THE RAILWAY CHILDREN
PART 11
Chapter XI. The hound in the red jersey.
Bobbie
knew the secret now. A sheet of old newspaper wrapped round a parcel—just a
little chance like that—had given the secret to her. And she had to go down to
tea and pretend that there was nothing the matter. The pretence was bravely
made, but it wasn't very successful.
For when
she came in, everyone looked up from tea and saw her pink-lidded eyes and her
pale face with red tear-blotches on it.
“My
darling,” cried Mother, jumping up from the tea-tray, “whatever IS the matter?”
“My head
aches, rather,” said Bobbie. And indeed it did.
“Has
anything gone wrong?” Mother asked.
“I'm all
right, really,” said Bobbie, and she telegraphed to her Mother from her swollen
eyes this brief, imploring message—“NOT before the others!”
Tea was
not a cheerful meal. Peter was so distressed by the obvious fact that something
horrid had happened to Bobbie that he limited his speech to repeating, “More
bread and butter, please,” at startlingly short intervals. Phyllis stroked her
sister's hand under the table to express sympathy, and knocked her cup over as
she did it. Fetching a cloth and wiping up the spilt milk helped Bobbie a
little. But she thought that tea would never end. Yet at last it did end, as
all things do at last, and when Mother took out the tray, Bobbie followed her.
“She's
gone to own up,” said Phyllis to Peter; “I wonder what she's done.”
“Broken
something, I suppose,” said Peter, “but she needn't be so silly over it. Mother
never rows for accidents. Listen! Yes, they're going upstairs. She's taking
Mother up to show her—the water-jug with storks on it, I expect it is.”
Bobbie, in
the kitchen, had caught hold of Mother's hand as she set down the tea-things.
“What is
it?” Mother asked.
But Bobbie
only said, “Come upstairs, come up where nobody can hear us.”
When she
had got Mother alone in her room she locked the door and then stood quite
still, and quite without words.
All
through tea she had been thinking of what to say; she had decided that “I know
all,” or “All is known to me,” or “The terrible secret is a secret no longer,”
would be the proper thing. But now that she and her Mother and that awful sheet
of newspaper were alone in the room together, she found that she could say
nothing.
Suddenly
she went to Mother and put her arms round her and began to cry again. And still
she could find no words, only, “Oh, Mammy, oh, Mammy, oh, Mammy,” over and over
again.
Mother
held her very close and waited.
Suddenly
Bobbie broke away from her and went to her bed. From under her mattress she
pulled out the paper she had hidden there, and held it out, pointing to her
Father's name with a finger that shook.
“Oh,
Bobbie,” Mother cried, when one little quick look had shown her what it was,
“you don't BELIEVE it? You don't believe Daddy did it?”
“NO,”
Bobbie almost shouted. She had stopped crying.
“That's
all right,” said Mother. “It's not true. And they've shut him up in prison, but
he's done nothing wrong. He's good and noble and honourable, and he belongs to
us. We have to think of that, and be proud of him, and wait.”
Again
Bobbie clung to her Mother, and again only one word came to her, but now that
word was “Daddy,” and “Oh, Daddy, oh, Daddy, oh, Daddy!” again and again.
“Why
didn't you tell me, Mammy?” she asked presently.
“Are you
going to tell the others?” Mother asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because—”
“Exactly,”
said Mother; “so you understand why I didn't tell you. We two must help each
other to be brave.”
“Yes,”
said Bobbie; “Mother, will it make you more unhappy if you tell me all about
it? I want to understand.”
So then,
sitting cuddled up close to her Mother, Bobbie heard “all about it.” She heard
how those men, who had asked to see Father on that remembered last night when
the Engine was being mended, had come to arrest him, charging him with selling
State secrets to the Russians—with being, in fact, a spy and a traitor. She
heard about the trial, and about the evidence—letters, found in Father's desk
at the office, letters that convinced the jury that Father was guilty.
“Oh, how
could they look at him and believe it!” cried Bobbie; “and how could ANY one do
such a thing!”
“SOMEONE
did it,” said Mother, “and all the evidence was against Father. Those letters—”
“Yes. How
did the letters get into his desk?”
