Bab Bab 18 · The Prince with the Tramps.

. The Prince with the Tramps.

The troop of vagabonds turned out at early dawn, and set forward on

their march.  There was a lowering sky overhead, sloppy ground under

foot, and a winter chill in the air.  All gaiety was gone from the

company; some were sullen and silent, some were irritable and petulant,

none were gentle-humoured, all were thirsty.

The Ruffler put ‘Jack’ in Hugo’s charge, with some brief instructions,

and commanded John Canty to keep away from him and let him alone; he

also warned Hugo not to be too rough with the lad.

After a while the weather grew milder, and the clouds lifted somewhat.

The troop ceased to shiver, and their spirits began to improve.  They

grew more and more cheerful, and finally began to chaff each other and

insult passengers along the highway.  This showed that they were awaking

to an appreciation of life and its joys once more.  The dread in which

their sort was held was apparent in the fact that everybody gave them

the road, and took their ribald insolences meekly, without venturing

to talk back. They snatched linen from the hedges, occasionally in full

view of the owners, who made no protest, but only seemed grateful that

they did not take the hedges, too.

By-and-by they invaded a small farmhouse and made themselves at home

while the trembling farmer and his people swept the larder clean to

furnish a breakfast for them.  They chucked the housewife and her

daughters under the chin whilst receiving the food from their hands, and

made coarse jests about them, accompanied with insulting epithets and

bursts of horse-laughter.  They threw bones and vegetables at the farmer

and his sons, kept them dodging all the time, and applauded uproariously

when a good hit was made. They ended by buttering the head of one of

the daughters who resented some of their familiarities.  When they took

their leave they threatened to come back and burn the house over the

heads of the family if any report of their doings got to the ears of the

authorities.

About noon, after a long and weary tramp, the gang came to a halt behind

a hedge on the outskirts of a considerable village.  An hour was allowed

for rest, then the crew scattered themselves abroad to enter the village

at different points to ply their various trades--‘Jack’ was sent with

Hugo.  They wandered hither and thither for some time, Hugo watching

for opportunities to do a stroke of business, but finding none--so he

finally said--

“I see nought to steal; it is a paltry place.  Wherefore we will beg.”

“_We_, forsooth!  Follow thy trade--it befits thee.  But _I_ will not

beg.”

“Thou’lt not beg!” exclaimed Hugo, eyeing the King with surprise.

“Prithee, since when hast thou reformed?”

“What dost thou mean?”

“Mean?  Hast thou not begged the streets of London all thy life?”

“I?  Thou idiot!”

“Spare thy compliments--thy stock will last the longer.  Thy father says

thou hast begged all thy days.  Mayhap he lied. Peradventure you will

even make so bold as to _say_ he lied,” scoffed Hugo.

“Him _you_ call my father?  Yes, he lied.”

“Come, play not thy merry game of madman so far, mate; use it for thy

amusement, not thy hurt.  An’ I tell him this, he will scorch thee

finely for it.”

“Save thyself the trouble.  I will tell him.”

“I like thy spirit, I do in truth; but I do not admire thy judgment.

Bone-rackings and bastings be plenty enow in this life, without going

out of one’s way to invite them.  But a truce to these matters; _I_

believe your father.  I doubt not he can lie; I doubt not he _doth_

lie, upon occasion, for the best of us do that; but there is no occasion

here.  A wise man does not waste so good a commodity as lying for

nought.  But come; sith it is thy humour to give over begging,

wherewithal shall we busy ourselves?  With robbing kitchens?”

The King said, impatiently--

“Have done with this folly--you weary me!”

Hugo replied, with temper--

“Now harkee, mate; you will not beg, you will not rob; so be it. But I

will tell you what you _will_ do.  You will play decoy whilst _I_ beg.

Refuse, an’ you think you may venture!”

The King was about to reply contemptuously, when Hugo said,

interrupting--

“Peace!  Here comes one with a kindly face.  Now will I fall down in

a fit.  When the stranger runs to me, set you up a wail, and fall upon

your knees, seeming to weep; then cry out as all the devils of misery

were in your belly, and say, ‘Oh, sir, it is my poor afflicted brother,

and we be friendless; o’ God’s name cast through your merciful eyes one

pitiful look upon a sick, forsaken, and most miserable wretch; bestow

one little penny out of thy riches upon one smitten of God and ready

to perish!’--and mind you, keep you _on_ wailing, and abate not till we

bilk him of his penny, else shall you rue it.”

