CHAPTER II.
THE GOSPEL OF DASHT-MEAN.
It was on the day preceding a great review near the Border town ofEdam, that Hugh John Picton Smith first became a soldier and aNapoleon. His father's house was connected by a short avenue with agreat main road along which king and beggar had for a thousand yearsgone posting to town. Now the once celebrated highway lies deserted,for along the heights to the east run certain bars of metal, shiningand parallel, over which rush all who can pay the cost of athird-class ticket--a roar like thunder preceding them, white steamand sulphurous reek wreathing after them. The great highway beneath isabandoned to the harmless impecunious bicyclist, and on the North Roadthe sweeping cloud dust has it all its own way.
But Hugh John loved the great thoroughfare, deserted though it was. Tohis mind there could be no loneliness upon its eye-taking stretches,for who knew but out of the dust there might come with a clatter Mr.Dick Turpin, late of York and Tyburn; Robert the Bruce, charging southinto England with his Galloway garrons, to obtain some fresh Englishbeef wherewithal to feed his scurvy Scots; or (best of all) hisMajesty King George's mail-coach Highflyer, the picture of which,coloured and blazoned, hung in his father's workroom.
People told him that all these great folks were long since dead. ButHugh John knew better than to believe any "rot" grown-ups might chooseto palm off on him. What did grown-ups know anyway? They were rich, ofcourse. Unlimited shillings were at their command; and as forpennies--well, all the pennies in the world lived in their breeches'pockets. But what use did they make of these god-like gifts? Did youever meet them at the tuck-shop down in the town buying fourteencheese-cakes for a shilling, as any sensible person would? Did theyplay with "real-real trains," drawn by locomotives of shining brass?No! they preferred either one lump of sugar or none at all in theirtea. This showed how much they knew about what was good for them.
So if such persons informed him that Robert the Bruce had been deadsome time, or showed him the rope with which Turpin was hung, coiledon a pedestal in a horrid dull museum (free on Saturdays, 10 to 4),Hugh John Picton looked and nodded, for he was an intelligent boy.If you didn't nod sometimes as if you were taking it all in, theywould explain it all over again to you--with abominable dates andadditional particulars, which they would even ask you afterwards ifyou remembered.
"MR. DICK TURPIN, LATE OF YORK AND TYBURN."]
For many years Hugh John had gone every day down to the porter's lodgeat the end of the avenue, and though old Betty the rheumaticky warderwas not allowed to let him out, he stared happily enough through thebars. It was a white gate of strong wood, lovely to swing on if youhappened to be there when it was opened for a carriageful ofcalling-folk in the afternoon, or for Hugh John's father when he wentout a-riding.
But you had to hide pretty quick behind the laurels, and rush out inthat strictly limited period before old Betty found her key, and yetafter the tail of Agincourt, his father's great grey horse, hadswitched round the corner. If you were the least late, Betty would getahead of you, and the gates of Paradise would be shut. If you were amoment too soon, it was just as bad--or even worse. For then the voiceof "He-whom-it-was-decidedly-most-healthy-to-obey" would sound up theroad, commanding instant return to the Sandheap or the High Garden.
So on these occasions Hugh John mostly brought Sir Toady Lion withhim--otherwise Arthur George the Sturdy, and at yet other timesvariously denominated Prince Murat, the Old Guard, the mob that wasscattered with the whiff of grapeshot, and (generally) the wholeGrand Army of the First Empire. Toady Lion (his own first effort atthe name of his favourite hero Richard Coeur-de-Lion) had hisorders, and with guile and blandishments held Betty in check till thelast frisk of Agincourt's tail had disappeared round the corner. ThenHugh John developed his plans of assault, and was soon swinging on thegate.
"Out of the way with you, Betty," he would cry, "or you will gethurt--sure."
