought they couldbe ploughed out under two days at the earliest. "And yet," concludedActon, "we can't starve and freeze for two days. Look here, guard, isn'tthere a fell farm somewhere hereabouts? I begin to fancy----"
"There's one over the hills yonder, three or four miles away. Might aswell be three hundred, for they'll never dream of our being snowed uphere."
> "Well, but can't we go to them, if you know the way?"
"That's just what I don't know, with all this snow about. The farm isbehind that hill somewhere; but I could no more take you there than fly.Besides, who could wade up to their necks in snow for half a mile, letalone three?"
"But the snow won't be so deep on the fells as in these cuttings."
"That's true, I suppose. But get into a drift on the fell--and, Lord,that would be easy enough--you're done. And there's becks deep enough todrown a man, and you'll never see them till you're up to your chin intheir icy waters. I wouldn't chance it for anything. We mun wait heretill we're dug out, sir, and that's all about it."
"Where is that farm, guard? Behind which shoulder of the fell?"
"Look here, Acton," began Dick Worcester, apprehensively, "I'm hanged ifwe're going to let you go groping about for any blessed farm in thisstorm. We'll eat the coals in the tender first!"
"Thanks, Dick. Which shoulder, guard?"
The man explained as fully and elaborately as if he might as well talkas think. The shoulder of the fell was noted by Acton exactly andcarefully, even to borrowing a compass pendant off Todd's historicwatch--chain.
"It lies exactly N.N.E., and one could find one's way in the dark ifthat were all."
"But it isn't, Acton," said Grim, anxiously, "not by a long chalk. Oh,Acton, don't go!"
"I'm going to turn over the idea, Grim. But, anyhow, I don't stir out ofthis cutting until the snow's out of the sky."
Acton and the guard talked long and seriously, whilst the Amorians putinto practical working Senior's idea of a fire beside the van. Therewere coals galore.
Half an hour afterwards the snow ceased. "Now," said Acton, quietly, "Iknow exactly where that farm is. I'm going to go now and have a try forit. I'll move the farm people, if I reach 'em, double quick back againwith food, for they're used to these fells, and then we can all go backto the farm together. The fact is," said Acton, hurriedly, as he saw achorus of dissent about to break out, "we _must_ get out of this verysoon. There's the lady and the child--and even more than that, there isthe fireman, who is downright ill. We cannot wait till we're dug out;that is absolutely certain. I'm not going to run any danger, and if Ifind I'm likely to, I'm coming back. I fancy, really," he added,laughing, "that the most difficult part of the business will be to getout of this cutting."
The fellows all knew Acton; they knew that when he said things in acertain tone there was no good arguing. That was why Grim, with a whiteface, hurriedly left stoking the blazing fire and retired in dismay tothe guard's van, and why Gus Todd, in an access of angry impatience,shied the magazine he had been turning over into the middle of theflames.
Jack Senior said, "This is just like you, Acton. You _will_ fight morethan your share of bargees, but this time I'm going to go one and onewith you. If you like to risk being drowned in those beastly moorlandstreams, or to fall into some thirty-feet drift, I'm going to go too.That is final. _Kismet_, etc.!"
Acton looked narrowly at Senior. "All right, Jack. Get your coat on;but, honour bright, I'd rather go alone."
"Couldn't do it, old man," said Senior, whilst Worcester noddedapprovingly. "What would Phil Bourne say, if he heard we'd let you meltaway into---- I'm going too."
The passage out of the cutting was not so difficult as Acton hadbargained for; but Worcester and Todd did wonders with the fireman'sshovels and made a lane through the drifts. On the firm ground of thefell the two found that, though the snow was deep enough in allconscience, it was not to be compared with the drifts on the line. Thewind now, as they started off, was whipping away the loose top layers ofsnow in cold white clouds, which stung the face and ears with their icysharpness; but, with caps well down and coats buttoned up to the ears,the two trudged on. The snow had ceased, but it was plain, by the darkand lowering sky, that this might only be temporary, and Acton kept upas smart a pace as he could, heading right for the shoulder of the fell,a couple of miles away, behind which he might, if he were lucky, seethat moorland farm. The hill ran down into a valley, towards which thetwo Amorians hurried, Acton keeping his ears well open for the faintestmurmur of water.
"There's a beck somewhere down here, Jack, but we'll not see it untilwe're almost into it. So look out!"
