by Forrest Reid
She proceeded to do so, while the culprits gazed at her, mute and conscience-stricken. “You’re an extremely naughty boy! We came back early because Daddy has a bad headache, and this is what we find! Phemie and Mary both out; and you with the dogs on your bed, though you know very well you’re not allowed to bring them upstairs. Just look at that counterpane! Not only filthy dirty, but with a great rent in it!”
Tom looked, and could not deny that the counterpane had suffered, though till Mother had turned on the light he had not been aware of it. The rats, he supposed—Pincher was always so careless! But he had never been told not to bring the dogs up to bed with him; possibly because nobody had ever dreamed that he would do so. Still, the fact remained, and he hastened to point it out to Mother. Instantly she asked him; “Did you think I would allow you to bring them up?”—a question admitting of only one answer.
On the other hand, he had had a special reason to-night, which made all the difference, and he proceeded to relate the story of the burglar.
She listened, yet though he tried his hardest to impart to it something of Pascoe’s impressiveness, it did not appear to be impressing Mother. Instead of comment, when he had finished she simply asked a further question, which, if answered truthfully, would nullify everything he had said. “Did you really think a burglar was going to break into the house?”
“I—I—I thought—perhaps Pascoe thought so.”
It sounded feeble—very, very feeble—and he knew it. So, from their dejected attitudes, he gathered, did the dogs. “In that case, why did you let Phemie and Mary go out?” Mother said. “And why didn’t you tell me about it before I went out?”
“Pascoe advised me to tell you,” Tom put in eagerly.
“Yet you didn’t. Why?”
“I—I thought——”
Mother waited rather grimly, and then answered for him. “Yes; you thought that if you didn’t it would be a good excuse for keeping the dogs with you.”
Since this was the exact truth, Tom could only try to look injured.
“Well, they’re going home now at all events,” Mother continued firmly. “And I’m very much disappointed: I thought I could have trusted you.”
“But it’s so late,” Tom pleaded.
“It’s not a bit late,” Mother replied; and after a further look at the counterpane added ominously: “I don’t know what Daddy will say to all this!”
Tom didn’t either, and remained silent until he murmured with deep feeling, “Poor Daddy! Don’t you think it might make his headache worse to be worried—I mean, if you told him?”
This sudden sympathy, instead of mending matters, appeared to have precisely the opposite effect. “Don’t be a little hypocrite,” Mother answered sharply. “Much you care about Daddy’s headache! And at any rate he knows already: we heard the noise before we ever reached the gate. Come, Roger and Barker: you’ve got to go home. That’s all your friend has done for you.”
“And Pincher?” the friend ventured, in the infinitely forlorn hope that Pincher might be left.
But Mother was adamant. “Pincher is included with the others,” she said, and Tom watched her leave the room, taking the three dogs with her.
Part Two
THE ENEMY
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TOM expected Pascoe to make at least some allusion to the burglar when he next appeared; but no, not a word. This was annoying. “I thought you were so anxious!” he reminded him sarcastically, but Pascoe remained unruffled.
“So I was,” he said, “till I saw it was all right.”
“How did you see it was all right? Even if he had come, I don’t suppose he would have burned the house down. I don’t believe you ever thought he was a burglar at all.”
“I did; and he was. . . . Where are the buckets?”
“In their skins. You got me into a nice row . . . ! Just because I took the dogs up to my bedroom as you told me to do.”
“I never,” Pascoe cried indignantly. “What I told you was to warn your mother.”
“So I did too—afterwards—and she says you invented the whole thing for your own amusement.”
“You saw him yourself,” Pascoe returned loftily. “Why are you trying to put it all on to me? The next time I see burglars prowling round your house I’ll jolly well let them do what they like.”
Tom was unmoved by this threat, and they were still wrangling, though with perfectly amicable feelings, when the last thing either of them expected happened; the burglar himself appeared, actually walking up the drive, boldly and in broad daylight. He even had the cheek to grin and wink the eye of an old acquaintance at Pascoe, who naturally gave him a freezing look in return. Tom laughed, his sympathies had now veered round to the burglar, who looked precisely what from the beginning he had claimed to be, an “out-of-work” in search of a job. In order to clinch matters he ran in to tell Mother, and was still further tickled when she came out, talked to the burglar, and eventually called William to see if he could find something for him to do. William then took him in tow, and both went round to the yard.
