Kitabı oku: «The Cruise of the Land-Yacht «Wanderer»: or, Thirteen Hundred Miles in my Caravan», sayfa 7
Chapter Thirteen.
The Crew of the “Wanderer,” All Told
“His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Showed he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs.”
Burns.
While perusing these memoirs of my gipsy life, I should be more than delighted if my readers could to some extent think as I thought, and feel as I felt.
In an early chapter I gave a sketch of the Wanderer herself; let me now give a brief account of its occupants by day. Why I say by day is this: my coachman does not sleep in the caravan, but takes his ease at his inn wherever the horses are stabled. Doubtless, however, when we are far away in the wilder regions of the Scottish Highlands, if it ever be our good fortune to get there safely, John G, my honest Jehu, will have sometimes to wrap himself in his horse rugs and sleep upon the coupé. And we have so many awnings and so much spare canvas that it will be easy enough to make him a covering to defend him from the falling dew.
Having mentioned John G, then, it is perhaps but right that I should give him the preference even to Hurricane Bob, and say a word about him first.
My Jehu John
When I advertised for a coachman in the Reading Mercury I had no lack of replies. Among these was one from a certain Major B, recommending John. He gave him an excellent character for quietness, steadiness, and sobriety, adding that when I had done with him he would be happy to take him back into his employment.
This was virtually offering me John on loan, and having a soft side for the Queen’s service, I at once sent for John G.
When John returned that forenoon to Mapledurham he was engaged. If John could speak Latin, he might have said, —
“Veni, vidi, vici.”
But, with all his other good qualities, John cannot talk Latin.
I was naturally most concerned to know whether my coachman was temperate or not, and I asked him. “I likes my drop o’ beer,” was John’s reply, “but I know when I’ve enough.”
John and myself are about ages, ie, we were both born in her Majesty’s reign. John, like myself, is a married man with young bairnies, of whom he is both proud and fond.
John and I have something else in common. We are both country folks, and therefore both love nature. I do not think there is a shrub or tree anywhere about that is not an old friend, or a bird or wild creature in meadow or moorland or wood that we do not know the name and habits of. If we see anything odd about a tree or come to one that seems somewhat strange to us, we stop horses at once, and do not go on again until we have read the arboreal riddle.
John is very quiet and polite, and thoroughly knows his place.
Finally, he is fond of his horses, most careful to groom them well and to see to their feet and pasterns, and if ever the saddle hurts in the least on any particular spot, he is not content until he has eased the pressure.
Next on the list of our crew all told comes —
Alfred Foley
Foley has reached the mature age of twenty, and I have known him for eight years. To put it in broad but expressive Scotch, Foley is just “a neebour laddie.” He has done many odd jobs for me at home as my librarian, clerk, and gardener, and having expressed a wish to follow my fortunes in this long gipsy tour of mine, I have taken him.
Both John and he have regularly signed articles, shipshape and sailor fashion, for the whole cruise; and I mean to be a good captain to both of them.
As Foley at home is in fairly good circumstances of life, and has a kind and religious mother, it is needless to say much about his character. I could trust him with untold gold – if I had it. But here is a greater proof of my trust in his integrity – I can trust him with Hurricane Bob, and Hurricane Bob is more to me than much fine gold.
On board the Wanderer, Foley fills the position of my first lieutenant and secretary; with this he combines the duties of valet and cook, I myself sometimes assisting in the latter capacity. He is also my outrider – on a tricycle – and often my agent in advance.
On the whole he is a good lad. I do not believe he ever flirts with the maids at the bars of the village inns when we buy our modest drop of beer or secure our ginger-ale. And I am certain he reads the Book, and says his prayers every night of his life.
So much for the crew of the Wanderer. Now for the live stock, my companions.
I have already said a word about my horses, Corn-flower and Pear-blossom. We know more about their individual characters now.
Nothing then in the world would annoy or put Corn-flower out of temper. Come hills or come valleys, on rough road and on smooth, walking or at the trot, he goes on with his head in the air, straight fore and aft, heeding nothing, simply doing his duty.
