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The Weathercock: Being the Adventures of a Boy with a Bias, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 1. Toadstools! |
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_ CHAPTER ONE. TOADSTOOLS! "Oh, I say, here's a game! What's he up to now?" "Hi! Vane! Old weathercock! Hold hard!" "Do you hear? Which way does the wind blow?" Three salutations shouted at a lad of about sixteen, who had just shown himself at the edge of a wood on the sunny slope of the Southwolds, one glorious September morning, when the spider-webs were still glittering with iridescent colours, as if every tiny strand were strung with diamonds, emeralds and amethysts, and the thick green moss that clothed the nut stubbs was one glorious sheen of topaz, sapphire and gold. Down in the valley the mist still hung in thick patches, but the sun's rays were piercing it in many directions, and there was every promise of a hot day, such as would make the shade of the great forest with its acorn-laden oaks welcome, and the whole place tempting to one who cared to fill pocket or basket with the bearded hazelnuts, already beginning to show colour in the pale green husks, while the acorns, too, were changing tint slightly, and growing too big for their cups. The boy, who stood with his feet deep in moss, was framed by the long lithe hazel stems, and his sun-browned face looked darker in the shade as, bareheaded, his cap being tucked in the band of his Norfolk jacket, he passed one hand through his short curly hair, to remove a dead leaf or two, while the other held a little basket full of something of a bright orange gold; and as he glanced at the three youths in the road, he hurriedly bent down to rub a little loam from the knees of his knickerbockers--loam freshly gathered from some bank in the wood. "Morning," he said, as the momentary annoyance caused by the encounter passed off. "How is it you chaps are out so early?" "Searching after you, of course," said the first speaker. "What have you got there?" "These," said the lad, holding up his basket, as he stepped down amongst the dewy grass at the side of the road. "Have some?" "Have some? Toadstools?" "Toad's grandmothers!" cried the lad. "They're all chanterelles--for breakfast. Delicious." The first of the three well-dressed youths, all pupils reading with the Reverend Morton Syme, at the Rectory, Mavis Greythorpe, Lincolnshire, gave a sidelong glance at his companions and advanced a step. "Let's look," he said. The bearer of the basket raised his left hand with his fungoid booty, frankly trusting, and his fellow-pupil delivered a sharp kick at the bottom of the wicker receptacle--a kick intended to send the golden chalice-like fungi flying scattered in the air. But George Vane Lee was as quick in defence as the other was in attack, and his parry was made in the easiest and most effortless way. It was just this:-- He let the basket swing down and just passed his right hand forward, seeming only to brush the assailant's ankle--in fact it was the merest touch, but sufficient to upset the equilibrium of a kicker on one leg, and the next moment Lance Distin was lying on his back in a perfect tangle of brambles, out of which he scrambled, scratched and furious, amidst a roar of laughter from his companions. "You beggar!" he cried, with his dark eyes flashing, and a red spot in each of his sallow cheeks. "Keep off!" cried the mushroom bearer, backing away. "Lay hold of him, Gilmore--Aleck!" The lads addressed had already caught at the irate boy's arms. "Let go, will you!" he yelled. "I'll let him know." "Be quiet, or we'll all sit on you and make you." "I'll half kill him--I'll nearly break his neck." "No, don't," said the boy with the basket, laughing. "Do you want your leave stopped? Nice you'd look with a pair of black eyes." "You can't give them to me," roared the lad, passionately, as he still struggled with those who held him, but giving them little trouble in keeping him back. "Don't want to. Served you right. Shouldn't have tried to kick over my basket. There, don't be in such a temper about that." "I'll pay you for it, you miserable cad!" "Don't call names, Distie," said the lad coolly. "Those who play at bowls must expect rubbers. Let him go, boys; he won't hurt me." It was a mere form that holding; but as the detaining pair loosened their hold, Lance Distin gave himself a violent wrench, as if he were wresting himself free, and then coloured to the roots of his hair, as he saw the laugh in his adversary's eyes. "Distie's got no end of Trinidad sun in him yet.