by B. B.
‘But it’s eaten the tea!’ sobbed Angela, her shoulders shaking wildly. ‘It’s eaten the tea and spoilt my picnic!’
Mrs Bowers who, like the others, was emerging like a startled faun from the undergrowth, was speechless. Her eyes were staring at the empty hamper. The chauffeur now advanced upon the snake with a stick, but the vicar restrained him. ‘Do not kill it, Burton, it is quite a harmless reptile.’
The harmless reptile was now coiling itself round the Whiting’s arm, for he had taken it gently from the hamper, and was emitting a most skunk-like smell.
‘Oh, Vicar, I’m sure it will bite you!’ wailed Aunt Ellen.
‘It’s eaten the tea!’ wailed Jeremy, who had now reappeared. The fact there was no tea was a far more dreadful catastrophe than the discovery of the snake.
‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ said the Whiting, ‘of course it can’t have eaten the tea! Grass snakes live on frogs and things, not cakes, and …’
‘A whole chicken,’ gasped Mrs Bowers, ‘and there were cakes and sandwiches, everything. I superintended the packing of it myself!’
‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ Angela collapsed again.
‘My poor child,’ said Lady Bramshott soothingly, ‘it’s most disappointing for you, dear, but never mind. The tea must have been left in the wagonette by mistake.’
‘But the kettles have been taken too!’ gasped Mrs Bowers.
‘Are you sure nobody touched the basket?’ asked Lady Bramshott, turning to the chauffeur.
‘Perfectly sure, milady. I was sitting beside it all the time.’
‘Most extraordinary, a most extraordinary occurrence,’ repeated the Whiting, ‘it is inexplicable unless …’ he swung round on his heel, his eyes glittering as he searched the inscrutable forest about them, ‘unless those Dower House boys have some hand in it!’
Meanwhile, ‘those Dower House boys’, after waiting to see the result of their escapade, were now making their way swiftly and silently by devious paths to the oak tree clearing. Big John had taken off his ragged flannel coat and they had made a hammock of it, in which reposed all their booty. It was a heavy weight indeed, and every few yards they had to lower it to the ground and take a spell of rest. But at last they reached the tree and there found Robin building a fire. He looked up as they came into the clearing staggering under the weighty burden.
‘Hullo, my merry men, what on earth have you got there?’ he exclaimed, gazing in utter astonishment at his brother outlaws: Big John and Little John said no word but gently lowered the coat on to the ground and began to sort out the things. When all was spread they turned to Robin, whose eyes were now out on stalks. ‘There you are, Master Robin, we’ve had good hunting. We’ve robbed the rich. There before you are the contents of a picnic basket, a very large picnic basket, as you can guess.’
Robin went down on his knees and undid the box which contained the iced cake. Reverently he withdrew it from its paper wrapping. The journey through the forest had rather crushed it and the pink icing was melting, but there, still legible, was written in sugar a name – ANGELA.
Big John’s face, when he saw the cake unwrapped, underwent a complete change. A moment before it had been wreathed in smiles of triumph; now it was transformed into a face of someone much older, almost an old man’s.
‘Angela,’ he gasped, ‘I – I never knew …’
‘Never knew what?’ asked Robin, looking up at him, puzzled.
‘Why … that must be Angela’s birthday cake, it was her birthday picnic!’
‘Well, what about it? What difference does that make?’ asked his elder brother.
On a sudden impulse Big John sprang forward, snatched up the cake, and crammed it back into the box. The others watched him uncomprehending. Then he turned and made for the path, the way he had come.
‘Stop him!’ shouted Little John. ‘He’s going to take it back, he’ll be nabbed!’
Robin went after the fleeing Big John like a panther. In a few yards he caught him up and Big John turned at bay, clutching the box. ‘Leave me alone,’ he said wildly, ‘leave me alone I say!’ Tears were running down his cheeks and Robin stopped, shocked beyond measure.
‘I’m going to take it back to her, it was her party and we’ve spoilt it all!’
‘Now, steady on, Big John, you can’t do that you know, you’ll give us away. You’ll get caught.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Big John desperately, ‘I’m going to take it back.’ He turned again to flee, but Robin grabbed him by the collar.