There is far more of the grace and poetry of motion about Pea-blossom. She bobs and tosses her head, and flicks her tail, looking altogether as proud as a hen with one chicken.
If touched with the whip, she immediately nibbles round at Corn-flower’s head, as much as to say, “Come on, can’t you, you lazy stick? There am I getting touched up with the whip all owing to you. You’re not doing your share of the work, and you know it.”
But Corn-flower never makes the slightest reply. Pea-blossom is a thorough type of the sex to which she belongs. She is jealous of Corn-flower, pretends not to like him. She would often kick him if she could, but if he is taken out of the stable, and she left, she will almost neigh the house down.
If in a field with Corn-flower, she is constantly imagining that he is getting all the best patches of grass and clover, and keeps nagging at him and chasing him from place to place.
But the contented Corn-flower does not retaliate. For Corn-flower’s motto is “Never mind.”
Polly – The Cockatoo
I want my friends – the readers – to know and appreciate my little feathered friend, so far as anyone can to whom she does not grant a private interview. I want them to know her, and yet I feel how difficult it is to describe her – or rather him, though I shall continue to say her– without writing in a goody-goody or old-maidish style. “Never mind,” as Corn-flower says, I’ll do my best.
Polly’s Birth and Parentage. – The bird came about five years ago from the wilds of West Australia, though she has been in my possession but little more than a year. She belongs to the great natural family Psattacidae, and to the soft-billed species of non-crested cockatoos. As regards the softness of her bill, however, it is more imaginary than real, for though she cannot crack a cocoa-nut, she could slit one’s nose or lay a finger open to the bone.
I daresay Polly was born in some old log of wood in the bosh, and suffered, as all parrots do coming to this country, from vile food, close confinement, and want of water.
Polly’s Personal Appearance. – Having no crest – except when excited – she looks to the ordinary eye a parrot and nothing else. Pure white is she all over except for a garland of crimson across her breast, a blue patch round her wondrous eyes, and the red of the gorcock over the beak. This latter is a curious apparatus; so long and bent is it that the dealers usually call this species of cockatoo “Nosey,” which is more expressive than polite.
Polly’s Tricks and Manners. – These are altogether very remarkable and quite out of the common run.
No cockatoo that ever I saw would beat a well-trained red-tail grey parrot at talking, but in motion-making and in tricks the latter is nowhere with Nosey.
I place no value on Polly’s ordinary tricks, for any cockatoo will shake hands when told, will kiss one or ask to be kissed or scratched, or even dance. This last, however, if with a musical accompaniment, is a very graceful action. Polly also, like other cockatoos, stands on her head, swings by head or feet, etc, etc. But it is her extreme love for music that makes this bird of mine so winning.
When she first came to me she was fierce, vindictive, and sulky. It was the guitar that brought her round. And now when I play either guitar or violin she listens most attentively or beats time with her bill on the bars of the cage.
This she does when I am playing quadrille or waltz, but the following I think very remarkable: Polly cannot stand a Scotch strathspey, and often, when I begin to play one, she commences to imitate a dog and cat fighting, which she does to perfection. Again, if I play a slow or melancholy air on the violin, Polly seems entranced, and sits on her perch with downcast head, with one foot in the air, slowly opening and shutting her fist in time to the music.
Polly plays the guitar with her beak when I hold it close to her cage, ie, she touches the strings while I do the fingering.
I am teaching her to turn a little organ, and soon she will be perfect. Heigho! who knows that when, after a lapse of years, my pen and my gigantic intellect fail me, Polly may not be the prop of my declining years – Polly and the fiddle?
Another of Polly’s strange motions is moving her neck as if using a whip. This she always does when she sees boys, so I daresay she knows what boys need.
Her words and sayings are too numerous to mention. She calls for breakfast, for food, for sugar, for supper, etc. She calls Bob and the cat, and imitates both. She calls hens, imitates their being killed, puts them up to auction, and sells them for half-a-crown. She laughs and she sings, words and music both being her own composition.