“Someone
put them there. And the person who put them there was the person who was really
guilty.”
“HE must
be feeling pretty awful all this time,” said Bobbie, thoughtfully.
“I don't
believe he had any feelings,” Mother said hotly; “he couldn't have done a thing
like that if he had.”
“Perhaps
he just shoved the letters into the desk to hide them when he thought he was
going to be found out. Why don't you tell the lawyers, or someone, that it must
have been that person? There wasn't anyone that would have hurt Father on
purpose, was there?”
“I don't
know—I don't know. The man under him who got Daddy's place when he—when the
awful thing happened—he was always jealous of your Father because Daddy was so
clever and everyone thought such a lot of him. And Daddy never quite trusted
that man.”
“Couldn't
we explain all that to someone?”
“Nobody
will listen,” said Mother, very bitterly, “nobody at all. Do you suppose I've
not tried everything? No, my dearest, there's nothing to be done. All we can
do, you and I and Daddy, is to be brave, and patient, and—” she spoke very
softly—“to pray, Bobbie, dear.”
“Mother,
you've got very thin,” said Bobbie, abruptly.
“A little,
perhaps.”
“And oh,”
said Bobbie, “I do think you're the bravest person in the world as well as the
nicest!”
“We won't
talk of all this any more, will we, dear?” said Mother; “we must bear it and be
brave. And, darling, try not to think of it. Try to be cheerful, and to amuse
yourself and the others. It's much easier for me if you can be a little bit
happy and enjoy things. Wash your poor little round face, and let's go out into
the garden for a bit.”
The other
two were very gentle and kind to Bobbie. And they did not ask her what was the
matter. This was Peter's idea, and he had drilled Phyllis, who would have asked
a hundred questions if she had been left to herself.
A week
later Bobbie managed to get away alone. And once more she wrote a letter. And
once more it was to the old gentleman.
“My dear
Friend,” she said, “you see what is in this paper. It is not true. Father never
did it. Mother says someone put the papers in Father's desk, and she says the
man under him that got Father's place afterwards was jealous of Father, and
Father suspected him a long time. But nobody listens to a word she says, but
you are so good and clever, and you found out about the Russian gentleman's
wife directly. Can't you find out who did the treason because he wasn't Father
upon my honour; he is an Englishman and uncapable to do such things, and then
they would let Father out of prison. It is dreadful, and Mother is getting so
thin. She told us once to pray for all prisoners and captives. I see now. Oh,
do help me—there is only just Mother and me know, and we can't do anything.
Peter and Phil don't know. I'll pray for you twice every day as long as I live
if you'll only try—just try to find out. Think if it was YOUR Daddy, what you
would feel. Oh, do, do, DO help me. With love
“I remain Your affectionately little friend
“Roberta.
P.S.
Mother would send her kind regards if she knew I am writing—but it is no use
telling her I am, in case you can't do anything. But I know you will. Bobbie
with best love.”
She cut
the account of her Father's trial out of the newspaper with Mother's big
cutting-out scissors, and put it in the envelope with her letter.
Then she
took it down to the station, going out the back way and round by the road, so
that the others should not see her and offer to come with her, and she gave the
letter to the Station Master to give to the old gentleman next morning.
“Where
HAVE you been?” shouted Peter, from the top of the yard wall where he and
Phyllis were.
“To the
station, of course,” said Bobbie; “give us a hand, Pete.”
She set
her foot on the lock of the yard door. Peter reached down a hand.
“What on
earth?” she asked as she reached the wall-top—for Phyllis and Peter were very
muddy. A lump of wet clay lay between them on the wall, they had each a slip of
slate in a very dirty hand, and behind Peter, out of the reach of accidents,
were several strange rounded objects rather like very fat sausages, hollow, but
closed up at one end.
“It's
nests,” said Peter, “swallows' nests. We're going to dry them in the oven and
hang them up with string under the eaves of the coach-house.”
“Yes,”
said Phyllis; “and then we're going to save up all the wool and hair we can
get, and in the spring we'll line them, and then how pleased the swallows will
be!”
