by B. B.
‘Well, it looks like a journey to Brendon,’ said Big John. ‘One of us will have to go. Fifteen bob won’t last us long either, by the time we’ve bought porridge oats, ammunition, salt, cabbages and … all the rest.’
‘Well, we’d better toss,’ said Robin. ‘Toss for who’s to go into Brendon tomorrow.’
Big John burst out laughing. ‘There’s no need to do that. Little John is the only one who has a pair of trousers! We can’t march up Brendon High Street in rabbit skin kilts. Little John will probably be nabbed anyway. All the police will have a description of us and we can’t go after dark because the shops will be shut.’
‘Then Little John will have to do it.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Little John at once.
‘Right, well, that’s settled. You’d better go tomorrow. Sneak out of the Chase before it’s light and get on the road before people are about. It’s only five miles. You’ll be there as soon as the shops open and then you can come back and take your time over it. Don’t try and reach the forest while it’s light though. Hide up somewhere in a wood or a hedge. That’s the plan.’
‘I’ll bet he’ll get caught,’ said Big John, eyeing their luckless brother outlaw. ‘He looks pretty dirty and his jacket’s torn.’
‘Can’t help that. He must take the risk. If you are caught, Little John, don’t give us away. If you don’t come back we’ll know they’ve nabbed you.’
It was still dark when Little John set out. His brother outlaws had cleaned him up as best they could and they accompanied him to the edge of the road which cut through the Chase at the selfsame spot where they had witnessed the departure of the Whiting and the unfortunate Bunting. They watched his small figure disappearing in the half darkness and saw the first hint of dawn appearing in the east.
‘I hope he comes back all right,’ said Robin.
‘So do I.’
‘It would be awful if he was caught.’
‘Don’t worry, Little John can look after himself.’
It seemed a long time to Little John before he was clear of the Chase and all the while the dawn was coming up. Once he was outside he kept off the road and walked on the field side of the hedge. Men went past on bicycles and a few carts clattered by. As he neared Cheshunt Toller he saw a man driving some cattle. That meant it was market day in Brendon!
Then he had a brilliant idea. He would help the man drive them into the town; he would scoot ahead and pick them up in the village! By doubling along the side of the thick hedge he reached Cheshunt Toller well ahead of the drover. When the lowing brown herd came into view he pretended to be playing in the gutter. ‘Mornin’, mister,’ he said to the drover, a big black-browed man with a red kerchief knotted round his throat. He looked like a gipsy. The drover did not reply; indeed, he scarcely even glanced at Little John, for at that moment one of the heifers, a small red animal, darted down a side road and the drover let out a torrent of original oaths.
‘All right, mister, I’ll get ’im for you,’ shouted Little John. He tore after the heifer and stood in front of the poor mazed brute. It lowered its head, froth drooling from its mouth, and then clumsily turned round, slipping to its knees on the road.
‘Well done, young ’un, that there beast is a —.’ The drover used a word new to Little John. ‘’E’s played ’ell wi’ me all the way from Martyr Bar.’
‘Goin’ to Brendon, mister?’ asked Little John cheerfully.
‘Aye, I am an’ all, worse luck.’
‘Can I come along with you an’ help you drive ’em?’
‘Ain’t you got to go to school?’
‘No, I ain’t,’ said Little John.
‘I’ll gi’e ’ee threepence if you ’elp me drive ’em,’ said the drover suddenly, ‘’Ere I ain’t kiddin’ – look.’
He held up three very grubby pennies. ‘Threepence ’ef you ’elp me.’
‘Righto, mister, I’ll come,’ said Little John, trying – very badly – to imitate the Tilthshire dialect. To add realism he spat and straddled with his hands deep in his pockets.
‘You’re a good boy, you are,’ said the drover. ‘One o’ the right sort.’
‘It’ll be my good deed,’ said Little John virtuously. ‘I’m a Scout, you know.’ I regret to say the last remark was true. Harold was in the Cubs at Banchester.
‘Oh, ah.’
Little John quite enjoyed that tramp in the early morning with the sun just coming up and the lowing herd jostling along the lane before them. He scurried round the clumsy beasts like a little terrier.
‘You’re better’n a dawg, mate,’ said the drover, pulling out a villainous looking pipe and lighting it. ‘What’s yer name?’
