So it worked out. The bill was paid, the consequent small talk gone through while the fly was loaded: ‘pleasant part of the country – been very comfortable, thanks to you and Mrs Betts – hope to come back some time,’ on one side: on the other, ‘very glad you’ve found satisfaction, sir, done our best – always glad to ’ave your good word – very much favoured we’ve been with the weather, to be sure.’ Then, ‘I’ll just take a look upstairs in case I’ve left a book or something out – no, don’t trouble, I’ll be back in a minute.’ And as noiselessly as possible he stole to the door and opened it. The shattering of the illusion! He almost laughed aloud. Propped, or you might say sitting, on the edge of the bed was – nothing in the round world but a scarecrow! A scarecrow out of the garden, of course, dumped into the deserted room . . . Yes; but here amusement ceased. Have scarecrows bare bony feet? Do their heads loll on to their shoulders? Have they iron collars and links of chain about their necks? Can they get up and move, if never so stiffly, across a floor, with wagging head and arms close at their sides? and shiver?

  The slam of the door, the dash to the stair-head, the leap downstairs, were followed by a faint. Awaking, Thomson saw Betts standing over him with the brandy bottle and a very reproachful face. ‘You shouldn’t a done so, sir, really you shouldn’t. It ain’t a kind way to act by persons as done the best they could for you.’ Thomson heard words of this kind, but what he said in reply he did not know. Mr Betts, and perhaps even more Mrs Betts, found it hard to accept his apologies and his assurances that he would say no word that could damage the good name of the house. However, they were accepted. Since the train could not now be caught, it was arranged what Thomson should be driven to the town to sleep there. Before he went the Bettses told him what little they knew, ‘They says he was landlord ’ere a long time back, and was in with the ’ighwaymen that ’ad their beat about the ’eath. That’s how he come by his end: ’ung in chains, they say, up where you see that stone what the gallus stood in. Yes, the fishermen made away with that, I believe, because they see it out at sea and it kep’ the fish off, according to their idea. Yes, we ’ad the account from the people that ’ad the ’ouse before we come. “You keep that room shut up,” they says, “but don’t move the bed out, and you’ll find there won’t be no trouble.” And no more there ’as been; not once he haven’t come out into the ’ouse, though what he may do now there ain’t no sayin’. Anyway, you’re the first I know on that’s seen him since we’ve been ’ere: I never set eyes on him myself, nor don’t want. And ever since we’ve made the servants’ rooms in the stablin’, we ain’t ’ad no difficulty that way. Only I do ’ope, sir, as you’ll keep a close tongue, considerin’ ’ow an ’ouse do get talked about’: with more to this effect.

  The promise of silence was kept for many years. The occasion of my hearing the story at last was this: that when Mr Thomson came to stay with my father it fell to me to show him to his room, and instead of letting me open the door for him, he stepped forward and threw it open himself, and then for some moments stood in the doorway holding up his candle and looking narrowly into the interior. Then he seemed to recollect himself and said: ‘I beg your pardon. Very absurd, but I can’t help doing that, for a particular reason.’ What that reason was I heard some days afterwards, and you have heard now.

  After Dark in the Playing Fields

  The hour was late and the night was fair. I had halted not far from Sheeps’ Bridge and was thinking about the stillness, only broken by the sound of the weir, when a loud tremulous hoot just above me made me jump. It is always annoying to be startled, but I have a kindness for owls. This one was evidently very near: I looked about for it. There it was, sitting plumply on a branch about twelve feet up. I pointed my stick at it and said, ‘Was that you?’ ‘Drop it,’ said the owl. ‘I know it ain’t only a stick, but I don’t like it. Yes, of course it was me: who do you suppose it would be if it warn’t?’

  We will take as read the sentences about my surprise. I lowered the stick. ‘Well,’ said the owl, ‘what about it? If you will come out here of a Midsummer evening like what this is, what do you expect?’ ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said, ‘I should have remembered. May I say that I think myself very lucky to have met you tonight? I hope you have time for a little talk?’ ‘Well,’ said the owl ungraciously, ‘I don’t know as it matters so particular tonight. I’ve had me supper as it happens, and if you ain’t too long over it – ah–h–h!’ Suddenly it broke into a loud scream, flapped its wings furiously, bent forward and clutched its perch tightly, continuing to scream. Plainly something was pulling hard at it from behind. The strain relaxed abruptly, the owl nearly fell over, and then whipped round, ruffling up all over, and made a vicious dab at something unseen by me. ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ said a small clear voice in a solicitous tone. ‘I made sure it was loose. I do hope I didn’t hurt you.’ ‘Didn’t ’urt me?’ said the owl bitterly. ‘Of course you ’urt me, and well you know it, you young infidel. That feather was no more loose than – oh, if I could git at you! Now I shouldn’t wonder but what you’ve throwed me all out of balance. Why can’t you let a person set quiet for two minutes at a time without you must come creepin’ up and – well, you’ve done it this time, anyway. I shall go straight to ’eadquarters and – (finding it was now addressing the empty air) – ‘why, where have you got to now? Oh, it is too bad, that it is!’

  ‘Dear me!’ I said, ‘I’m afraid this isn’t the first time you’ve been annoyed in this way. May I ask exactly what happened?’