“I've
often thought people don't do nearly enough for dumb animals,” said Peter with
an air of virtue. “I do think people might have thought of making nests for
poor little swallows before this.”
“Oh,” said
Bobbie, vaguely, “if everybody thought of everything, there'd be nothing left
for anybody else to think about.”
“Look at
the nests—aren't they pretty?” said Phyllis, reaching across Peter to grasp a
nest.
“Look out,
Phil, you goat,” said her brother. But it was too late; her strong little
fingers had crushed the nest.
“There
now,” said Peter.
“Never
mind,” said Bobbie.
“It IS one
of my own,” said Phyllis, “so you needn't jaw, Peter. Yes, we've put our
initial names on the ones we've done, so that the swallows will know who
they've got to be so grateful to and fond of.”
“Swallows
can't read, silly,” said Peter.
“Silly
yourself,” retorted Phyllis; “how do you know?”
“Who
thought of making the nests, anyhow?” shouted Peter.
“I did,”
screamed Phyllis.
“Nya,”
rejoined Peter, “you only thought of making hay ones and sticking them in the
ivy for the sparrows, and they'd have been sopping LONG before egg-laying time.
It was me said clay and swallows.”
“I don't
care what you said.”
“Look,”
said Bobbie, “I've made the nest all right again. Give me the bit of stick to
mark your initial name on it. But how can you? Your letter and Peter's are the
same. P. for Peter, P. for Phyllis.”
“I put F.
for Phyllis,” said the child of that name. “That's how it sounds. The swallows
wouldn't spell Phyllis with a P., I'm certain-sure.”
“They
can't spell at all,” Peter was still insisting.
“Then why
do you see them always on Christmas cards and valentines with letters round
their necks? How would they know where to go if they couldn't read?”
“That's
only in pictures. You never saw one really with letters round its neck.”
“Well, I
have a pigeon, then; at least Daddy told me they did. Only it was under their
wings and not round their necks, but it comes to the same thing, and—”
“I say,”
interrupted Bobbie, “there's to be a paperchase to-morrow.”
“Who?”
Peter asked.
“Grammar
School. Perks thinks the hare will go along by the line at first. We might go
along the cutting. You can see a long way from there.”
The
paperchase was found to be a more amusing subject of conversation than the
reading powers of swallows. Bobbie had hoped it might be. And next morning
Mother let them take their lunch and go out for the day to see the paperchase.
“If we go
to the cutting,” said Peter, “we shall see the workmen, even if we miss the
paperchase.”
Of course
it had taken some time to get the line clear from the rocks and earth and trees
that had fallen on it when the great landslip happened. That was the occasion,
you will remember, when the three children saved the train from being wrecked
by waving six little red-flannel-petticoat flags. It is always interesting to
watch people working, especially when they work with such interesting things as
spades and picks and shovels and planks and barrows, when they have cindery red
fires in iron pots with round holes in them, and red lamps hanging near the
works at night. Of course the children were never out at night; but once, at
dusk, when Peter had got out of his bedroom skylight on to the roof, he had
seen the red lamp shining far away at the edge of the cutting. The children had
often been down to watch the work, and this day the interest of picks and
spades, and barrows being wheeled along planks, completely put the paperchase
out of their heads, so that they quite jumped when a voice just behind them
panted, “Let me pass, please.” It was the hare—a big-boned, loose-limbed boy,
with dark hair lying flat on a very damp forehead. The bag of torn paper under
his arm was fastened across one shoulder by a strap. The children stood back.
The hare ran along the line, and the workmen leaned on their picks to watch
him. He ran on steadily and disappeared into the mouth of the tunnel.
“That's
against the by-laws,” said the foreman.
“Why
worry?” said the oldest workman; “live and let live's what I always say. Ain't
you never been young yourself, Mr. Bates?”
“I ought
to report him,” said the foreman.
“Why spoil
sport's what I always say.”
“Passengers
are forbidden to cross the line on any pretence,” murmured the foreman,
doubtfully.
“He ain't
no passenger,” said one of the workmen.
“Nor 'e
ain't crossed the line, not where we could see 'im do it,” said another.
“Nor yet
'e ain't made no pretences,” said a third.