--What a passionate fellow you are, Cocoa. I say, these are good, really. Come home with me and have breakfast." Lance Distin, son of a wealthy planter in the West Indies, turned away scornfully, and the others laughed. "Likely," said Fred Gilmore, showing his white teeth. "Why, I wouldn't poison a cat with them." "No," said Aleck Macey; "I know." "Know what?" "It's a dodge to make a job for his uncle, because the doctor can't get any practice." "Don't want any," said the lad, good-humouredly. "If he did, he'd go back to Savile Row." "Not he," snarled Distin, pausing in his occupation of removing thorns from his jacket. "Killed all his patients, and was obliged to run away into the country." "That's it!" said Vane Lee, with a laugh. "What a clever chap you are, Distie; at least you would be if your tongue wasn't quite so sharp. There, shake hands, I didn't mean to hurt you." He stretched out rather a dirty hand, at which the young Creole gave a contemptuous glance, looked at his own white fingers, and thrust them into his pockets. "Ah, well, they are dirty," said Vane, laughing. "No, they're not. It's only good old English soil. Come on. Uncle will be glad to see you, and then we'll all walk up to the Rectory together." _Crick_! Distin struck a match, and, with a very haughty look on his thin face, began to puff at a cigarette which he had taken from a little silver case, Vane watching him scornfully the while, but only to explode with mirth the next moment, for the young West Indian, though he came from where his father's plantations produced acres of the pungent weed, was not to the manner born, and at the third draw inhaled so much acrid smoke that he choked, and stood coughing violently till Vane gave him a hearty slap on his back. Down went the cigarette, as Distin made a bound forward. "You boor!" he coughed out; and, giving the lad a malevolent look, he turned haughtily to the others. "Are you fellows coming home to breakfast?" He did not pause for an answer, but walked off sharply in the direction of the Rectory, a quarter of a mile from the little sleepy town. "Oh, I say," cried Vane, in a tone full of remorse, "what an old pepper-pot he is! I didn't mean to upset him. He began it,--now, didn't he?" "Yes, of course," said Gilmore. "Never mind. He'll soon come round." "Oh, yes," said Macey. "I shouldn't take any notice. He'll forget it all before night." "But it seems so queer," said the lad, taking out and examining one of his mushrooms. "I just came out for a walk, and to pick some of these to have cooked for breakfast; and just as I've got a nice basketful, I come upon you fellows, and you begin to chaff and play larks, and the next moment I might have been knocking all the skin off my knuckles against Distin's face, if I hadn't backed out--like a coward," he added, after a pause. "Oh, never mind," said the others. "But I do mind," cried the lad. "I want to be friends with everyone. I hate fighting and quarrelling, and yet I'm always getting into hot-water." "Better go and get your hands in now--with soap," said Macey, staring at the soil-marks. "Pooh! a rinse in the water-cress stream would take that off. Never mind Distin: come home, you two." "No, not this morning," said Gilmore. "I won't ask you to taste the mushrooms: honour bright." "Wouldn't come if you did," said Macey, with a merry laugh on his handsome face. "Old Distie would never forgive us if we came home with you now." "No," said Gilmore; "he'd keep us awake half the night preaching at you. Oh! here's old Syme." "Ah, gentlemen, good-morning," said a plump, florid clergyman with glittering glasses. "That's right, walk before breakfast. Good for stamina. Must be breakfast time though. What have you got there, Lee?" "Fungi, sir." "Hum! ha!" said the rector bending over the basket. "Which? Fungi, soft as you pronounce it, or Fungi--Funghi, hard, eh?" "Uncle says soft, sir," said Vane. "Hum--ha--yes," said the rector, poking at one of the vegetable growths with the forefinger of his gloved hand. "He ought to know. But, _vulgo_, toadstools. You're not going to eat those, are you?" "Yes, sir. Will you try a few?" "Eh? Try a few, Lee? Thanks, no. Too much respect for my gastric region. And look here; hadn't you better try experiments on Jamby's donkey? It's very old." "Wouldn't be any good, sir. Nothing would hurt him," said Vane, laughing. "Hum! ha! Suppose not. Well, don't poison one of my pupils--yourself. Breakfast, gentlemen, breakfast. The matutinal coffee and one of Brader's rolls, not like the London French, but passably good; and there is some cold stuffed chine." "Cold stuffed chine!" said Vane, as he walked in the other direction. "Why, these will be twice as good--if Martha will cook 'em. Nasty prejudiced old thing!" Ten minutes later he reached a gate where the remains of a fine old avenue leading up to a low mossy-looking stone house, built many generations back; and as he neared it, a pleasant odour, suggestive of breakfast, saluted his nostrils, and he went round and entered the kitchen, to be encountered directly by quite an eager look from its occupant, as he made his petition. The Weathercock--by George Manville Fenn _ |
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