She drinks from cup, or bottle, or spoon, milk, coffee, or tea, but no beer or ginger-ale.
Her water is merely used to float and steep her seeds or crusts in. When frozen one day last winter, I found her throwing the seeds on top of the ice, and saying, “Poor dear Polly?” in a most mournful tone of voice.
In conclusion, Polly is most affectionate and loving to me, and —
“If to her lot some human errors fall,
Look in her face, and you’ll forget them all.”
Hurricane Bob
He is the caravan dog, a noble fellow, straight in coat, and jetty-black, without one curly hair. He is the admired of all beholders.
He has gained prizes enough to entitle him to be dubbed champion according to the older rules. His real or bench name is Theodore Nero the Second. In his day his father was known all over the world.
As to pedigree, Bob’s father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather were all champions, and he is himself the father of a champion, Mr Farquharson’s, MP, celebrated Gunville.
(Vide “Aileen Aroon,” by the same author. Published by Messrs Partridge and Co, 9 Paternoster Row, EC.)
In character, Bob – NB: We call him Robert on the Sabbath Day and on bank-holidays – is most gentle and amiable. And though, like all pure Newfoundlands, he is fond of fighting, he will never touch a small dog.
Wherever Bob is seen he is admired, and neither children nor babies are ever afraid of him, while —
“His locked and lettered braw brass collar
Shows him the gentleman and scholar.”
The words of North and the Shepherd, in the “Noctes Ambrosianae,” come into my head as I write: —
“A dog barks. Shepherd. Heavens! I could hae thocht that was Bronte.
“North. No bark like his, James, now belongs to the world of sound.
“Shepherd. Purple black was he all over, as the raven’s wing. Strength and sagacity emboldened his bounding beauty, but a fierceness lay deep down within the quiet lustre o’ his een that tauld ye, had he been enraged, he could hae torn in pieces a lion.
“North. Not a child of three years old and upwards in the neighbourhood that had not hung by his mane, and played with his paws, and been affectionately worried by him on the flowery greensward.”
Such was Bronte.
Such is Hurricane Bob, only more so.
Chapter Fourteen.
Letters Home, after being Months on the Road
“Come listen to my humble friends.
Nor scorn to read their letters,
The faithfulness of horse and dog
Oft-times makes us their debtors.
Yet selfish man leads folly’s van,
The thought is food for laughter.
He admits all virtues in his ‘beast,’
But – denies him a hereafter.”
I.
Letter from Polly Pea-Blossom to a Lady-Friend.
NOW fulfil my promise of writing to you, my dear, which you remember I made long ago, saying I should do so at the earliest opportunity. By the way, poor Corn-flower, my pole-mate, spells opportunity with one ‘p.’ It is quite distressing, my dear, to think how much Captain Corn-flower’s education has been neglected in many ways. He is only called ‘Captain’ by courtesy you know, having never been in the army. Heigho! what a deal of ups and downs one does see in one’s life to be sure. Why, it is not more than three years since you and I, my dear, resided in the same big stable, and used to trot great fat old Lady C – to church in that stupid big yellow chariot of hers. And now heigho! the old lady has gone to heaven, or wherever else old ladies do go, and you and I are parted. But often and often now, while housed in some sad unsavoury den, I think of you, my dear, and olden times till tears as big as beans roll over my halter. And I think of that old stable, with its tall doors, its lofty windows, its sweet floors and plaited straw, and the breath of new-mown hay that used to pervade it! Heigho! again.
“I was telling Corn-flower only last night of how I once kicked an unruly, unmannerly nephew of my ladyship’s out of the stable door, because he tried to pull hairs out of my tail to make a fishing line. Poor Corn-flower laughed, my dear, and said, —
“‘Which ye was always unkimmon ready to kick, Polly, leastways ever since I has a-known ye.’
