Bealby; A Holiday — Bealby and the Tramp Part Two
§ 5 Throughout the afternoon the tramp discoursed upon the rights and wrongs of property, in a way that Bealby found very novel and unsettling.
The tramp seemed to have his ideas about owning and stealing arranged quite differently from those of Bealby.
Never before had Bealby thought it possible to have them arranged in any other than the way he knew.
But the tramp contrived to make most possession seem unrighteous and honesty a code devised by those who have for those who haven’t. “They’ve just got ’old of it,” he said.
“They want to keep it to themselves....
Do I look as though I’d stole much of anybody’s?
It isn’t me got ’old of this land and sticking up my notice boards to keep everybody off.
It isn’t me spends my days and nights scheming ’ow I can get ’old of more and more of the stuff....
“I don’t _envy_ it ’em,” said the tramp.
“Some ’as one taste and some another.
But when it comes to making all this fuss because a chap who _isn’t_ a schemer ’elps ’imself to a mäthful,—well, it’s Rot....
“It’s them makes the rules of the game and nobody ever arst me to play it.
I don’t blame ’em, mind you.
Me and you might very well do the same.
But brast me if I see where the sense of _my_ keeping the rules comes in.
This world ought to be a share out, Gawd meant it to be a share out.
And me and you—we been done out of our share.
That justifies us.
” “It isn’t right to steal,” said Bealby.
“It isn’t right to steal—certainly.
It isn’t right—but it’s universal.
Here’s a chap here over this fence, ask ’im where ’e got ’is land.
Stealing!
What you call stealing, matey, _I_ call restitootion.
You ain’t probably never even ’eard of socialism.
” “I’ve ’eard of socialists right enough.
Don’t believe in Gawd and ’aven’t no morality.
” “Don’t you believe it.
Why!
—’Arf the socialists are parsons.
What I’m saying _is_ socialism—practically.
_I’m_ a socialist.
I know all abart socialism.
There isn’t nothing you can tell me abart socialism.
Why!
—for three weeks I was one of these here Anti-Socialist speakers.
Paid for it.
And I tell you there ain’t such a thing as property left; it’s all a blooming old pinch.
Lords, commons, judges, all of them, they’re just a crew of brasted old fences and the lawyers getting in the stuff.
Then you talk to me of stealing!
_Stealing!
_” The tramp’s contempt and his intense way of saying ‘stealing’ were very unsettling to a sensitive mind.
They bought some tea and grease in a village shop and the tramp made tea in his old tin with great dexterity and then they gnawed bread on which two ounces of margarine had been generously distributed.
“Live like fighting cocks, we do,” said the tramp wiping out his simple cuisine with the dragged-out end of his shirt sleeve.
“And if I’m not very much mistaken we’ll sleep to-night on a nice bit of hay....
” But these anticipations were upset by a sudden temptation, and instead of a starry summer comfort the two were destined to spend a night of suffering and remorse.
A green lane lured them off the road, and after some windings led them past a field of wire-netted enclosures containing a number of perfect and conceited-looking hens close beside a little cottage, a vegetable garden and some new elaborate outhouses.
It was manifestly a poultry farm, and something about it gave the tramp the conviction that it had been left, that nobody was at home.
These realizations are instinctive, they leap to the mind.
He knew it, and an ambition to know further what was in the cottage came with the knowledge.
But it seemed to him desirable that the work of exploration should be done by Bealby.
He had thought of dogs, and it seemed to him that Bealby might be unembarrassed by that idea.
So he put the thing to Bealby.
“Let’s have a look round ere,” he said.
“You go in and see what’s abart....
” There was some difference of opinion.
“I don’t ask you to take anything,” said the tramp....
“Nobody won’t catch you....
I tell you nobody won’t catch you....
I tell you there ain’t nobody here to catch you....
Just for the fun of seeing in.
I’ll go up by them outhouses.
And I’ll see nobody comes....
Ain’t afraid to go up a garden path, are you?...
I tell you, I don’t want you to steal....
You ain’t got much guts to funk a thing like that....
I’ll be abät too....
Thought you’d be the very chap for a bit of scarting....
Thought Boy Scarts was all the go nowadays....
Well, if you ain’t afraid you’d do it....
Well, why didn’t you say you’d do it at the beginning?...
” Bealby went through the hedge and up a grass track between poultry runs, made a cautious inspection of the outhouses and then approached the cottage.