“And,”
said the oldest workman, “'e's outer sight now. What the eye don't see the 'art
needn't take no notice of's what I always say.”
And now,
following the track of the hare by the little white blots of scattered paper,
came the hounds. There were thirty of them, and they all came down the steep,
ladder-like steps by ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens. Bobbie and
Phyllis and Peter counted them as they passed. The foremost ones hesitated a
moment at the foot of the ladder, then their eyes caught the gleam of scattered
whiteness along the line and they turned towards the tunnel, and, by ones and
twos and threes and sixes and sevens, disappeared in the dark mouth of it. The
last one, in a red jersey, seemed to be extinguished by the darkness like a
candle that is blown out.
“They
don't know what they're in for,” said the foreman; “it isn't so easy running in
the dark. The tunnel takes two or three turns.”
“They'll
take a long time to get through, you think?” Peter asked.
“An hour
or more, I shouldn't wonder.”
“Then
let's cut across the top and see them come out at the other end,” said Peter;
“we shall get there long before they do.”
The
counsel seemed good, and they went.
They
climbed the steep steps from which they had picked the wild cherry blossom for
the grave of the little wild rabbit, and reaching the top of the cutting, set
their faces towards the hill through which the tunnel was cut. It was stiff
work.
“It's like
Alps,” said Bobbie, breathlessly.
“Or
Andes,” said Peter.
“It's like
Himmy what's its names?” gasped Phyllis. “Mount Everlasting. Do let's stop.”
“Stick to
it,” panted Peter; “you'll get your second wind in a minute.”
Phyllis
consented to stick to it—and on they went, running when the turf was smooth and
the slope easy, climbing over stones, helping themselves up rocks by the
branches of trees, creeping through narrow openings between tree trunks and
rocks, and so on and on, up and up, till at last they stood on the very top of
the hill where they had so often wished to be.
“Halt!”
cried Peter, and threw himself flat on the grass. For the very top of the hill
was a smooth, turfed table-land, dotted with mossy rocks and little
mountain-ash trees.
The girls
also threw themselves down flat.
“Plenty of
time,” Peter panted; “the rest's all down hill.”
When they
were rested enough to sit up and look round them, Bobbie cried:—
“Oh,
look!”
“What at?”
said Phyllis.
“The
view,” said Bobbie.
“I hate
views,” said Phyllis, “don't you, Peter?”
“Let's get
on,” said Peter.
“But this
isn't like a view they take you to in carriages when you're at the seaside, all
sea and sand and bare hills. It's like the 'coloured counties' in one of
Mother's poetry books.”
“It's not
so dusty,” said Peter; “look at the Aqueduct straddling slap across the valley
like a giant centipede, and then the towns sticking their church spires up out
of the trees like pens out of an inkstand. I think it's more like
“There could he see the banners
Of twelve fair cities shine.”
“I love
it,” said Bobbie; “it's worth the climb.”
“The
paperchase is worth the climb,” said Phyllis, “if we don't lose it. Let's get
on. It's all down hill now.”
“I
said that ten minutes ago,” said Peter.
“Well,
I'VE said it now,” said Phyllis; “come on.”
“Loads of
time,” said Peter. And there was. For when they had got down to a level with
the top of the tunnel's mouth—they were a couple of hundred yards out of their
reckoning and had to creep along the face of the hill—there was no sign of the
hare or the hounds.
“They've
gone long ago, of course,” said Phyllis, as they leaned on the brick parapet
above the tunnel.
“I don't
think so,” said Bobbie, “but even if they had, it's ripping here, and we shall
see the trains come out of the tunnel like dragons out of lairs. We've never
seen that from the top side before.”
“No more
we have,” said Phyllis, partially appeased.
It was
really a most exciting place to be in. The top of the tunnel seemed ever so
much farther from the line than they had expected, and it was like being on a
bridge, but a bridge overgrown with bushes and creepers and grass and
wild-flowers.
“I KNOW
the paperchase has gone long ago,” said Phyllis every two minutes, and she
hardly knew whether she was pleased or disappointed when Peter, leaning over
the parapet, suddenly cried:—
“Look out.