Pascoe had watched all this coldly from a distance, but disappointingly made no comment when Tom rejoined him. Instead, he remarked, “We’re wasting time,” with the air of one whose patience, though great, is not inexhaustible. “He’s as obstinate as a mule,” Tom thought, yet not without a certain appreciation, as they collected the buckets and went down to the stream.
While they worked, toiling to and fro between the stream and the aquarium, his cogitations shifted from the burglar to Max Sabine. It was three months now since he had last seen Max, but he gladly would have extended the period indefinitely. True, there was no particular reason why he should expect him to-day, except that he had called yesterday—on the pretext, Mother said, of looking for Pincher. Nevertheless Tom felt sure he would come. . . . That is to say, supposing he could find nothing better to do—his visits had always been contingent upon this. Certainly the fact that they had quarrelled violently on their last meeting would not deter him. . . .
The quarrel had not been altogether for the reason Althea supposed. That, indeed, had been the climax, but there had been several unpleasant incidents before the James-Arthur episode had finally opened Tom’s eyes. Max might think he had forgotten, but he hadn’t: he had made up his mind last April to have nothing more to do with him, and his determination remained unchanged. It seemed, therefore, the moment to warn Pascoe. He had already done so more or less, but it could do no harm to be a little more explicit. “Of course he mayn’t come,” he wound up, after a brief summary of the situation—“but if he does, don’t be letting him interfere, which is what he’ll want to do.”
Pascoe had set down his bucket, glad of a temporary rest, for they were both by this time wet and weary. “What’s he like?” he asked.
Tom with difficulty concealed his irritation. He had already told Pascoe what Max was like, and he now added pointedly: “He’s like Brown, only far worse.” Not that he himself had the least feeling against Brown, but because he knew from past experience that Max’s first aim would be to try to establish an understanding with Pascoe, and he thought this would be the best way to guard against such an alliance. Unwarned, Pascoe was far too simple to realize Max’s cunning: in fact, if left to himself, he would be a lamb in his hands, because for all his cleverness Pascoe was really as innocent as a baby, and Max could be most ingratiating.
They worked all morning without interruption, and by lunch-time the aquarium was finished, filled with water, and ready to receive its destined inhabitants. Pascoe, having conscientiously repeated a message from home to the effect that Mrs. Barber wasn’t to allow him to be a nuisance, again accepted an invitation to lunch, during which meal Mother had a lot to tell them about the new man, who evidently had poured out all his misfortunes to her. His name was Patrick Keady, and according to Mother, or rather according to the story he had told her—for she was going to make further inquiries before accepting it as gospel—h
e was a most domestic and virtuous character, out of employment through no fault of his own, and, like other unskilled labourers, finding it very difficult to get a fresh start. At this point Tom couldn’t resist glancing at Pascoe, expecting to see him looking a little abashed; but not a bit of it; Pascoe, prim and demure as ever, returned the glance with his usual calm and steady gaze. The extraordinary thing was that Mother did not appear to have identified her protégé with their burglar, or else, since this seemed scarcely credible, was deliberately avoiding that aspect of the subject in order to spare Pascoe’s feelings. She needn’t have worried, Tom could have told her; there was a sort of “Time-will-show” expression on Pascoe’s face, which plainly indicated that he still held to his first opinion.
As soon as he got him alone, Tom tried to reason with him, pointing out the wretched nature of the evidence which was all he could produce in support of his prejudice; but he had scarcely begun when he broke off abruptly, for at that moment he caught sight of Max. Instantly his face clouded. “Here he is!” he ejaculated in a rapid undertone, while Max, in a self-possessed and leisurely fashion, got off his bicycle, leaned it against a tree, and strolled towards them across the grass.
They watched him, themselves motionless and silent, but their guarded attitude did not appear to embarrass the visitor. “Well, well, well!” he exclaimed jocularly, approaching the aquarium. “What’s all this?”—just as if it wasn’t perfectly obvious what it was.