‘You’re mushy on Angela!’ he exclaimed with scorn in his voice.
Big John struck him in the face with all his force; there was an instant of grunting and swaying. Then the box fell to the ground, shattering the cake to a squashy pulp. The two boys fought savagely, rolling over and over, punching and pummelling, until they stopped, like sparring gamecocks, from sheer exhaustion.
‘What’s all the trouble?’ asked the astonished Little John, who had come up with them, drawn by the sound of fighting.
‘I don’t know,’ said Robin wearily, ‘he’s mad I think. Here, take the blessed cake, it’s not much good to anybody now.’
Big John sat among the fern. His nose was bleeding and the wild look was fading from his eye. Both Big John and Robin had just experienced strange primeval passions which neither understood. At last he got slowly to his feet. He came up to Robin and smiled wryly. ‘Sorry, I … I … I’ve been a bit of a fool,’ he muttered. And the three boys went back in silence to the tree.
15. Bunting Again
The latest news of the doings of the Dower House outlaws soon reached Bunting. There was certainly something supernatural about Brendon Chase; it was haunted without a doubt, by other spirits than the Martyr and his headless steed! Else why should trousers, and the contents of picnic baskets, so mysteriously vanish into thin air?
Bunting remembered that cold and shameful ride of his, of how he had stood, like an escaped lunatic, in Ernie’s garden, pleading to be let in. And now came news of weeping children, terrified out of their lives, of serpents, of ransacked hampers. It did not need a Sherlock Holmes to guess that the encampment of the outlaws was somewhere in the Chase. Bunting had blamed the vicar for absconding with his trousers. Now he saw he had been wrong. And there arose in his breast a great determination; he made a vow, by all he held sacred, that he would bring the boys to justice.
He organized quite an army of beaters from the Duke’s estate. But the Chase was drawn completely blank. At least three of the ‘hounds’ passed through the very clearing where the boys were encamped, and even walked twice round the oak; they saw no signs of fires, or man. The outlaws, warned long before the drive began by the screeching of jays, had taken refuge with Smokoe Joe, who was now a firm and valued ally. They had cleverly concealed all traces of habitation. Even the marks of the fire had been covered with leaves and bracken, and nothing had been left within the tree to betray them.
The drive having drawn a blank, Bunting haunted the Chase by night and by day, though he saw nought but bats and rabbits and heard nothing but the quavering hoots of many owls. The only results were agonizing rheumatics and a bad cold. After all, how could a large policeman, quite unversed in woodland lore, utterly ignorant even of how to walk quietly in his bargelike boots; how could he hope to capture three desperate outlaws, whose hearing and sight was nearly as keen as the foxes with whom they dwelt, and who could move as silently as shadows through brake and briar?
He visited Smokoe several times – once all three boys had been hidden in the bushes close to the well behind the shack – but Smokoe shook his huge nose and peered at Bunting like a jackdaw deliberating mischief.
‘No, no, Sergeant, there ain’t no boys in the Chase or I’d ’ave seen ’em or ’eard ’em. I tells you they ain’t ’ere! Ef I do find anything I’ll let ye know, I’ve told you that.’
And Bunting would stride away, throwing defiant glances at the bushes about him as though daring them to mock him, a
nd uttering oaths under his breath. He was no nearer, not one step nearer to their capture than he had been on the night Aunt Ellen had called him to the Dower House. He was like a bull trying to catch three field mice. Yet one day the boys would make some little slip, they would become overbold, and like foxes which have taken to chicken stealing, they would be brought to justice and the birch. So thought Bunting. And so thought many another in the surrounding hamlets, Aunt Ellen included.
But August mellowed into September, and at last came September’s end, and no further sign was forthcoming, no little single clue which told that the outlaws were still at large. And then the good folk thought ‘them Dower ’Ouse boys have gone away now, for sure, they won’t be seen or heard of again’; besides winter was at hand. Winter was at hand! Ah yes, indeed it was, and with the shortening nights and misty mornings what a glory came to the forest, and what romance!