"All serene! I'm on the _qui vive!_" Hardly were the words out ofSenior's mouth than he stumbled headlong forward, the ground opening athis feet, and a narrow ribbon of cold grey water, silently sliding underits shrunken banks, caught Acton's eye. Senior had plumped cleanly intothis. Luckily, it was not very deep, and he scrambled out to the otherside drenched to the skin, and showing clearly enough, where he hadbroken through the snow on both sides, that all the care in the worldwould not prevent them repeating the experience. The snow overhung ayard. Acton had stopped dead when he saw Senior disappear, but in amoment he had sprung clear, and was helping his friend up the bank. Thesnow slipped silently into the stream as he jumped.
"That's number one," said Senior, "and only half an hour from the train!Any more hereabouts?"
"I fancy so, but we may have better luck next time."
"Hope so. Set the pace, old man, please. It's b-b-beastly c-c-cold."
Acton was thoroughly upset by this mishap, and he headed up the oppositeslope of the hill with a face that showed how the incident had shakenhim. Senior's teeth chattered, and he looked blue with cold. The twoplodded on, Acton insisting on Senior keeping behind. Acton again hadthe unenviable pleasure of seeing some more of those icy waters, andtheir slow and deadly stealing under the snow seemed to him sinister andfatal as he pulled himself up on the brink. The care necessary, thecold, cutting wind, and the knee-deep snow, made their progress terriblyslow, and Acton began to notice that Senior, despite his anxiety for asharp pace, was already terribly fagged.
The distance widened between the two, and once, when Acton turned roundand found his friend nearly thirty yards behind, his heart almoststopped beating.
"This will never do! Heaven help us if he cracks up!" He waited for theweary Senior, and then said gently, "Pace too hot, old fellow?"
"Rather. So sorry, but you seem to run almost."
"Run!" smiled Acton, bitterly. "Why, we're not doing a mile an hour.Put your heart into it, Jack, and for Heaven's sake don't let me get toomuch in front!"
"All serene!" said Senior, gamely.
To Acton's intense alarm, the snow had recommenced, and the wind sweptit down the fells full into their faces. Acton was afraid that he mightmake a mistake if the snow became so heavy as to blot out the landscape,and, knowing that to do so might have terrible consequences, henervously forced the pace.
Senior responded gamely.
"Keep well behind, old man. You'll dodge the snow better. Can you do awee sprint? We're not far from the top of the ridge, and then we've onlyto work down the hill and bear to the left, and there we are."
"Only!" said Senior, wearily. "How far?"
"A bare mile. Step it out for all you're worth."
By this time it was obvious that the storm had recommenced in all itsfury, and Acton, in an ecstasy of horror and anxiety lest he should turnthe shoulder of the hill too late to see anything of the farm, almostran forward. He had thrust out his head, and his eyes anxiously peeredforward. They were now almost on the top of the shoulder of the fell.Acton turned round with eagerness.
"Five minutes more and we're---- He's gone!"
Senior, indeed, was not in sight. With a groan of despair, Acton ranback down the slope.
"Jack! Jack! Jack!" he howled above the wind, "Where are you?"
There was no reply
"He's lost!"
Further down the slope ran Acton, shouting into the storm. He heardnothing; not a sound. Then, and his heart almost burst with joy, his eyecaught sight of a moving, staggering figure, drifting aimlessly acrosshis path. Senior, half his senses beaten out of him by cold, wet, thewind, and lack of food, looked at the screaming Acton withuncomprehending eyes, and was aimlessly shaking off his grasp to
loungeeasily to death.
"He _has_ cracked up," said Acton, in despair, and he gripped thehalf-senseless youth with frenzied strength.
"This is the way you're to go--with me!" he yelled.
Half-dragging, half-coaxing, uttering strange promises, to which Seniorsmiled stupidly, Acton regained those few but terrible yards to the topof the ridge. Then his heart almost died within him: there was nothingto be seen, as, half-blinded by the snow, he tried to peer down thevalley.
"Nothing!"
Senior, bereft of his companion's arm, had sunk down happily upon thesnow and looked at Acton, stupidly trying to make head or tail out ofthe situation. His face was darkly flushed; his lips were swollen; andhis eyes were heavy with sleep.
Roused from his momentary despair by these terrible signs, Acton seizedhis friend by the throat of his overcoat, and jerked him to his feet. Heshook him savagely until some sign of intelligence glimmered in thesleepy eyes.