Everything was still.
He thought it more plausible to go to the door than peep into the window.
He rapped.
Then after an interval of stillness he lifted the latch, opened the door and peered into the room.
It was a pleasantly furnished room, and before the empty summer fireplace a very old white man was sitting in a chintz-covered arm-chair, lost it would seem in painful thought.
He had a peculiar grey shrunken look, his eyes were closed, a bony hand with the shiny texture of alabaster gripped the chair arm....
There was something about him that held Bealby quite still for a moment.
And this old gentleman behaved very oddly.
His body seemed to crumple into his chair, his hands slipped down from the arms, his head nodded forwards and his mouth and eyes seemed to open together.
And he made a snoring sound....
For a moment Bealby remained rigidly agape and then a violent desire to rejoin the tramp carried him back through the hen runs....
He tried to describe what he had seen.
“Asleep with his mouth open,” said the tramp.
“Well, that ain’t anything so wonderful!
You _got_ anything?
That’s what I want to know....
Did
anyone ever see such a boy?
’Ere!
I’ll go....
“You keep a look out here,” said the tramp.
But there was something about that old man in there, something so strange and alien to Bealby, that he could not remain alone in the falling twilight.
He followed the cautious advances of the tramp towards the house.
From the corner by the outhouses he saw the tramp go and peer in at the open door.
He remained for some time peering, his head hidden from Bealby....
Then he went in....
Bealby had an extraordinary desire that somebody else would come.
His soul cried out for help against some vaguely apprehended terror.
And in the very moment of his wish came its fulfilment.
He saw advancing up the garden path a tall woman in a blue serge dress, hatless and hurrying and carrying a little package—it was medicine—in her hand.
And with her came a big black dog.
At the sight of Bealby the dog came forward barking and Bealby after a moment’s hesitation turned and fled.
The dog was quick.
But Bealby was quicker.
He went up the netting of a hen run and gave the dog no more than an ineffectual snap at his heels.
And then dashing from the cottage door came the tramp.
Under one arm was a brass-bound workbox and in the other was a candlestick and some smaller articles.
He did not instantly grasp the situation of his treed companion, he was too anxious to escape the tall woman, and then with a yelp of dismay he discovered himself between woman and dog.
All too late he sought to emulate Bealby.
The workbox slipped from under his arm, the rest of his plunder fell from him, for an uneasy moment he was clinging to the side of the swaying hen run and then it had caved in and the dog had got him.
The dog bit, desisted and then finding itself confronted by two men retreated.
Bealby and the tramp rolled and scrambled over the other side of the collapsed netting into a parallel track and were halfway to the hedge before the dog,—but this time in a less vehement fashion,—resumed his attack.
He did not close with them again and at the hedge he halted altogether and remained hacking the gloaming with his rage.
The woman it seemed had gone into the house, leaving the tramp’s scattered loot upon the field of battle.
“This means mizzle,” said the tramp, leading the way at a trot.
Bealby saw no other course but to follow.
He had a feeling as though the world had turned against him.
He did not dare to think what he was nevertheless thinking of the events of these crowded ten minutes.
He felt he had touched something dreadful; that the twilight was full of accusations....
He feared and hated the tramp now, but he perceived something had linked them as they had not been linked before.
Whatever it was they shared it.
§ 6 They fled through the night; it seemed to Bealby for interminable hours.
At last when they were worn out and footsore they crept through a gate and found an uncomfortable cowering place in the corner of a field.
As they went they talked but little, but the tramp kept up a constant muttering to himself.
He was troubled by the thought of hydrophobia.
“I know I’ll ’ave it,” he said, “I know I’ll get it.
” Bealby after a time ceased to listen to his companion.
His mind was preoccupied.
He could think of nothing but that very white man in the chair and the strange manner of his movement.
“Was ’e awake when you saw ’im?
” he asked at last.
“Awake—who?
” “That old man.
” For a moment or so the tramp said nothing.
“’E wasn’t awake, you young silly,” he said at last.
“But—wasn’t he?
” “Why!
—don’t you know!
’E’d croaked,—popped off the ’ooks—very moment you saw ’im.
” For a moment Bealby’s voice failed him.
Then he said quite faintly, “You mean—he’d —.
Was dead?
” “Didn’t you know?
” said the tramp.
“Gaw!
What a kid you are!
” In that manner it was Bealby first saw a dead man.
Never before had he seen anyone dead.