Here he comes!”
They all
leaned over the sun-warmed brick wall in time to see the hare, going very
slowly, come out from the shadow of the tunnel.
“There,
now,” said Peter, “what did I tell you? Now for the hounds!”
Very soon
came the hounds—by ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens—and they also
were going slowly and seemed very tired. Two or three who lagged far behind
came out long after the others.
“There,”
said Bobbie, “that's all—now what shall we do?”
“Go along
into the tulgy wood over there and have lunch,” said Phyllis; “we can see them
for miles from up here.”
“Not yet,”
said Peter. “That's not the last. There's the one in the red jersey to come
yet. Let's see the last of them come out.”
But though
they waited and waited and waited, the boy in the red jersey did not appear.
“Oh, let's
have lunch,” said Phyllis; “I've got a pain in my front with being so hungry.
You must have missed seeing the red-jerseyed one when he came out with the
others—”
But Bobbie
and Peter agreed that he had not come out with the others.
“Let's get
down to the tunnel mouth,” said Peter; “then perhaps we shall see him coming
along from the inside. I expect he felt spun-chuck, and rested in one of the
manholes. You stay up here and watch, Bob, and when I signal from below, you
come down. We might miss seeing him on the way down, with all these trees.”
So the
others climbed down and Bobbie waited till they signalled to her from the line
below. And then she, too, scrambled down the roundabout slippery path among
roots and moss till she stepped out between two dogwood trees and joined the
others on the line. And still there was no sign of the hound with the red
jersey.
“Oh, do,
DO let's have something to eat,” wailed Phyllis. “I shall die if you don't, and
then you'll be sorry.”
“Give her
the sandwiches, for goodness' sake, and stop her silly mouth,” said Peter, not
quite unkindly. “Look here,” he added, turning to Bobbie, “perhaps we'd better
have one each, too. We may need all our strength. Not more than one, though.
There's no time.”
“What?”
asked Bobbie, her mouth already full, for she was just as hungry as Phyllis.
“Don't you
see,” replied Peter, impressively, “that red-jerseyed hound has had an
accident—that's what it is. Perhaps even as we speak he's lying with his head
on the metals, an unresisting prey to any passing express—”
“Oh, don't
try to talk like a book,” cried Bobbie, bolting what was left of her sandwich;
“come on. Phil, keep close behind me, and if a train comes, stand flat against
the tunnel wall and hold your petticoats close to you.”
“Give me
one more sandwich,” pleaded Phyllis, “and I will.”
“I'm going
first,” said Peter; “it was my idea,” and he went.
Of course
you know what going into a tunnel is like? The engine gives a scream and then
suddenly the noise of the running, rattling train changes and grows different
and much louder. Grown-up people pull up the windows and hold them by the
strap. The railway carriage suddenly grows like night—with lamps, of course,
unless you are in a slow local train, in which case lamps are not always
provided. Then by and by the darkness outside the carriage window is touched by
puffs of cloudy whiteness, then you see a blue light on the walls of the
tunnel, then the sound of the moving train changes once more, and you are out
in the good open air again, and grown-ups let the straps go. The windows, all
dim with the yellow breath of the tunnel, rattle down into their places, and
you see once more the dip and catch of the telegraph wires beside the line, and
the straight-cut hawthorn hedges with the tiny baby trees growing up out of
them every thirty yards.
All this,
of course, is what a tunnel means when you are in a train. But everything is
quite different when you walk into a tunnel on your own feet, and tread on
shifting, sliding stones and gravel on a path that curves downwards from the
shining metals to the wall. Then you see slimy, oozy trickles of water running
down the inside of the tunnel, and you notice that the bricks are not red or
brown, as they are at the tunnel's mouth, but dull, sticky, sickly green. Your
voice, when you speak, is quite changed from what it was out in the sunshine,
and it is a long time before the tunnel is quite dark.
It was not
yet quite dark in the tunnel when Phyllis caught at Bobbie's skirt, ripping out
half a yard of gathers, but no one noticed this at the time.
“I want to
go back,” she said, “I don't like it. It'll be pitch dark in a minute. I WON'T
go on in the dark. I don't care what you say, I WON'T.”
