CHAPTER II
THE FIRST FREAK
My name is Carmyle. Possibly you may have noticed it in the previouschapter, among the list of those present at the breakfast at theImperial. It was not a particularly hilarious meal for me, for I wasleaving Grandwich for good that morning; and the schoolboy bids farewellto this, the first chapter of his life, with a ceremony--not to saysolemnity--sadly at variance with the cheerfulness or indifference withwhich he sometimes turns the page at the close of later epochs.
I parted from the main body of Hivites at Peterborough, for they werebound for London, while I had to transfer my person and effects to thecare of the Great Eastern Railway for conveyance to my home in Essex.
At Ely, a little tired of the company and conversation of five EastAnglian farmers, who occupied more than their fair share of room andconducted an extremely dull technical conversation with quite surprisingheat and vehemence over my head and across my waistcoat, I walked up theplatform in search of a little more cubic space. At the very front ofthe train I found a third-class compartment containing only a singleoccupant.
"Hallo, Freak!" I said. "I thought you were bound for London."
"Your surmise," replied my late fag, "is correct. But there was a slightmishap at Peterborough."
"You got left behind?"
"Practically, yes. In point of fact, I was bunged out of the train bySpangle Jerningham."
"Why?"
"He bought some bananas, and I warned him not to. I said some peoplehad been prosecuted only last week for eating fruit in a railwaycarriage."
"Silly young idiot!" I replied, falling into the trap, even asJerningham had done. "Why--"
"But they _were_," persisted The Freak. "They were caught suckingdates--off their tickets! And as there was no train on for two hours,"he concluded, neatly dodging "The Strand Magazine," "I decided to comeround this way. We get to Liverpool Street by four. How far are yougoing?"
I told him, and the train resumed its journey through the fenland.
The next stop was Cambridge, where The Freak, suddenly remembering thatthe railway ticket in his possession was entirely useless for hispresent purpose, got out to buy another. I hung out of the carriagewindow, wondering which of the Colleges the tall yellow-brick buildingjust outside the station might be, and gazing reverentially upon a groupof three young men in tweed jackets and flannel trousers, who hadtemporarily torn themselves from the pursuit of knowledge for thepurpose of bidding farewell to the members of a theatrical touringcompany.
Presently our engine and brake-van removed themselves to a place ofrefreshment down the line; whereupon a somnolent horse of mountainousaspect, which had been meekly standing by, attached by a trace to anempty third-class coach, took advantage of their absence to tow itsburden to the front of our train and leave it there, like a foundling ona doorstep, subsequently departing in search of further practical jokes.
With that instinctive shrinking from publicity which marks theprofessions of literature, art, and the drama, each of the compartmentsof the third-class coach bore a label, printed in three colours,announcing that this accommodation was reserved for Mr. Wilton Spurge'sNumber One Company--I have always desired to meet a Number Two Company,but have never succeeded--in "The Sign of the Cross," proceeding fromCambridge to Liverpool Street, for Walthamstow.
The majority of Mr. Wilton Spurge's followers took their seats at once;but three young ladies, hugging boxes of chocolate, remained inaffectionate conversation with the undergraduates upon the platform.Most of the gentlemen of the company still lingered in therefreshment-room. Suddenly there was a gentle tremor throughout thetrain, as the engine and brake-van reluctantly backed themselves into aposition of contact. A whistle blew, and a white flag fluttered far downthe platform.
"There's no hurry," observed The Freak, who had returned from the ticketoffice and was now surveying the passing show with his head thrust outof the window under my arm. "That white flag only means that theWestinghouse brake is working all right."
But the female mind takes no account of technical trifles, least of allupon a railway journey. To a woman flags and whistles all spell panic.At the first blast, a lady (whom I took to be the Empress Poppeia)hastily shepherded every one within reach into the train, and thendirected a piercing summons in the direction of the refreshment-room.She was seconded by an irregular but impressive chorus of admonitionupon the perils of delay, led by Mercia in person and supported by abevy of Christian Martyrs and Roman Dancing-Girls.