And after that for all the night the old white man pursued him, with strange slowly-opening eyes, and a head on one side and his mouth suddenly and absurdly agape....
All night long that white figure presided over seas of dark dismay.
It seemed always to be there, and yet Bealby thought of a score of other painful things.
For the first time in his life he asked himself, “Where am I going?
What am I drifting to?
” The world beneath the old man’s dominance was a world of prisons.
Bealby believed he was a burglar and behind the darkness he imagined the outraged law already seeking him.
And the terrors of his associate reinforced his own.
He tried to think what he should do in the morning.
He dreaded the dawn profoundly.
But he could not collect his thoughts because of the tramp’s incessant lapses into grumbling lamentation.
Bealby knew he had to get away from the tramp, but now he was too weary and alarmed to think of running away as a possible expedient.
And besides there was the matter of his money.
And beyond the range of the tramp’s voice there were darknesses which to-night at least might hold inconceivable forms of lurking evil.
But could he not appeal to the law to save him?
Repent?
Was there not something called turning King’s Evidence?
The moon was no comfort that night.
Across it there passed with incredible slowness a number of jagged little black clouds, blacker than any clouds Bealby had ever seen before.
They were like velvet palls, lined with snowy fur.
There was no end to them.
And one at last most horribly gaped slowly and opened a mouth....
§ 7 At intervals there would be uncomfortable movements and the voice of the tramp came out of the darkness beside Bealby lamenting his approaching fate and discoursing—sometimes with violent expressions—on watch-dogs.
“I know I shall ’ave ’idrophobia,” said the tramp.
“I’ve always ’ad a disposition to ’idrophobia.
Always a dread of water—and now it’s got me.
“Think of it!
—keeping a beast to set at a ’uman being.
Where’s the brotherhood of it?
Where’s the law and the humanity?
Getting a animal to set at a brother man.
And a poisoned animal, a animal with death in his teeth.
And a ’orrible death too.
Where’s the sense and brotherhood?
“Gaw!
when I felt ’is teeth coming through my träsers—!
“Dogs oughtn’t to be allowed.
They’re a noosance in the towns and a danger in the country.
They oughtn’t to be allowed anywhere—not till every blessed ’uman being ’as got three square meals a day.
Then if you like, keep a dog.
And see ’e’s a clean dog....
“Gaw!
if I’d been a bit quicker up that ’en roost—!
“I ought to ’ave landed ’im a kick.
“It’s a man’s duty to ’urt a dog.
When ’e sees a dog ’e ought to ’urt ’im.
It’s a natural ’atred.
If dogs were what they ought to be, if dogs understood ’ow they’re situated, there wouldn’t be a dog go for a man ever.
“And if one did they’d shoot ’im....
“After this if ever I get a chance to land a dog a oner with a stone I’ll land ’im one.
I been too sorft with dogs....
” Towards dawn Bealby slept uneasily, to be awakened by the loud snorting curiosity of three lively young horses.
He sat up in a blinding sunshine and saw the tramp looking very filthy and contorted, sleeping with his mouth wide open and an expression of dismay and despair on his face.
§ 8 Bealby took his chance to steal away next morning while the tramp was engaged in artificial epilepsy.
“I feel like fits this morning,” said the tramp.
“I could do it well.
I
want a bit of human kindness again.
After that brasted dog.
“I expect soon I’ll ’ave the foam all right withat any soap.
” They marked down a little cottage before which a benevolent-looking spectacled old gentleman in a large straw hat and a thin alpaca jacket was engaged in budding roses.
Then they retired to prepare.
The tramp handed over to Bealby various compromising possessions, which might embarrass an afflicted person under the searching hands of charity.
There was for example the piece of soap after he had taken sufficient for his immediate needs, there was ninepence in money, there were the pack of cards with which they had played Euchre, a key or so and some wires, much assorted string, three tins, a large piece of bread, the end of a composite candle, a box of sulphur matches, list slippers, a pair of gloves, a clasp knife, sundry grey rags.
They all seemed to have the distinctive flavour of the tramp....
“If you do a bunk with these,” said the tramp.
“By Gawd—.
” He drew his finger across his throat.
(King’s Evidence.
) Bealby from a safe distance watched the beginnings of the fit and it impressed him as a thoroughly nasty kind of fit.
He saw the elderly gentleman hurry out of the cottage and stand for a moment looking over his little green garden gate, surveying the sufferings of the tramp with an expression of intense yet discreet commiseration.