“He does talk so vulgarly, my dear, that sometimes my blood boils to think that a mare of my blood and birth should be – but there! never mind, Corn-flower has some good points after all. He never loses his temper, even when I kick him and bite him. I only wish he would. If he would only kick me in return, oh, then wouldn’t I warm him just! I gave him a few promiscuous kicks before I commenced this letter. He only just sighed and said, ‘Ye can’t help it, Polly – that ye can’t. You’re honly a mare and I be a feelosopher, I be’s.’
“On the whole, though, I have not much to complain of at present; my master is very kind and my coachman is very careful, and never loses his temper except when I take the bit in my teeth and have my own way for a mile.
“When we start of a morning we never know a bit where we are going to, or what is before us; sometimes it is wet or rainy, and even cold; but bless you, my dear, we are always hungry, that is the best of it, and really I would not change places with any carriage-horse ever I knew. Travelling does improve one’s mind so, though heigho! I don’t think it has done much yet for the gallant Captain Corn-flower.
“The greatest bother is getting a nice stable. Sometimes these are cool and comfortable enough, but sometimes so close and stuffy one can hardly breathe. Sometimes they smell of hens, and sometimes even of pigs. Isn’t that dreadful, my dear? I hate pigs, my dear, and one day, about a month ago, one of these hateful creatures struck my near hind leg with such force that he was instantly converted into pork. As regards bedding, however, John – that is our coachman – does look well out for us, though on more than one occasion we could get nothing better than pea-straw. Now pea-straw may be good enough for Corn-flower, my dear, but not for me; I scorn to lie on it, and stand all night!
“I dearly love hay. Sometimes this is bad enough, but at other times a nice rackful of sweetly-scented meadow hay soothes me, and almost sends me to sleep; it must be like eating the lotus leaf that I hear master speak about.
“Perhaps you would not believe this, my dear – some innkeepers hardly ever clean out their stables. The following is a remark I heard only yesterday. It was a Yorkshireman who made it —
“‘Had I known you’d been coming, I’d ha’ turned th’ fowls out like, and cleaned oop a bit. We generally does clean oop once a year.’
“Sometimes, my dear, the roads are very trying, and what with big hills and thousands of flies it is a wonder on a warm day how I can keep my temper as well as I do.
“But there, my dear, this letter is long enough. We must not grumble, must we, my dear? It is the lot of horses to work and toil, and there may be rest for us in some green hereafter, when our necks are stiffened in death, and our shoes taken off never to be nailed on again.
“Quien sabe? as master says. Quien sabe?
“Your affectionate old friend and stable-mate, —
“Polly Pea-blossom.”
II.
From Captain Corn-Flower to Old Dobbin, a Brewer’s Horse.
“Dear old Chummie, – Which i said last time i rubbed noses with you At the wagon and hosses, as ’ow i’d rite to you, and which i Now takes the Oportunity, bein’ as ’ow i would ha’ filled my Promise long Ago, If i was only arf as clever as Polly pea-blossom.
“My shoes! old chummie, but Polly be amazin’ ’cute. She is My stable-mate is polly, likewise my pole-companion As you might say. Which her name is polly pea-blossom, all complete. Gee up and away you goes!
“And which I considers it the completest ’onor out to be chums along o’ polly, anyhow whatsoever. Gee up and away you goes!
“‘You’re a lady, polly,’ i says, says i, ‘and i ain’t a gentleman – no, beggar me if i be’s.’
“‘You sometimes speak the truth,’ says polly, she says.
“Which that was a kind o’ 2-handed compliment, dear dobbin. Gee up and away you goes!
“Which polly is unkimmin clever, and I allers appeals to polly.
“Which polly often amooses i like, while we Be a-munchin’ a bit o’ meadow hay, arter we’ve been and gone and ’ad our jackets brushed, and our Feet washed, and got bedded-up like; Polly allers tells me o’ the toime when she were a-pullin’ of a big chariat and a-draggin’ of a duchess to church, and what a jolly nice stable she lived In, and what fine gold-plated ’arness she used to put on, and Lots else I don’t recomember, dobbin, and all in such Fine english, dobbin, as you and i couldn’t speak with our bits out. Yes, polly be’s unkimmin clever. Gee up and away you goes!