For weeks the trees had been heavy-laden with tired green leaves; every bird was silent save the robin, even the wood pigeons had ceased to coo. In the forest the air had seemed sometimes almost stale, if one can use such a word about nature, but now! What glory! What a colour ran riot in the underwood, how sweet and keen became the morning air which blew into the heated forest like a breeze into a stuffy room!
Those who have lived in the wilds, hunting for a livelihood, look forward to the fall. A new zest for living stirs within the blood, adventure beckons in every yellowing leaf. This is strange. Autumn is, in a sense, the negation of life; it is a season for death rather, and is associated in the mind with the aged. Yet what a spark runs through the blood of the hunter, both four-footed and two-footed! But what stirred the boys more than anything was to hear the fallow bucks challenging one another. All that summer they had seen only two, the one which Robin had seen beside the Blind Pool and the one he had missed with his rifle on that eventful day when he met Smokoe Joe.
But from the grunting roars which now resounded through the Chase it was evident that there were many more in the Chase than the boys had ever guessed. Big John heard a buck roaring close to their camp one evening but it was so dark he could not see it. Even the owls seemed to sense new adventure in the air, if an owl can do such a thing, and their loud hooting made merry music about their camp fire when darkness fell.
They missed Bang dreadfully, so much so they even contemplated another raid on the Dower House to fetch Tilly away. But Tilly was not half so well trained as Bang and she might betray their presence. At least twice a week they visited Smokoe Joe. The latter was now their sworn ally. All the tales of his miserly ways were quite unfounded, as are most village rumours. Though there was a fat reward to be had – fifty pounds was a great deal of money to a poor man in those days – he never contemplated betrayal for a moment. It was enough for him that Gyp had been restored; he was their true friend now for as long as they chose to remain in the Chase. And more than that, for the very first time in his life he enjoyed company. With men he would have been stiff and sullen but these boys were after his own heart, they were unaffected, and he understood them. They never made rude remarks about his nose, though at first Little John, especially, had been awed and interested in the frank way boys have when they see anything unusual or abnormal, but after a while they never even noticed it. If Smokoe had possessed a tail the boys would have taken it quite as a matter of course. And what times they had in his shack! What feasts they had in that little dim room when the stove grew nearly red hot. Many a luckless pheasant was discussed upon the deal table, many a yarn was spun and many a pipe of baccy did Robin Hood and Smokoe enjoy when the day’s work was done. Robin had acquired the art of smoking, but Smokoe’s Bosun’s Plug was too much for his brother outlaws.
They did not go near Smokoe during broad day. It would have been too risky. And since the time Bunting had called on Smokoe, and the boys had had to hide in the bushes by the well, the old charcoal burner had forbidden them to come whilst it was yet fully light. They were sorry about this because they loved to see him at work about his kilns. They would have liked to help him chop the faggots and stack them on the conical mounds and cover the whole with turf. But Smokoe was right: it was too dangerous.
The outlaws found him most useful in the matter of setting snares. He soon showed them why all their efforts had been fruitless. They had been making several mistakes. One was that they had been setting the snares in the wrong places. All through the forest the rabbits had their special runs, and the worn patches on the woodland moss showed where the animals rested as they ‘loppitted’ along. The wild rabbit will never travel far flat out even when he is pursued.
They set the snares between these bare patches and, as far as possible, took great care to avoid touching the snare wire with their hands. If any long grass had been trampled down or branches broken off, the rabbits never came near. Smokoe also told them how rabbits will sit on any little eminence, such as an ant heap or a molehill; sometimes the top of the heap would be found to be quite trodden down and worn, with telltale currants all about. A gin set there was sure of success, but the snares were a more humane method. Tree stumps and the tops of logs were also favoured resting places. Once they got the knack they caught as many rabbits as they required and thereby saved ammunition.
Smokoe swore that there were wild cats in the forest. It is doubtful whether what he said was true. The cats that were undoubtedly found, and sometimes seen, in the Chase were domestic cats gone wild and they grew as large and fierce as the true wild cat.