‘Harold ’Awkins,’ said Little John promptly.
‘No relation ter Mr ’Awkins wot keeps the bakers in Cheshunt Toller by any chance?’
‘Grandson,’ said Little John glibly.
‘I knows yer grandad,’ exclaimed the drover. ‘I’ve often looked in, when I’ve bin goin’ past, for a crust o’ bread. Bakes good bread, too, does yer grandad. Where d’you live, kid?’
Little John was rather taken aback for a moment.
‘Lunnon.’ That should be a safe card to play.
‘Oh, ah, I thought you didn’t look like a country kid.’ Little John was not sure whether to take this as a compliment or not. ‘I ain’t never bin to Lunnon,’ added the drover.
Conversation lapsed for a while, much to Little John’s secret relief. They had been skating on thin ice.
‘You ain’t seen nothin’ o’ them boys ’oo ran away from Cherry Walden, I suppose?’
‘What boys?’ asked Little John innocently, though his heart gave a jump.
‘Why, ain’t you ’eard … well, no, I don’t suppose as you ’ave if you’ve only just come to these parts. But three boys – toffs they were – ran away from the Dower ’Ouse, and all the perlice ha’ been arter them. Ain’t caught ’em yet, neither. I bin keepin’ a lookout; there’s fifty quid fer infermation leading to their arrest.’
‘Fifty quid!’ Little John whistled. It was the first he had heard of it.
‘Ah, fifty quid, some big paper offered it. But nobody’s claimed it yet. I could do wi’ fifty quid, I can tell ye,’ said the drover looking suddenly at Little John. ‘Fifty quid’s a lot o’ money.’
‘I expect they’ve run away to sea,’ said Little John, ‘like I’ve always wanted to do.’
‘No, they reckon they’re ’idin’ somewhere in the woods. They’ve seen ’em once, up at ’Igh Wood, beyondst Cherry Walden. A rare old chase it was, by all accounts, ’undreds o’ police and folks arter ’em, but they got away. Artful as foxes. Their old aunt’s in a bit of a stew so I’m told.’ The drover puffed at his pipe and hit a heifer a terrific blow on its angular hind quarters. ‘Caao! Caao!’ he bawled. ‘Coup! Cauop! Cauop!’
Little John had never heard such a racket. ‘Kiup! Kiup!’ he shouted in unison, quite enjoying himself.
The sun was now well up, white dust arose in a cloud, dogs barked at them from farmyards, farmers rattled by in their gigs. They reached Brendon without incident and Little John helped the drover to take the cattle right down the hill past the grammar school and the Prince of Wales Inn to the cattle market by the station.
‘Look ye ’ere,’ said the drover, producing the promised threepence, ‘I shall ’ave some ship to take back, mebbe this arternoon, fer Mr Hambro. Ef you meet me ’ere at two o’clock and ’elp me take ’em back, I’ll give another threepence. Wot d’you say, chum?’
‘Right, mister, I’ll be there!’
Little John was thankful for this drover. What a chance it had been! In his company none would suspect him and perhaps the man would help him carry his purchases for they would be cumbersome.
He went first to the gunsmith’s and bought a hundred rounds of .22 – it was before the days of such things as permits. Then he purchased the cabbages, matches and salt, a pound of sugar and at the saddler’s he purchased som
e cobbler’s thread and a stout needle. The man behind the counter, an elderly person with a walrus moustache and steel-rimmed spectacles, looked so hard at him that he was glad to get out of the shop.
By the time he had completed his list it was nearly midday and he was ravenously hungry. He bought some chocolate and thought he had never tasted anything so delicious in his life. Laden with his parcels he made his way to the cattle market at half past one. A few police were wandering round and one seemed to be eyeing him suspiciously so Little John went up a back street. When he returned to the market the policeman had gone.
The market was an attractive noisy place, full of lusty-lunged men, swearing drovers, and loud with the bleat and moo of hundreds of animals which were crammed into iron pens, like sardines in a tin.
The heat beat down and the dust was choking. Little John wished the drover would come. And at last he saw him, guiding – or attempting to guide – a terrified flock of sheep up the station road. He ran after him, hailing him from afar.
‘Ah, that’s a good boy,’ said the big man cheerily, ‘thought you wouldn’t turn up. It’ll be the devil’s own business getting these — outer the town wi’out a dawg.’