“But 1 nite, dobbin, i says to myself, says i, i’ll tell polly summit o’ my younger days, so I hits out as follers: ‘When i were a-livin’ wi’ farmer Frogue, polly,’ says i, which he were a farmer in a small way, and brew’d a drop o’ good beer for the publics all round like, there were me and my mate, a boss called dobbin; and bless your old collar, polly, dobbin were a rare good un, and he’d a-draw’d a tree out by the roots dobbin would. Gee op and away ye goes! And there were old Garge who drov us like, which he Had a fine temper, polly, ’ceptin’ when he got a drop too much, then it was whip, whip, whip, all day, up hill and down, and my shoulders is marked till this day. But Old farmer frogue, he comes to the stable once upon a time, which a very fat un were farmer frogue, wi’ no legs to speak of like. Well, polly, as I were a sayin’, he comes to the stable, and he says to Garge, ‘Garge,’ says he —
“But would you believe it, dear dobbin? I never got further on with my story like.
“‘Oh! bother you,’ cries polly, a-tossin o’ her mane that proud like. ‘Do you imagine for a moment that a born lady like me is interested in your Dobbins, and your Garges, and your fat old farmer Frogues? You’re a vulgar old horse, Corn-flower.’
“Gee op, says i, and away ye goes!
“And polly ups wi’ her hind foot and splinters the partition, and master had to pay for that, which polly is amazin’ clever at doin’ a kick like.
“But I likes polly unkimmon, and polly likes i, and though she bites and kicks she do be unhappy when i goes away to be shoed. Which I never loses my temper, dobbin, whatsomever. Gee up and away ye goes!
“Which we never funks a hill though, neither on us. When we Comes to a pertikler stiff un like i just appeals to polly.
“‘Pull up,’ says Polly, says she, ‘every hill has a top to it; pull up, you old hass, pull op!’
“Sometimes the hay we gets ain’t the sweetest o’ perfoomery, dobbin, old chummie; then I appeals to polly, cause you see if polly can eat it so kin i.
“Sometimes we meet the tractive hengine; i never liked it, and what’s more i never will. It seems unnatural like, so i appeals to polly.
“‘What’s the krect thing to do, polly?’ i says, says i; ‘shall us kick or shall us bolt?’
“‘Come straight on, ye hold fool,’ says polly pea-blossom, says she.
“Gee up, says i, and away ye goes!
“Which i must now dror to a klose, dobbin, and which i does hope you’ll allers have a good home and good shoes, dobbin, till you’re marched to the knacker’s. Gee up and away ye goes! —
“Good-bye, dobbin, polly’s gone to sleep, and master is a-playin’ the fiddle so soft and low like, in the meadow beyant yonder, which it allers does make me think o’ what the parson’s old pony once told me, dobbin, o’ a land where old hosses were taken to arter they were shot and their shoes taken off, a land o’ green meadows, dobbin, and a sweet quiet river a-rollin’ by, and long rows o’ wavin’ pollards like, with nothing to do all day, no ’arness to wear, no bit to hurt or rein to gall. Think o’ that, dobbin. Good-bye, dobbin – there goes the moosic again, so sweet and tremblin’ and sobbin’-like. i’m goin’ to listen and dream.
“Yours kindly, —
“Poor old Corn-flower.”
III.
From Polly the Cockatoo to Dick the Starling.
“Dear Dick, – If you weren’t the cleverest starling that ever talked or flew, with a coat all shiny with crimson and blue, I wouldn’t waste a tail feather in writing to you.
“You must know, Dick, that there are two Pollys on this wandering expedition, Polly the mare, Polly Pea-blossom, and Polly the pretty cockatoo, that’s me, though however master could have thought of making me godmother to an old mare, goodness only knows. Ha! ha! ha! it makes me laugh to think of it.