Max had grown a lot in the past three months—or at any rate Tom thought so. In contrast with Pascoe and himself he looked tall and languidly elegant; but then of course he was nearly four years older than they were, and had always been given to plastering his hair and trying to make himself look like an illustration in an American magazine. He was supposed by most people to be very handsome—just because he had finely-moulded features, a clear olive skin, and dark sleepy eyes—but Tom disliked his appearance, and particularly disliked his thin-lipped mouth, which he thought unpleasant and sneering. Pascoe meanwhile stood staring at him, as if seeking a resemblance to the notorious Brown—a resemblance certainly not there, Brown being anything but languid, and his dimpled, smiling countenance reflecting at all times an inveterate good-nature.
“It’s our aquarium,” Tom muttered unwillingly, wishing they had started out at once to collect their specimens, instead of lingering over lunch, discussing Keady and other things with Mother.
Max’s smile was the patronizing one of a fully-fledged adolescent schoolboy among kids. He kicked the brim of the bath and remarked: “What’s the good of an aquarium with nothing in it? D’you keep it for washing the dogs? Here, Pincher!”—and he threw in the skin of the banana he was eating.
It was no doubt a very mild offence, and coming from anybody else Tom would not have resented it, but now he flushed angrily and grabbed Pincher by the collar before he could move, while Pascoe cried: “Don’t!”—and proceeded to fish out the banana skin with his net.
Max turned at the word, as if discovering for the first time that Tom was not alone. “Hello!” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Where did you spring from?”
Pascoe blushed, but Tom replied for him. “He didn’t spring from anywhere: it’s you who sprang. And if you didn’t see him till now your eyesight must be defective.”
It was an unpromising beginning, and Max, though not in the least disconcerted, evidently decided to alter his tone. “Sorry,” he apologized: “I was only ragging.”
Tom said nothing, but Pascoe quite unnecessarily began to explain that they had only finished the aquarium that morning, and hadn’t had time to stock it yet.
To Tom’s secret disappointment, Max immediately dropped his air of superiority and became all friendliness and good humour “Let’s get some things now,” he proposed. “What about the mill-dam? It used to be a good place.”
The artless Pascoe at once responded to this change of manner. “We didn’t think of the mill-dam, did we?” he said to Tom. “I didn’t even know there was one. We might have a look at it first—though the book says a pond’s the best. Still, a mill-dam might have fish in it”—and to Tom’s annoyance he clearly accepted the idea that Max was going to help them: in fact Pascoe was behaving in exactly the way he had been cautioned not to.
“There’s a pond there too,” Max continued. “At least, it’s not far off: I’ll show you.”
“I can show him,” Tom interrupted pugnaciously. “I told him about it yesterday”—for this was his tadpole pond, which he had been reserving as a special surprise. “I suppose you’re going for a ride,” he went on, though he supposed nothing of the sort.
Nor, apparently, did Max, who merely answered; “No; I think I’ll come with you.”
Tom was silenced. He knew Max understood him perfectly, but he also knew that (with Pascoe so conspicuously failing to back him up) this would make no difference. Nevertheless he persevered. “We’ve only got two nets,” he said; and this hint also being ignored, he added disagreeably: “Of course, you can carry the bottles.”
It was meant to be disagreeable, and drew indeed an expostulatory glance from Pascoe; but Max only gave him a peculiar look—not at all pleasant. “Thanks,” he drawled, after a deliberate pause. “I think I’ll only superintend. . . . You might fall in, you know.”
The last words were obviously spoken in mockery, but Pascoe—who really was behaving most stupidly—took them seriously. “The mill-dam, do you mean? Is it deep?”
“Awfully deep,” Max replied, “with slimy, slippery sides. If you can’t swim, to fall in would be certain death.” Then, as Pascoe swallowed this like a glass of milk: “They fished out a man’s body last winter, and the eels had eaten his face off, so that they never would have found out who he was if a detective hadn’t discovered a masonic sign very faintly tatooed on his chest.”
“On his chest!” Pascoe repeated in an awed tone.
“Well, you wouldn’t have had it on his——”
“Oh, come on,” Tom broke in irritably. “Can’t you see he’s only stuffing you up?”