Then suddenly he was struck by an idea; he darted in among his rose bushes and reappeared with a big watering-can and an enormous syringe.
Still keeping the gate between himself and the sufferer he loaded his syringe very carefully and deliberately....
Bealby would have liked to have seen more but he felt his moment had come.
Another instant and it might be gone again.
Very softly he dropped from the gate on which he was sitting and made off like a running partridge along the hedge of the field.
Just for a moment did he halt—at a strange sharp yelp that came from the direction of the little cottage.
Then his purpose of flight resumed its control of him.
He would strike across country for two or three miles, then make for the nearest police station and give himself up.
(Loud voices.
Was that the tramp murdering the benevolent old gentleman in the straw hat or was it the benevolent old gentleman in the straw hat murdering the tramp?
No time to question.
Onward, Onward!
) The tramp’s cans rattled in his pocket.
He drew one out, hesitated a moment and flung it away and then sent its two companions after it....
He found his police station upon the road between Someport and Crayminster, a little peaceful rural station, a mere sunny cottage with a blue and white label and a notice board covered with belated bills about the stealing of pheasants’ eggs.
And another bill—.
It was headed MISSING and the next most conspicuous words were £5 REWARD and the next ARTHUR BEALBY.
He was fascinated.
So swift, so terribly swift is the law.
Already they knew of his burglary, of his callous participation in the robbing of a dead man.
Already the sleuths were upon his trail.
So surely did his conscience strike to this conclusion that even the carelessly worded offer of a reward that followed his description conveyed no different intimation to his mind.
“To whomsoever will bring him back to Lady Laxton, at Shonts near Chelsmore,” so it ran.
“And out of pocket expenses.
” And even as Bealby read this terrible document, the door of the police station opened and a very big pink young policeman came out and stood regarding the world in a friendly, self-approving manner.
He had innocent, happy, blue eyes; thus far he had had much to do with order and little with crime; and his rosebud mouth would have fallen open, had not discipline already closed it and set upon it the beginnings of a resolute expression that accorded ill with the rest of his open freshness.
And when he had surveyed the sky and the distant hills and the little rose bushes that occupied the leisure of the force, his eyes fell upon Bealby....
Indecision has ruined more men than wickedness.
And when one has slept rough and eaten nothing and one is conscious of a marred unclean appearance, it is hard to face one’s situations.
What Bealby had intended to do was to go right up to a policeman and say to him, simply and frankly: “I want to turn King’s Evidence, please.
I was in that burglary where there was a dead old man and a workbox and a woman and a dog.
I was led astray by a bad character and I did not mean to do it.
And really it was him that did it and not me.
” But now his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, he felt he could not speak, could not go through with it.
His heart had gone down into his feet.
Perhaps he had caught the tramp’s constitutional aversion to the police.
He affected not to see the observant figure in the doorway.
He assumed a slack careless bearing like one who reads by chance idly.
He lifted his eyebrows to express unconcern.
He pursed his mouth to whistle but no whistle came.
He stuck his hands into his pockets, pulled up his feet as one pulls up plants by the roots and strolled away.
He quickened his stroll as he supposed by imperceptible degrees.
He glanced back and saw that the young policeman had come out of the station and was reading the notice.
And as the young policeman read he looked ever and again at Bealby like one who checks off items.
Bealby quickened his pace and then, doing his best to suggest by the movements of his back a more boyish levity quite unconnected with the law, he broke into a trot.
Then presently he dropped back into a walking pace, pretended to see something in the hedge, stopped and took a sidelong look at the young policeman.
He was coming along with earnest strides; every movement of his suggested a stealthy hurry!
Bealby trotted and then becoming almost frank about it ran.
He took to his heels.
From the first it was not really an urgent chase; it was a stalking rather than a hunt, because the young policeman was too young and shy and lacking in confidence really to run after a boy without any definite warrant for doing so.
When anyone came along he would drop into a smart walk and pretend not to be looking at Bealby but just going somewhere briskly.
And after two miles of it he desisted, and stood for a time watching a heap of mangold wurzel directly and the disappearance of Bealby obliquely, and then when Bealby was quite out of sight he turned back thoughtfully towards his proper place.
On the whole he considered he was well out of it.
He might have made a fool of himself....
And yet,—five pounds reward!
CHAPTER VII THE BATTLE OF CRAYMINSTER