“They do say that I’m the happiest, and the prettiest, and the merriest bird, that ever yet was born, and I won’t be five till next birthday, though what I shall be before I am a hundred is more than I can think.
“Yes, I’ll live to a hundred, cockatoos all do; then my body will drop off the perch, and my soul will go into something else – ha! ha! ha! Wouldn’t you laugh too, if you had to live for a hundred years?
“All that time in a cage, with only a run out once a day, and a row with the cat! Yes, all that time, and why not? What’s the odds so long as you’re happy? Ha! ha! ha!
“I confess I do dream sometimes of the wild dark forest lands of Australia, and I think at times I would like to lead a life of freedom away in the woods yonder, just as the rooks and the pigeons do. Dash my bill! Dick, but I would make it warm for some of them in the woods – ha! ha! ha!
“Sometimes when the sparrows – they are cheeky enough for anything – come close to my cage, I give vent to what master calls my war-cry, and they almost drop dead with fright.
“‘Scray!’ that’s my war-cry, and it is louder than a railway whistle, and shriller than a bagpipe.
“‘Scray! Scray! Scray – ay – ay!’
“That’s it again.
“Master has just pitched a ‘Bradshaw’ at my cage. I’ll tear that ‘Bradshaw’ to bits first chance I have.
“Master says my war-cry is the worst of me. It is so startling, he says.
“That’s just where it is – what would be the use of a war-cry if it weren’t startling? Eh, Dick?
“Now out in the Australian jungles, this war-cry is the only defence we poor cockatoos have against the venomous snakes.
“The snakes come gliding up the tree.
“‘Scray! Scray!!’ we scream, and away they squirm.
“A hundred years in a cage, or chained by a foot to a perch! A hundred years, Dick! It does seem a long time.
“But the other day, when master put my cage on the grass, I just opened the fastening, and out I hopped. Ha! ha! ha! There were butterflies floating about, and bees on the flowering linden trees, and birds singing, and wild rabbits washing their faces with their forefeet among the green ferns, and every creature seemed as happy as the summer day is long. I did have an hour’s good fun in the woods, I can tell you. I caught a bird and killed it; I caught a mouse and crunched it up; and I scared some pigeons nearly to death, for they took me for an owl. Then an ugly man in a velvet jacket fired a gun at me, and I flew away back to my cage.
“I wouldn’t have got much to eat in the woods, and there is always corn in Egypt.
“But hanging up here in the verandah of the Wanderer is fine fun. I see so many strange birds, and so many strange children. I dote on children, and I sing and I dance to them, and sometimes make a grab at their noses.
“Hullo! Dick. Why, the door of my cage is open! Master has gone out.
“I am going out too, Dick.
“I’ve been out, Dick. I have had a walk round the saloon. I’ve torn ‘Bradshaw’ all to pieces. I made a grab at Hurricane Bob’s tail, and the brute nearly bit my head off. Just as if his tail was of any consequence! I’ve been playing the guitar, and cut all the strings in two. I’ve pitched a basket of flowers on the carpet, and I’ve spilt the ink all over them, and I’ve danced upon them; and torn master’s letters up, and enjoyed myself most thoroughly. Ha! ha! ha! Master’s face will be as long as his fiddle when he comes back.
“‘Scray! Scray! Scray – ay – ay!’
“Well, no more at present, Dick my darling. I never tried to pull your tail off, did I? I don’t think I have done very much harm in this world, and I never say naughty words, so, perhaps, when my hundred years are over, and my body drops off the perch, my soul will go into something very nice indeed.
“Ha! ha! ha!
“Scray! Scray!! Scray!!!
“Poor Polly.”
IV.
From Hurricane Bob to his Kennel-Mate Eily.
“You said in your last, dear Eily, that you wanted to know how I enjoyed my gipsy life, and the answer is, ‘out and out,’ or rather, ‘out and in,’ outside the caravan and inside the caravan. If there be a happier dog than myself in all the kingdom of kenneldom, let him come right up and show himself, and the probability is we’ll fight about it right away.