The whistle sounded again, and a second flag fluttered--a green one thistime. There was a concerted shriek from the locomotive and the ladies,followed by a commotion at the door of the refreshment-room, from whicheftsoons the Emperor Nero, bearing a bag of buns and a copy of "TheEra," shot hastily forth. He was closely followed by Marcus Superbus,running rapidly and carrying two bottles of stout. Three RomanPatricians with their mouths full, together with a Father of the EarlyChurch clinging to a half-consumed pork-pie, brought up the rear.
Deeply interested in the progress of the race, and speculating eagerlyas to whether Pagan or Christian would secure the corner-seats, TheFreak and I failed for the moment to note that our own compartment wasin danger of invasion. But resistance was vain. At the very last momentthe door was wrenched open by the guard, and four human beings wereprojected into our company just as the train began to move. A handbagand two paper parcels hurtled through the air after them.
"Sorry to hurry you, Mr. Welwyn, sir," said the guard, standing on thefootboard and addressing the leader of the party through the window,"but we are behind time as it is, with that theatrical lot."
"My fault entirely, guard," replied Mr. Welwyn graciously. He was ahandsome scholarly man of about forty. I put him down as a UniversityDon of the best type--possibly one of the Tutors of a great college."We should have come earlier. And--er"--here followed the indeterminatemumble and sleight-of-hand performance which accompany the bestowal ofthe British tip--"thank you for your trouble."
"Thank you, sir," replied the gratified menial, and disappeared intospace with half-a-crown in his palm. Evidently Mr. Welwyn was a man ofsubstance as well as consequence.
"You did n't ought to have given him so much, father dear!"
This just but ungrammatical observation emanated from the female head ofthe party; and despite an innate disinclination to risk catching the eyeof strangers in public, I turned and inspected the speaker. From herstyle of address it was plain that she was either wife or daughter toMr. Welwyn. Daughter she probably was not, for she must have been quitethirty; and therefore by a process of exhaustion I was led to thereluctant conclusion that she was his wife. I say reluctant, for itseemed incredible that a suave polished academic gentleman could bemated with a lady:--
(1) Who would initiate a domestic discussion in the presence ofstrangers.
(2) Whose syntax was shaky.
(3) Who wore a crimson blouse, with vermilion feathers in her hat.
But it was so. Mr. Welwyn waved a hand deprecatingly.
"One has one's position to consider, dear," he said. "Besides, thesepoor fellows are not overpaid, I fear, by their employers."
At this, a grim contraction flitted for a moment over Mrs. Welwyn'sflorid good-tempered features, and I saw suitable retorts crowding toher lips. But that admirable and exceptional woman--as in later daysshe proved herself over and over again to be--said nothing. Instead,she smiled indulgently upon her extravagant husband, as upon a child ofthe largest possible growth, and accepted from him with nothing morethan a comical little sigh two magazines which had cost sixpence each.
I now had time to inspect the other two members of the party. They werechildren. One was a little boy--a vulgar, overdressed, plebian,open-mouthed little boy--and I was not in the least surprised a momentlater to hear his mother address him as "Percy." (It had to be either"Percy" or "Douglas.") He was dressed in a tight and rather dus
ty suitof velveteen, with a crumpled lace collar and a plush jockey-cap. Helooked about seven years old, wore curls down to his shoulders, andextracted intermittent nourishment from a long and glutinous stick oflicorice.
The other was a girl--one of the prettiest little girls I have everseen. I was not--and am not--an expert on children's ages, but I puther down as four years old. She was a plump and well-proportionedchild, with an abundance of brown hair, solemn grey eyes, and a friendlysmile. She sat curled up on the seat, leaning her head against hermother's arm, an oasis of contentment and neatness in that dusty railwaycarriage; and I felt dimly conscious that in due time I should like topossess a little girl of my own like that.
At present she was engaged in industriously staring The Freak out ofcountenance.
The Freak, not at all embarrassed, smiled back at her. Miss Welwynbroke into an unmaidenly chuckle, and her father put down "The MorningPost."
"Why this hilarity, my daughter?" he enquired.
The little girl, who was apparently accustomed to academically longwords, indicated The Freak with a little nod of her head.