Then immediately Hugo began to moan, and groan, and roll his eyes, and

reel and totter about; and when the stranger was close at hand, down he

sprawled before him, with a shriek, and began to writhe and wallow in

the dirt, in seeming agony.

“O, dear, O dear!” cried the benevolent stranger, “O poor soul, poor

soul, how he doth suffer!  There--let me help thee up.”

“O noble sir, forbear, and God love you for a princely gentleman--but it

giveth me cruel pain to touch me when I am taken so.  My brother there

will tell your worship how I am racked with anguish when these fits be

upon me.  A penny, dear sir, a penny, to buy a little food; then leave

me to my sorrows.”

“A penny! thou shalt have three, thou hapless creature,”--and he fumbled

in his pocket with nervous haste and got them out. “There, poor lad,

take them and most welcome.  Now come hither, my boy, and help me carry

thy stricken brother to yon house, where--”

“I am not his brother,” said the King, interrupting.

“What! not his brother?”

“Oh, hear him!” groaned Hugo, then privately ground his teeth. “He

denies his own brother--and he with one foot in the grave!”

“Boy, thou art indeed hard of heart, if this is thy brother.  For

shame!--and he scarce able to move hand or foot.  If he is not thy

brother, who is he, then?”

“A beggar and a thief!  He has got your money and has picked your pocket

likewise.  An’ thou would’st do a healing miracle, lay thy staff over

his shoulders and trust Providence for the rest.”

But Hugo did not tarry for the miracle.  In a moment he was up and off

like the wind, the gentleman following after and raising the hue and cry

lustily as he went.  The King, breathing deep gratitude to Heaven for

his own release, fled in the opposite direction, and did not slacken

his pace until he was out of harm’s reach.  He took the first road that

offered, and soon put the village behind him.  He hurried along, as

briskly as he could, during several hours, keeping a nervous watch over

his shoulder for pursuit; but his fears left him at last, and a grateful

sense of security took their place.  He recognised, now, that he was

hungry, and also very tired.  So he halted at a farmhouse; but when

he was about to speak, he was cut short and driven rudely away.  His

clothes were against him.

He wandered on, wounded and indignant, and was resolved to put himself

in the way of like treatment no more.  But hunger is pride’s master; so,

as the evening drew near, he made an attempt at another farmhouse; but

here he fared worse than before; for he was called hard names and was

promised arrest as a vagrant except he moved on promptly.

The night came on, chilly and overcast; and still the footsore monarch

laboured slowly on.  He was obliged to keep moving, for every time he

sat down to rest he was soon penetrated to the bone with the cold.  All

his sensations and experiences, as he moved through the solemn gloom

and the empty vastness of the night, were new and strange to him.  At

intervals he heard voices approach, pass by, and fade into silence; and

as he saw nothing more of the bodies they belonged to than a sort of

formless drifting blur, there was something spectral and uncanny about

it all that made him shudder.  Occasionally he caught the twinkle of a

light--always far away, apparently--almost in another world; if he heard

the tinkle of a sheep’s bell, it was vague, distant, indistinct;

the muffled lowing of the herds floated to him on the night wind in

vanishing cadences, a mournful sound; now and then came the complaining

howl of a dog over viewless expanses of field and forest; all sounds

were remote; they made the little King feel that all life and activity

were far removed from him, and that he stood solitary, companionless, in

the centre of a measureless solitude.

He stumbled along, through the gruesome fascinations of this new

experience, startled occasionally by the soft rustling of the dry leaves

overhead, so like human whispers they seemed to sound; and by-and-by he

came suddenly upon the freckled light of a tin lantern near at hand.  He

stepped back into the shadows and waited.  The lantern stood by the

open door of a barn.  The King waited some time--there was no sound,

and nobody stirring.  He got so cold, standing still, and the hospitable

barn looked so enticing, that at last he resolved to risk everything and

enter. He started swiftly and stealthily, and just as he was crossing

the threshold he heard voices behind him.  He darted behind a cask,

within the barn, and stooped down.  Two farm-labourers came in, bringing

the lantern with them, and fell to work, talking meanwhile.  Whilst they

moved about with the light, the King made good use of his eyes and took

the bearings of what seemed to be a good-sized stall at the further end

of the place, purposing to grope his way to it when he should be left to

himself.  He also noted the position of a pile of horse blankets, midway

of the route, with the intent to levy upon them for the service of the

crown of England for one night.

By-and-by the men finished and went away, fastening the door behind

them and taking the lantern with them.  The shivering King made for the

blankets, with as good speed as the darkness would allow; gathered them

up, and then groped his way safely to the stall.  Of two of the blankets

he made a bed, then covered himself with the remaining two.  He was a

glad monarch, now, though the blankets were old and thin, and not quite

warm enough; and besides gave out a pungent horsey odour that was almost

suffocatingly powerful.