“Well, you see, I don’t take many notes by the way, but I notice everything for all that.
“First thing in the morning I have my breakfast and a trot out.
“It pains me though to see so many poor dogs muzzled. I am sure that Carlyle was right, and that most men – especially magistrates – are fools. Wouldn’t I like to see some of them muzzled just? – the magistrates, I mean.
“Every dog on the street makes room for me, and if they don’t – you know what I mean, Eily.
“The other day a Scotch collie – and you know, Eily, you are the only Scotch collie I could ever bear – walked up to me on the cliff-top at Filey, and put up his back. As he did not lower his tail, I went straight for him, and it would have done you good to see how I shook him. There was a big dandy on me too, and as soon as I had quietened the collie I opened the dandy up. My bites are nearly well, and I am quite prepared for another fight. I won’t allow any dog in the world to come spooning round my master.
“We travel many and many a long mile, Eily, and I am generally tired before the day is done, but at night there is another long walk or a run behind the tricycle. Then a tumble on the greensward; sometimes it is covered all over with beautiful flowers, prettier than any carpet you ever lay upon.
“Everybody is so kind to me, and the ladies fondle me and say such pretty things to me. I wonder they don’t fondle master and say pretty things to him. I wish they would.
“Good-bye, Eily. There is a tramp coming skulking round the caravan, and I don’t like his looks.
“‘R-r-r-r-r-bow! Wow-w!’
“He is gone, Eily. Good-bye, take care of master’s children till we all come back.
“Yours right faithfully, —
“Hurricane Bob.”
V.
From the Author to his Good Friend C.A.W.
(C.A. Wheeler, Esq, of Swindon, the clever author of “Sports-scrapiana,” etc, etc.)
“The Wanderer Caravan, —
“Touring in Notts, —
“July 28, 1886.
“My dearly-beloved Caw, – For not writing to you before now I must make the excuse the Scotch lassie made to her lover – ‘I’ve been thinkin’ aboot ye, Johnnie lad.’ And so in my wanderings I often think of thee and thine, poor old Sam included; and my mind reverts to your cosy parlour in Swindon, Nellie in the armchair, Sam on the footstool, my Hurricane Bob on the hearth, and you and I viewing each other’s smiling faces through the vapour that ascends from a duality of jorums of real Highland tartan toddy.
“Yes, I’ve been thinking of you, but I have likewise been busy. There is a deal to be done in a caravan, even if I hadn’t my literary connection to keep up, and half-a-dozen serieses to carry on. You must know that a gentleman gipsy’s life isn’t all beer and skittles. Take the doings of one day as an example, my Caw. The Wanderer has been lying on the greensward all night, we will say, close by a little country village inn. Crowds gathered round us last night, lured by curiosity and the dulcet tones of your humble servant’s fiddle and valet’s flute, but soon, as we loyally played ‘God save the Queen,’ the rustics melted away, our shutters were put up, and soon there was no sound to be heard save the occasional hooting of a brown owl, and the sighing of the west wind through a thicket of firs. We slept the sleep of gipsies, or of the just, the valet in the after-cabin, I in the saloon, my faithful Newfoundland at my side. If a step but comes near the caravan at night, the deep bass, ominous growl that shakes the ship from stem to stern shows that this grand old dog is ready for business.
“But soon as the little hands of the clock point to six, my eyes open mechanically, as it were, Bob gets up and stretches himself, and, ere ever the smoke from the village chimneys begins to roll up through the green of the trees, we are all astir. The bath-tent is speedily pitched, and breakfast is being prepared. No need of tonic bitters to give a gipsy an appetite, the fresh, pure air does that, albeit that frizzly ham and those milky, newborn eggs, with white bread and the countriest of country butter, would draw water from the teeth of a hand-saw. Breakfast over, my Caw, while I write on the coupé and Bob rolls exultant on the grass, my valet is carefully washing decks, dusting, and tidying, and the coachman is once more carefully grooming Captain Corn-flower and Polly Pea-blossom.