"I like that boy," she said frankly. "Not the other. Too big!"
"Baby _dearie_, don't talk so!" exclaimed Mrs. Welwyn, highlyscandalised.
"I apologise for my daughter's lack of reserve--and discrimination,"said Mr. Welwyn to me, courteously. "She will not be so sincere andunaffected in twenty years' time, I am afraid. Are you gentlemen goinghome for the holidays?"
I entered into conversation with him, in the course of which I learnedthat he was a member of the University, off on vacation. He did nottell me his College.
"Do you get long holi--vacations, sir, at Cambridge?" I asked. "When doyou have to be back?"
Youth is not usually observant, but on this occasion even my untutoredfaculties informed me that Mr. Welwyn was looking suddenly older.
"I am not going back," he said briefly. Then he smiled, a littlemechanically, and initiated a discussion on compound locomotives.
Presently his attention was caught by some occurrence at the other endof the compartment. He laughed.
"My daughter appears to be pressing her companionship upon your friendwith a distressing lack of modesty," he said.
I turned. The Freak had installed his admirer in the corner-seat besidehim, and, having found paper and pencil, was engaged in turning outmasterpieces of art at her behest. With a flat suitcase for a desk, hewas executing--so far as the Great Eastern Railway would permit him--aportrait of Miss Welwyn herself; his model, pleasantly thrilled,affectionately clasping one of his arms in both of hers and breathingheavily through her small nose, which she held about six inches from thepaper.
Finally the likeness was completed and presented.
"Now draw a cow," said Miss Welwyn immediately.
The Freak meekly set to work again.
Then came the inevitable question.
"What's her name?"
The artist considered.
"Sylvia," he said at length. Sylvia, I knew, was the name of hissister.
"Not like that name!" said the child, more prophetically than she knew.
The Freak apologised and suggested Mary Ann, which so pleased hispatroness that she immediately lodged an order for twelve more cows.The artist executed the commission with unflagging zeal and care, MissWelwyn following every stroke of the pencil with critical interest andnumbering off the animals as they were created.
About this time Master Percy Welwyn, who had fallen into a fitfulslumber, woke up and loudly expressed a desire for a commodity which hedescribed as "kike." His mother supplied his needs from a string-bag.Refreshed and appeased, he slept anew.
Meanwhile the herd of cows had been completed, and The Freak was,immediately set to work to find names for each. The appellation MaryAnn had established a fatal precedent, for The Freak's employerruthlessly demanded a double title for each of Mary Ann's successors.Appealed to for a personal contribution, she shook her small headfirmly: to her, evidently, in common with the rest of her sex,destructive criticism of male endeavour was woman's true sphere in life.But when the despairing Freak, after submitting Mabel-Maud, Emily-Kate,Elizabeth-Jane, and Maria-Theresa, made a second pathetic appeal forassistance, the lady so far relented as to suggest "Seener Angler"--aform of address which, though neither bovine nor feminine, seemed to meto come naturally enough from the daughter of a Don, but caused Mr. andMrs. Welwyn to exchange glances.
At last the tale was completed,--I think the last cow was christened"Bishop's Stortford," through which station we were passing at themoment,--and the exhausted Freak smilingly laid down his pencil. But noone who has ever embarked upon that most comprehensive and interminableof enterprises, the entertainment of a child, will be surprised to hearthat Miss Welwyn now laid a pudgy fore-finger upon the first cow, andenquired:--
"Where _that_ cow going?"
"Cambridge," answered The Freak after consideration.
"Next one?"
"London."
"Next one?"
Freak thought again.
"Grandwich," he said.
The round face puckered.
"Not like it. Anuvver place!"
"You think of one," said The Freak boldly.
The small despot promptly named a locality which sounded like"Tumpiton," and passed on pitilessly to the next cow.
"Where _that_ one going?" she enquired.
"It is n't going: it's coming back," replied The Freak, ratheringeniously.
Strange to say, this answer appeared to satisfy the hitherto insatiableinfant, and the game was abruptly abandoned. Picking up The Freak'spencil, Miss Welwyn projected a seraphic smile upon its owner.