For the white gate shut of itself, and you had only to push it open,jump on, check it at the proper place on the return journey, and withyour foot shove off again to have scores and scores of lovely swings.Then Betty would go up the avenue and shout for her husband, who wasthe aforesaid crusty old gardener. She would have laid down her lifefor Toady Lion, but by no means even a part of it for Hugh John, whichwas unfair. Old Betty had once been upset by the slam of the gate on awindy day, and so was easily intimidated by the shouts of the horsemanand the appalling motion of his white five-barred charger.
Such bliss, however, was transient, and might have to be expiated invarious ways--at best with a slap from the hand of Betty (which was asgood as nothing at all), at worst, by a visit to father'sworkroom--which could not be thought upon without a certain sense ofsolemnity, as if Sunday had turned up once too often in the middle ofthe week.
But upon this great day of which I have to tell, Hugh John had beenhonourably digging all the morning in the sand-hole. He had on hisred coat, which was his most secret pride, and he was devising astill more elaborate system of fortification. Bastion and trench,scarp and counter-scarp, lunette and ravelenta (a good word), HughJohn had made them all, and he was now besieging his own creation withthe latest thing in artillery, calling "Boom!" when he fired off hiscannon, and "Bang-whack!" as often as the projectile hit the wall andbrought down a foot of the noble fortification, lately so laboriouslyconstructed and so tenderly patted into shape.
Suddenly there came a sound which always made the heart of Hugh Johnbeat in his side. It was the low thrilling reverberation of the drum.He had only time to dash for his cap, which he had filled with sandand old nails in order to "be a bomb-shell"; empty it, put it on hishead, gird on his London sword-with-the-gold-hilt, and fly.
As he ran down the avenue the shrill fifes kept stinging his ears andmaking him feel as if needles were running up and down his back. Itwas at this point that Hugh John had a great struggle with himself.Priscilla and Toady Lion were playing at "House" and "Tea-parties"under the weeping elm on the front lawn. It was a debasing taste,certainly, but after all blood was thicker than water. And--well, hecould not bear that they should miss the soldiers. But then, on theother hand, if he went back the troops might be past before he reachedthe gate, and Betty, he knew well, would not let him out to run afterthem, and the park wall was high.
In this desperate strait Hugh John called all the resources ofreligion to his aid.
"It would," he said, "be dasht-mean to go off without telling them."
Hugh John did not know exactly what "dasht-mean" meant. But he hadheard his cousin Fred (who was grown up, had been a year at school,and wore a tall hat on Sundays) tell how all the fellows said that itwas better to die-and-rot than to be "dasht-mean"; and also how thosewho in spite of warnings proved themselves "dasht-mean" were sent to aplace called Coventry--which from all accounts seemed to be a"dasht-mean" locality.
So Hugh John resolved that he would never get sent there, and whenevera little thing tugged down in his stomach and told him "not to," HughJohn said, "Hang it! I won't be dasht-mean."--And wasn't.
Grown-ups call these things conscience and religion; but this is howit felt to Hugh John, and it answered just as well--or even better.
So when the stinging surge of distant pipes sent the wild bloodcoursing through his veins, and he felt his face grow cold and pricklyall over, Napoleon Smith started to run down the avenue. He could nothelp it. He must see the soldiers or die. But all the same _Tug-tug_went the little string remorselessly in his stomach.
"I must see them. I must--I must!" he cried, arguing with himself andtrying to drown the inner voice.
"_Tug-tug-tug!_" went the string, worse than that which he once putround his toe and hung out of the window, for Tom Cannon theunder-keeper to wake him with at five in the morning to gorabbit-ferreting.
Hugh John turned towards the house and the weeping elm.
"It's a blooming shame," he said, "and they won't care anyway. But I_can't_ be dasht-mean!"
And so he ran with all his might back to
the weeping elm, and with awarning cry set Prissy and Sir Toady Lion on the alert. Then withanxious tumultuous heart, and legs almost as invisible as thetwinkling spokes of a bicycle, so quickly did they pass one another,Hugh John fairly flung himself in the direction of the White Gate.