With the advent of autumn the outlaws turned their attention to trapping and snaring in earnest. They experimented with various springes, snares and even pits, covered with branches. The last were quite useless, though they did catch a hedgehog. Nor did they have any luck with the springes, even though Smokoe showed them how to set them. He had caught woodcocks, so he said, in springes. It was the deadfall trap which appealed most to the outlaws; there was a crude primitive look about the double row of stakes and poised log resting on its trigger. It was in this type of trap they caught their best skin and the securing of that pelt was destined to have many repercussions. So far, Bunting had haunted and lurked in the background, a blue shadow in the intricate forest, waiting to strike and pounce. He had sworn to bring the outlaws to book, and Bunting was a man of his word. Of all the Olympians who had suffered at the hands of the outlaws Bunting suffered the most, even more than Aunt Ellen.
His pride had suffered, his self-respect had suffered; no wonder that he cried for vengeance! And the knowledge that three young whippersnappers had so far bested him was more than he could bear. Outwardly he made no sign. He went about his usual business of administering the law in that rustic area, the inspection of dog and gun licences, sheep dip regulations and the like – all the everyday jobs of the rural policeman – with the same outward calm and dignity as of old, but it was the capture of the Dower House boys which secretly occupied his every thought.
Despite his unsuccessful ambushes he still went to the Chase whenever the opportunity arose; when normally he would have been digging in his allotment, he would sneak away to that reddening wilderness of tree and brake.
What worried him was that, so far, he had no real proof the boys were in the Chase! Indeed, the only time he had seen them in the flesh was that summer dusk at High Wood. But the fact that Little John had been seen in Brendon, and that when pursued, he had made for Cheshunt Toller; this was the most damning evidence.
One afternoon towards the middle of October, Bunting set out on what was destined to be the last time he ever dared to enter the Chase alone. Oblivious of what the fates held in store he mounted his bicycle, correctly garbed, and set his course along the now familiar road, feeling that at last success would crown his efforts.
It was one of those autumn days when the sun shines with a faded splendour which fills the distances with mysterious glazes. The ride to the Chase was a pleasant one, vastly different from that sweltering ordeal when he had toiled up the long hill in the mercile
ss heat of July.
Bunting felt happy as he trundled along; he even whistled a little tune. Somehow he felt that today he would at last find some tangible clue that would land the boys in his grasp, to say nothing of the fifty pounds reward, which still held good. On the road the leaves lay in swathes, for exceptionally early frosts had stripped the ash trees as if with a knife. His bicycle wheel rustled quietly through them and there arose the fragrance of damp and decaying vegetation. Only the oaks retained the heavy green of summer. The chestnuts behind the inn at Martyr Bar were mounds of flaming gold, their splendour increased by the rays of sunlight which filtered through them from behind.
Out in the cleared stubble burnished rooks and jackdaws moved, glistening in the pale golden light as though they had been cast in metal and in one field a single magpie was perched on a sheep’s back, digging into the wool for ticks.
When Bunting reached the Chase he found a very different picture from that which he had seen in the heat of midsummer. It was quite surprising how new vistas had opened out now the undergrowth was becoming bare; the ridings seemed strangely altered, almost unrecognizable. There were many horse chestnuts in the forest and as he made his way up the dew-wet path which led to the Blind Pool – he had left his bicycle, padlocked, under some nut bushes – the large spiny conkers thumped to the ground on all sides of him. Standing still, close to the riding edge, with the sweet aroma of the autumn woods in his nostrils, he could hear these resounding thumps coming from all sides. Some of the nuts crashed into the underwood, others bounced down on the grass beside him. He saw a little red squirrel under one of the trees eating a hazelnut, sitting up and holding it between its front paws, a pretty picture of wildlife, but one which was quite wasted on Bunting.
When he cautiously approached the Blind Pool – he knew his way now from painful experience – it was, as usual, deserted, save for three mallards which rocketed up over the willows with a great quacking. Now Bunting knew enough of woodland lore to know that had the boys been lurking anywhere near, those mallards would not have been on the pond. So risking the chance of getting lost he struck off between the trees in the direction of Smokoe Joe’s.