Little John thought so, too, especially as he had so much to carry.
‘You bin marketing, too, sims to me,’ said the drover, ‘ye look like Father Christmas. ’Ere, let me carry yer big parcel,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘’Ullow! Cabbages!’ said the man, surprised, as he took them. ‘Whatever’s your grandad a’buying cabbages for? Don’t ’e grow ’em on ’is allotment?’
‘No … no, ’ee don’t grow many,’ said Little John hurriedly, ‘leastways he told me to get ’em for ’im, ’ee’s very fond o’ cabbages.’
‘Seemingly ’ee is an’ all,’ said the drover, ‘can’t understand ’im buyin’ cabbages.’
Luckily at this juncture several of the sheep decided to break away up Drum Alley and Little John had to head them off.
All went well until they reached the turning to Cheshunt Toller in the centre of the town. There a horse and van came trotting up behind them and the sheep had to be driven on one side. Little John heard the drover hail the driver. ‘Ullo, Mr ’Awkins, I got a good shipdawg ’ere terday!’
‘Got a wot?’
‘A good shipdawg ’ere; yer grandson.’
Little John felt his heart turn to water. He looked round. There was the covered baker’s van from Cheshunt Toller and on the side of it in curly gold and brown letters, the words, THOS HAWKINS, BAKER AND CONFECTIONER, CHESHUNT TOLLER.
‘My what?’ bellowed the driver, a bearded, red-faced man, with a glass eye.
‘Yer grandson, ’Arry. He ’elped me drive some ’eifers in this morning, and ’e’s ’elpin’ me drive these ship back to Cheshunt Toller. Don’t mind, does you? ’Ere, ’Arry, ’ere’s yer grandad,’ said the drover delightedly, turning to Little John.
Little John looked at his ‘grandad’; his mind was working quickly. The drover had the cabbages. He must get them from him and then make a bolt for it.
‘Wotcher mean, grandson?’ said Mr Hawkins, eyeing Little John suspiciously.
‘Why, ’ee’s yer grandson, ain’t ’ee, Mr ’Awkins?’
A slow recognition seemed to dawn in the red-bearded visage. A broad smile spread over Mr Hawkins’s face, but not before he had caught sight of the policeman on point duty at the crossroads fifty yards ahead. ‘Aye, aye, well, well, ’Arry, me boy, glad ter see you,’ said Mr Hawkins. ‘Climb up on the van, boy, climb up on the van!’
Little John was so thunderstruck he obeyed like a lamb. A strong – very strong – hairy fist grasped his arm like a vice and hauled up the unhappy outlaw on to the box.
‘I’m afraid ’e’ll ’ave to come ’ome along o’ me,’ said Mr Hawkins.
‘’Ere,’ shouted the drover, ‘can’t ’ee stop and gi’e me an ’and?’
‘’Fraid not,’ said Mr Hawkins briefly, ‘’is grandma will be worryin’.’
‘Well, don’t go without yer cabbages, ’Arry,’ said the drover ruefully, passing up the brown paper parcel. Little John, still in a daze, took them from him.
‘Gee up!’ said Mr Hawkins and the horse broke into a trot. Little John’s mind was still working. What was his captor’s game?
‘You don’t want to go along o’ ’im, boy,’ said Mr Hawkins, clucking to his horse, and looking very hard at Little John out of the corner of his good eye, ‘’ee’s a nasty rough man. I’ll gi’e ’ee a lift along the Cheshunt Toller road wi’ me.’
Little John did not answer but shuffled his feet.
‘Bin doin’ a little shoppin’ eh?’ said Mr Hawkins, benignly, looking at Little John all the harder out of his live eye. Little John did not know which eye to look at and so said nothing.
When they reached the policeman on point duty Little John noticed a strange thing. Mr Hawkins’s hand which held the reins was trembling.
‘’Arf a mo’, sonny,’ he said pulling the horse up, ‘I want a word with the bobby about summat.’
In a flash Little John saw Mr Hawkins’s game. The man had recognized him and that trembling hand was already closing on fifty one-pound notes.
‘All right, Mr Hawkins,’ said Little John meekly. The sheep in the rear of the cart were making so much noise that Mr Hawkins had to lean down from the cart to attract the policeman’s attention; at the same time his left hand wandered towards Little John’s coat collar.