He lifted a. net and one of the glass jars as he spoke, and they were about to set off when Pascoe suggested that they should leave the dogs behind. “They’ll only go splashing about and frightening everything, the way they did yesterday in the stream.”
Max glanced sidelong at Tom. “Good idea,” he agreed. “We can either leave them here or send them home: they won’t mind, and it doesn’t much matter if they do.”
“Well then,” said Pascoe, preparing to start; but abruptly he paused.
For Tom had made no movement to accompany them, but stood there, sullen and hostile, his face black as a thundercloud. “I think you and Max had better go together,” he said stiffly to Pascoe; “I’m going with the dogs.” And immediately he called them to him, which was hardly necessary, seeing that the faithful creatures were already there and hadn’t the slightest intention of leaving him.
Pascoe looked alarmed. He had spoken on impulse, but now he realized his mistake, though still not understanding why Tom should be taking it like this. After all, it wasn’t his fault that Max was there, and if it came to that, Tom had been just as much to blame as Max for any unpleasantness there had been. However, it was Tom who was his friend; so he said hastily; “We’ll bring the dogs”—to which Max added lightly, “The more the merrier.”
On this they set off, though, with the exception of Pincher, the only person who appeared to be particularly merry was Max himself, who did most of the talking, and seemed quite unconscious that all was not well. True, he addressed his remarks entirely to Pascoe, but this, in the circumstances, perhaps was not unnatural.
They went down to the river, and crossed by the lock gate to the opposite bank. But for Tom the whole expedition had lost its charm, and he now wished that Max and Pascoe would leave him; even his interest in the aquarium had vanished. When they reached the pond the first thing he did was to offer his net to Max, saying he didn’t want to fish, and
would take the dogs along the river bank and give them a swim.
Max needed no pressing; he simply said “Thanks”, and accepted the net; but Pascoe, gazing at Tom dubiously, seemed uncertain what to do. That was his own fault, Tom thought, and he left them, returning to the river, and following it down past the weir to the saw-mill.
This was an ancient and rather primitive construction of rough grey stones, between which bright-green hart’s-tongue ferns and crimson valerian and crane’s-bill had taken root. They had not only taken root, but had flourished so vigorously that the mill itself appeared to be either emerging from or returning to Nature. In the shadow of its archway the great water-wheel revolved slowly and ponderously with a rumbling noise that made the walls tremble; and from the roof of the arch, in a perpetual twilight, grey stalactites hung down. The water was black as ink, except where it was splashed by the wheel and rose in white showers against the semi-darkness of the cavern beyond; but all around, everything was cool and fresh and green, and Tom, feeling injured, sulky and resentful, lay down in the shade of an ash-tree to brood over his wrongs. Pincher immediately sprawled across his middle, while Roger sat up beside him, and Barker went for a solitary bathe, swimming slowly round and round the dam, occasionally scrambling out to shake himself (when Tom could distinctly hear his ears rattling), but very soon plunging in again. He did all this most solemnly, and yet clearly he was enjoying himself in his own quiet fashion, not troubling his head about what the others did or thought, content if they cared to share his amusement, and equally content if they didn’t. . . .
Gradually Tom’s mood altered. The rumble and plash of the huge wheel, monotonous and musical, had a tranquillizing effect upon him—lenitive, almost palpable, soothing as oil or balm. Stretched on his back, with his face upturned to the sky, he could not see the wheel; therefore in his imagination it became a living and benevolent monster, guardian of the river and of this green shade. Why were animals—even fabulous and imaginary ones—so much closer to him than human beings? He no longer felt cross, yet neither did he feel the least inclination to rejoin Max and Pascoe. It was they who eventually rejoined him—or rather one of them, for Max, it seemed, had soon grown tired of collecting tadpoles, and suddenly recollecting something much more important he wanted to do, had gone back to the house to get his bicycle, leaving Pascoe to carry the nets and both jam-jars. Pascoe, with a jar in each hand, and the nets tucked under his arm, looked none too pleased by this desertion; but to Tom it was not at all surprising—was in fact just the kind of thing he would have expected from Max.