"Jack! Jack! Keep awake! We'll win out yet if you do."
"All right, old man: my head buzzes awf'ly, Where are we? What are youdoing?"
"We're going down the hill. Don't leave go of me whatever you do, andoh, keep awake."
"Serene," said Senior, closing his eyes again peacefully.
With a sob of horror and despair, Acton lurched down the hill, dragginghis companion with him. He kept repeating, as though it were a formula:"Down the slope and bear to the left" again and again.
What the next half-hour held of misery, horror, and utter despair, Actoncannot, even now, recall without a shudder. They stumbled and staggereddownwards like drunken men. The snow blinded him, and the draggingweight of Senior on his arm was an aching agony, from which, above allthings, he must not free himself.
Then, as the very climax to hopeless despair, Senior rolled heavilyforward and lay prone, as helpless as a log, his face buried in thesnow! His cap had fallen off, and Acton watched the black curlswhitening in the storm.
How long he remained there, crouched before the motionless body, he doesnot know; only that he tried many times to shake the dying youth fromthe terrible torpor in vain. Senior breathed heavily, and that was all.
All hope had died in Acton's breast. He threw himself forward besidehis friend, and sobbed, with his face in the snow.
A sound reached Acton's ears which brought him to his feet with a bound.He placed his hand to his ear, and sent his very soul to the effort tofix the sound again, above the roar of the wind. It was the deep, butnot distant, low of cattle.
A third time did the low boom through the storm.
Almost frantic with a living hope, Acton turned to Senior. He raised theunconscious youth, and, by a mighty effort, got him upon his shoulders,and then staggered off in the direction of the sound. He has a faintrecollection that he rolled over into the snow twice, that he wadedacross a river, with the water up to his arm-pits, and always that therewas a weight on his neck that almost throttled him.... He felt that hewas going mad. Then at last--it seemed many hours--a building, wreathedin white, seemed to spring up out of the storm. Delirious with joy,Acton staggered towards it with his burden. Some figures moved towardshim, and Acton shouted for help as he pitched forward for the last timeinto the snow. He dimly remembers strong hands raising him up andhelping him through a farmyard, which seemed somehow to tremble with thelow of cattle, and then he was in a chair, and a fire in front of him.
* * * * *
An hour or two afterwards, Acton was seated before a table, and, in theintervals of gulping down hot coffee and swallowing food, told histale. The peasant farmer and his wife listened open-eyed withastonishment. The farmer, from sheer amazement, dropped into thebroadest Westmoreland dialect.
"How far did thoo carry t'other yan?"
"Don't know, really. Seemed an awful way. I went through a river, Iknow. The water guggled under my arms."
"River!" said the farmer, rising up and running his hand over Acton'sclothes. "He _has_, wife; he's waded through t' beck! Man, give us theehand! Thoo's a--thoo's a good 'un. Noa! thoo shan't stir. I'll bringt'folk over t'fell mysel'!"
And he did--the farmhouse, a few hours afterwards, giving the snowed-uppassengers a hospitality which none of them ever forgot.
There was the jolliest Christmas at "Raven Crag" that had ever beenknown. Mrs. Acton had whipped up a cohort of _cousins et cousines_--asthey say in the French books--and even Grim found a partner, who didn'tdance half bad--for a girl. Did I say a jolly Christmas? Well, evenjolly doesn't quite do it justice.
Letters dropped in upon Acton in the course of the week. There was onefrom Senior's father, which made Acton blush like a school-girl. Therewas another, a very stately one, from the board-room of St. Eustis,wherein the secretary of the Great North and West Railway, on behalf ofthe directors, tendered him hearty thanks for his great services tothemselves and their employees. There was another from a lady, which_simply gushed_. There also arrived a small lock of child's hair, whichMr. Acton was begged to accept from a little girl, who slept "on Mr.Acton's pillow." Dick Worcester claimed this, but Acton was adamant.
"I say, Todd," said Grim, earnestly, "don't you think we fellows mightgive Acton some memorial or other, just to show what we think of him?"
"Good, Grimmy! Trot out suggestions."
"Well, I had thought of a stained-glass window in----"
Todd couldn't look at W.E.G.'s face for days after without a quiver.
THE END
* * * * *
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
Acton's Feud: A Public School Story Page 31