"You give this to Tilly?" she enquired, in a voice which most men know.
"Rather."
"Tilly, ducky, don't act so greedy," came the inevitable maternalcorrection. "Give back the young gentleman--"
"It's all right," said The Freak awkwardly. "I don't want it, really."
"But--"
There came a shriek from the engine, and the train slowed down.
"Is this where they collect tickets, father?" enquired Mrs. Welwyn,breaking off suddenly.
Mr. Welwyn nodded, and his wife rather hurriedly plucked her daughterfrom her seat beside The Freak and transferred her to her own lap, tothat damsel's unfeigned dolour.
"Sit on mother's knee just now, dearie," urged Mrs. Welwyn--"just for aminute or two!"
Miss Welwyn, who appeared to be a biddable infant, settled down withoutfurther objection. A moment later the train stopped and the carriagedoor was thrown open.
"Tickets, please!"
Mr. Welwyn and I sat next the door, and I accordingly submitted myticket for inspection. It was approved and returned to me by thecollector, an austere person with what Charles Surface once described as"a damned disinheriting countenance."
"Change next stop," he remarked. "Yours, sir?"
Mr. Welwyn handed him three tickets. The collector appeared to countthem. Then his gloomy gaze fell upon the unconscious Miss Welwyn, whofrom the safe harbourage of her mother's arms was endeavouring toadminister to him what is technically known, I believe, as The Glad Eye.
"Have you a ticket for that child, madam?" he enquired. "Too old to becarried."
Mrs. Welwyn looked helplessly at her husband, who replied for her.
"Yes, surely. Did n't I give it to you, my man?"
"No, sir," said the collector dryly; "you did not."
Mr. Welwyn began to feel in his pockets.
"That is uncommonly stupid of me," he said. "I must have it somewhere.I thought I put them all in one pocket."
He pursued his researches further, and the collector waited grimly. Ilooked at Mrs. Welwyn. She was an honest woman, and a fleeting glance ather face informed me that the search for this particular ticket was tobe of a purely academic description.
"I must trouble you," began the man, "for--"
"It must be somewhere!" persi
sted Mr. Welwyn, with unruffledcheerfulness. "Perhaps I dropped it on the floor."
"Let _me_ look!"
Next moment The Freak, who had been a silent spectator of the scene,dropped upon his knees and dived under the seat. The collector,obviously sceptical, fidgeted impatiently and stepped back on to theplatform, as if to look for an inspector. I saw an appealing glancepass from Mrs. Welwyn to her husband. He smiled back airily, and Irealised that probably this comedy had been played once or twice before.
The collector reappeared.
"The fare," he began briskly, "is--"
"Here's the ticket," announced a muffled voice from beneath the seat,and The Freak, crimson and dusty, emerged from the depths flourishing agreen pasteboard slip.
The collector took it from his hand and examined it carefully.
"All right," he snapped. "Now your own, sir."
The Freak dutifully complied. At the sight of his ticket thecollector's morose countenance lightened almost to the point ofgeniality. He was not to go empty away after all.
"Great Northern ticket. Not available on this line," he announced.
"It's all right, old man," explained my fag affably. "I changed fromthe Great Northern at Peterborough. This line of yours is so muchjollier," he added soothingly.
"Six-and-fourpence," said the collector.
The Freak, who was well endowed with pocket-money even at the end ofterm, complied with the utmost cheerfulness; asked for a receipt;expressed an earnest hope that the collector's real state of healthbelied his appearance; and resumed his corner-seat with a friendly nodof farewell.
Two minutes later this curious episode was at an end, and the train wasswinging on its way to London. Mrs. Welwyn, looking puzzled andashamed, sat silently in her corner; Mr. Welwyn, who was not the man toquestion the workings of Providence when Providence worked the rightway, hummed a cheerful little tune in his. The deplorable child Percyslept. The Freak, with a scarlet face, industriously perused anewspaper.
As for Miss Tilly Welwyn, she sat happily upon a suitcase on the floor,still engaged in making unmaidenly eyes at the quixotic young gentlemanwho had just acted, not for the last time in his life, as her banker.