“Don't be
a silly cuckoo,” said Peter; “I've got a candle end and matches, and—what's
that?”
“That” was
a low, humming sound on the railway line, a trembling of the wires beside it, a
buzzing, humming sound that grew louder and louder as they listened.
“It's a
train,” said Bobbie.
“Which
line?”
“Let me go
back,” cried Phyllis, struggling to get away from the hand by which Bobbie held
her.
“Don't be
a coward,” said Bobbie; “it's quite safe. Stand back.”
“Come on,”
shouted Peter, who was a few yards ahead. “Quick! Manhole!”
The roar
of the advancing train was now louder than the noise you hear when your head is
under water in the bath and both taps are running, and you are kicking with
your heels against the bath's tin sides. But Peter had shouted for all he was
worth, and Bobbie heard him. She dragged Phyllis along to the manhole. Phyllis,
of course, stumbled over the wires and grazed both her legs. But they dragged
her in, and all three stood in the dark, damp, arched recess while the train
roared louder and louder. It seemed as if it would deafen them. And, in the
distance, they could see its eyes of fire growing bigger and brighter every
instant.
“It IS a
dragon—I always knew it was—it takes its own shape in here, in the dark,”
shouted Phyllis. But nobody heard her. You see the train was shouting, too, and
its voice was bigger than hers.
And now,
with a rush and a roar and a rattle and a long dazzling flash of lighted
carriage windows, a smell of smoke, and blast of hot air, the train hurtled by,
clanging and jangling and echoing in the vaulted roof of the tunnel. Phyllis
and Bobbie clung to each other. Even Peter caught hold of Bobbie's arm, “in
case she should be frightened,” as he explained afterwards.
And now,
slowly and gradually, the tail-lights grew smaller and smaller, and so did the
noise, till with one last WHIZ the train got itself out of the tunnel, and
silence settled again on its damp walls and dripping roof.
“OH!” said
the children, all together in a whisper.
Peter was
lighting the candle end with a hand that trembled.
“Come on,”
he said; but he had to clear his throat before he could speak in his natural
voice.
“Oh,” said
Phyllis, “if the red-jerseyed one was in the way of the train!”
“We've got
to go and see,” said Peter.
“Couldn't
we go and send someone from the station?” said Phyllis.
“Would you
rather wait here for us?” asked Bobbie, severely, and of course that settled
the question.
So the
three went on into the deeper darkness of the tunnel. Peter led, holding his
candle end high to light the way. The grease ran down his fingers, and some of
it right up his sleeve. He found a long streak from wrist to elbow when he went
to bed that night.
It was not
more than a hundred and fifty yards from the spot where they had stood while
the train went by that Peter stood still, shouted “Hullo,” and then went on
much quicker than before. When the others caught him up, he stopped. And he
stopped within a yard of what they had come into the tunnel to look for.
Phyllis saw a gleam of red, and shut her eyes tight. There, by the curved,
pebbly down line, was the red-jerseyed hound. His back was against the wall,
his arms hung limply by his sides, and his eyes were shut.
“Was the
red, blood? Is he all killed?” asked Phyllis, screwing her eyelids more tightly
together.
“Killed?
Nonsense!” said Peter. “There's nothing red about him except his jersey. He's
only fainted. What on earth are we to do?”
“Can we
move him?” asked Bobbie.
“I don't
know; he's a big chap.”
“Suppose
we bathe his forehead with water. No, I know we haven't any, but milk's just as
wet. There's a whole bottle.”
“Yes,”
said Peter, “and they rub people's hands, I believe.”
“They burn
feathers, I know,” said Phyllis.
“What's
the good of saying that when we haven't any feathers?”
“As it
happens,” said Phyllis, in a tone of exasperated triumph, “I've got a
shuttlecock in my pocket. So there!”
And now
Peter rubbed the hands of the red-jerseyed one. Bobbie burned the feathers of
the shuttlecock one by one under his nose, Phyllis splashed warmish milk on his
forehead, and all three kept on saying as fast and as earnestly as they could:—
“Oh, look
up, speak to me! For my sake, speak!”
To be continued