Although the King was hungry and chilly, he was also so tired and so

drowsy that these latter influences soon began to get the advantage

of the former, and he presently dozed off into a state of

semi-consciousness.  Then, just as he was on the point of losing himself

wholly, he distinctly felt something touch him!  He was broad awake in

a moment, and gasping for breath.  The cold horror of that mysterious

touch in the dark almost made his heart stand still.  He lay motionless,

and listened, scarcely breathing. But nothing stirred, and there was

no sound.  He continued to listen, and wait, during what seemed a long

time, but still nothing stirred, and there was no sound.  So he began

to drop into a drowse once more, at last; and all at once he felt that

mysterious touch again!  It was a grisly thing, this light touch from

this noiseless and invisible presence; it made the boy sick with ghostly

fears.  What should he do?  That was the question; but he did not know

how to answer it.  Should he leave these reasonably comfortable quarters

and fly from this inscrutable horror?  But fly whither?  He could

not get out of the barn; and the idea of scurrying blindly hither and

thither in the dark, within the captivity of the four walls, with this

phantom gliding after him, and visiting him with that soft hideous touch

upon cheek or shoulder at every turn, was intolerable.  But to stay

where he was, and endure this living death all night--was that better?

No.  What, then, was there left to do?  Ah, there was but one course;

he knew it well--he must put out his hand and find that thing!

It was easy to think this; but it was hard to brace himself up to try

it. Three times he stretched his hand a little way out into the dark,

gingerly; and snatched it suddenly back, with a gasp--not because it

had encountered anything, but because he had felt so sure it was just

_going_ to.  But the fourth time, he groped a little further, and his

hand lightly swept against something soft and warm.  This petrified him,

nearly, with fright; his mind was in such a state that he could imagine

the thing to be nothing else than a corpse, newly dead and still warm.

He thought he would rather die than touch it again.  But he thought this

false thought because he did not know the immortal strength of

human curiosity. In no long time his hand was tremblingly groping

again--against his judgment, and without his consent--but groping

persistently on, just the same.  It encountered a bunch of long hair; he

shuddered, but followed up the hair and found what seemed to be a warm

rope; followed up the rope and found an innocent calf!--for the rope was

not a rope at all, but the calf’s tail.

The King was cordially ashamed of himself for having gotten all that

fright and misery out of so paltry a matter as a slumbering calf; but he

need not have felt so about it, for it was not the calf that frightened

him, but a dreadful non-existent something which the calf stood for; and

any other boy, in those old superstitious times, would have acted and

suffered just as he had done.

The King was not only delighted to find that the creature was only a

calf, but delighted to have the calf’s company; for he had been feeling

so lonesome and friendless that the company and comradeship of even

this humble animal were welcome.  And he had been so buffeted, so rudely

entreated by his own kind, that it was a real comfort to him to feel

that he was at last in the society of a fellow-creature that had at

least a soft heart and a gentle spirit, whatever loftier attributes

might be lacking.  So he resolved to waive rank and make friends with

the calf.

While stroking its sleek warm back--for it lay near him and within easy

reach--it occurred to him that this calf might be utilised in more ways

than one.  Whereupon he re-arranged his bed, spreading it down close to

the calf; then he cuddled himself up to the calf’s back, drew the covers

up over himself and his friend, and in a minute or two was as warm and

comfortable as he had ever been in the downy couches of the regal palace

of Westminster.

Pleasant thoughts came at once; life took on a cheerfuller seeming.  He

was free of the bonds of servitude and crime, free of the companionship

of base and brutal outlaws; he was warm; he was sheltered; in a word, he

was happy.  The night wind was rising; it swept by in fitful gusts

that made the old barn quake and rattle, then its forces died down

at intervals, and went moaning and wailing around corners and

projections--but it was all music to the King, now that he was snug and

comfortable: let it blow and rage, let it batter and bang, let it moan

and wail, he minded it not, he only enjoyed it.  He merely snuggled

the closer to his friend, in a luxury of warm contentment, and drifted

blissfully out of consciousness into a deep and dreamless sleep that

was full of serenity and peace.  The distant dogs howled, the melancholy

kine complained, and the winds went on raging, whilst furious sheets

of rain drove along the roof; but the Majesty of England slept on,

undisturbed, and the calf did the same, it being a simple creature, and

not easily troubled by storms or embarrassed by sleeping with a king.