Then the latter acted like a whiplash. With all his force he drove his elbow in the side of Mr Hawkins and the next moment the unfortunate man lost his balance and reeled sideways. He fell from the cart almost on top of the policeman, who, turning suddenly round, caught the baker in his arms, grasping him as he would an enormous teddy bear. The next instant Little John had seized the reins and laid the lash along the side of the startled animal and Little John, horse and van went thundering away down the Cheshunt Toller road.
Cries, shouts and scufflings came to him, mingled with the bleating of sheep and the yells of the astonished drover. Looking over his shoulder Little John saw everyone was running after him down the road, sheep, drover, policeman and Mr Hawkins. Little John plied the lash. They were still in the centre of the town but the horse, terrified at the noise, needed no whip. The van swayed. Little John saw a fat grocer in a white apron rush heroically from his shop door and spread out his arms in front of them. The horse swerved, the van mounted the pavement and a large pile of wicker baskets full of new potatoes went tumbling in a cascade down the middle of the High Street.
Women fainted, boys – white of face – crouched against shop windows, a fat parson on a tricycle fell over, scattering books and parcels all over the pavement, dogs tucked in their tails and fled up back alleys, but Thos Hawkins, Baker and Confectioner, flew onwards, rocking like a stricken ship, spilling sacks of flour out of the back and leaving a white trail behind. A policeman at the end of Warburton Street saw the runaway van careering towards him. With great courage he spread wide his hands like a man endeavouring to field a ball. His eyes were staring, and his mouth was shut in a grim line as he jigged from side to side. But he, too, flashed by in a cloud of dust.
‘Turump! Turump! Turump!’ went the horse’s hooves. Little John saw the foam-flecked neck and flying mane rising up and down in front of him like a piston. Never in his life had he travelled at such a speed, and neither had the horse!
Soon he found himself standing up, like one of the old Greek charioteers, yelling madly at the top of his lungs and plying the whip mercilessly.
The cries of men came in gusts. ‘Stop ’em, stop ’em. Oi! Oi! Pull on the reins, boy! Pull on the reins!’
Never had Little John seen people move so fast! They seemed like puppets jerked on strings, or a film run very fast. They whirled and rattled past the Prince of Wales like a tidal bore. In front of him, down the street, everyone was standing staring. As he drew near they shrank aside into shop angles and corners or crouched behind lamp posts. When
he had passed they darted out and ran after him.
Behind him in pursuit came a hardware van and a farmer in his gig; they, too, were plying whip and spur.
In the early part of the twentieth century, motor cars were not common as they are today. One or two motor vehicles were parked on the side of the road and just past the Prince of Wales was the magnificent Rolls-Royce belonging to the Duke of Brendon. Unfortunately it so happened that all these cars were facing in the wrong direction and in those comparatively early days of motoring it took time to manoeuvre a car round.
In a few moments all this noise, bustle and clatter was left behind and Little John, still lashing the horse, was thundering along the Cheshunt Toller road. The horse knew the way home and he was a young horse.
The hardware van was left far behind and on looking back Little John saw that pursuit had, for the moment, died away. The horse was now blowing like a grampus but it was still game; sparks flew from its hooves and the last sack of flour tumbled out on to the road. Little John helped its descent with his foot. Like a balloonist he was shedding all ballast. The sack burst on impact in a shower of white flour.
A mile from Cheshunt Toller he saw a cloud of dust with a black centre speed round the bend he had just passed. It was the Duke of Brendon’s limousine!
Another bend in the road lay just ahead. Once round it Little John pulled his frothing steed to a standstill, leapt from the seat on to the grass and gave the horse a parting cut with the whip.
Away went the van again and the next moment Little John, still clutching his precious parcels, was in the ditch.
A cyclone passed him with a roar. It was the limousine. The smart blue uniformed chauffeur was crouched over the wheel, his face tense, and beside him sat a policeman! In the back, swaying to and fro in a most undignified fashion, was the Duke of Brendon, clutching a tasselled cord. He was shouting something to the chauffeur. And then … a beautiful peace reigned; the only sound was of a distant cowman calling in his herd, quite oblivious to the world-shaking events on the Brendon road, and a cloud of white dust hung in the air, to settle softly on the heads of the seeding hemlock in the ditch.