  ‘Yes, you may ask,’ said the owl, still looking narrowly about as it spoke, ‘but it ’ud take me till the latter end of next week to tell you. Fancy coming and pulling out anyone’s tail feather! ’Urt me something crool, it did. And what for, I should like to know? Answer me that! Where’s the reason of it?’

  All that occurred to me was to murmur, ‘The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders at our quaint spirits.’ I hardly thought the point would be taken, but the owl said sharply: ‘What’s that? Yes, you needn’t to repeat it. I ’eard. And I’ll tell you what’s at the bottom of it, and you mark my words.’ It bent towards me and whispered, with many nods of its round head: ‘Pride! stand-offishness! that’s what it is! Come not near our fairy queen’ (this in a tone of bitter contempt). ‘Oh, dear no! we ain’t good enough for the likes of them. Us that’s been noted time out of mind for the best singers in the Fields: now, ain’t that so?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, doubtfully enough, ‘I like to hear you very much: but, you know, some people think a lot of the thrushes and nightingales and so on; you must have heard of that, haven’t you? And then, perhaps – of course I don’t know – perhaps your style of singing isn’t exactly what they think suitable to accompany their dancing, eh?’

  ‘I should kindly ’ope not,’ said the owl, drawing itself up. ‘Our family’s never give in to dancing, nor never won’t neither. Why, what ever are you thinkin’ of!’ it went on with rising temper. ‘A pretty thing it would be for me to set there hiccuppin’ at them’ – it stopped and looked cautiously all round it and up and down and then continued in a louder voice – ‘them little ladies and gentlemen. If it ain’t sootable for them, I’m very sure it ain’t sootable for me. And’ (temper rising again) ‘if they expect me never to say a word just because they’re dancin’ and carryin’ on with their foolishness, they’re very much mistook, and so I tell ’em.’

  From what had passed before I was afraid this was an imprudent line to take, and I was right. Hardly had the owl given its last emphatic nod when four small slim forms dropped from a bough above, and in a twinkling some sort of grass rope was thrown round the body of the unhappy bird, and it was borne off through the air, loudly protesting, in the direction of Fellows’ Pond. Splashes and gurgles and shrieks of unfeeling laughter were heard as I hurried up. Something darted away over my head, and as I stood peering over the bank of the pond, which was all in commotion, a very angry and dishevelled owl scrambled heavily up the bank, and stopping near my feet shook itself and flapped and hissed for several minutes without saying anything I should care to repeat.

  Glaring at me, it eventually said – and the grim suppressed rage in its voice was such that I hastily drew back a step or two – ‘ ’Ear that? Said they was very sorry, but they’d mistook me for a duck. Oh, if it ain’t enough to make anyone go reg’lar distracted in their mind and tear everythink to flinders for miles round.’ So carried away was it by passion, that it began the process at once by rooting up a large beakful of grass, which alas! got into its throat; and the choking that resulted made me really afraid that it would break a vessel. But the paroxysm was mastered, and the owl sat up, winking and breathless but intact.

  Some expression of sympathy seemed to be required; yet I was chary of offering it, for in its present state of mind I felt that the bird might interpret the best-meant phrase as a fresh insult. So we stood looking at each other without speech for a very awkward minute, and then came a diversion. First the thin voice of the pavilion clock, then the deeper sound from the Castle quadrangle, then Lupton’s Tower, drowning the Curfew Tower by its nearness.

  ‘What’s that?’ said the owl, suddenly and hoarsely. ‘Midnight, I should think,’ said I, and had recourse to my watch. ‘Midnight?’ cried the owl, evidently much startled, ‘and me too wet to fly a yard! Here, you pick me up and put me in the tree; don’t, I’ll climb up your leg, and you won’t ask me to do that twice. Quick now!’ I obeyed. ‘Which tree do you want?’ ‘Why, my tree, to be sure! Over there!’ It nodded towards the Wall. ‘All right. Bad-calx tree do you mean?’ I said, beginning to run in that direction. ‘ ’Ow should I know what silly names you call it? The one what ’as like a door in it. Go faster! They’ll be coming in another minute.’ ‘Who? What’s the matter?’ I asked as I ran, clutching the wet creature, and much afraid of stumbling and coming over with it in the long grass. ‘You’ll see fast enough,’ said this selfish bird. ‘You just let me git on the tree, I shall be all right.’

  And I suppose it was, for it scrabbled very quickly up the trunk with its wings spread and disappeared in a hollow without a word of thanks. I looked round, not very comfortably. The Curfew Tower was still playing St David’s tune and the little chime that follows, for the third and last time, but the other bells had finished what they had to say, and now there was silence, and again the ‘restless changing weir’ was the only thing that broke – no, that emphasised it.

  Why had the owl been so anxious to get into hiding? That of course was what now exercised me. Whatever and whoever was coming, I was sure that this was no time for me to cross the open field: I should do best to dissemble my presence by staying on the darker side of the tree. And that is what I did.

  All this took place some years ago, before summertime came in. I do sometimes go into the playing fields at night still, but I come in before true midnight. And I find I do not like a crowd after dark – for example at the Fourth of June fireworks. You see – no, you do not, but I see – such curious faces: and the people to whom they belong flit about so oddly, often at your elbow when you least expect it, and looking close into your face, as if they were searching for someone – who may be thankful, I think, if they do not find him. ‘Where do they come from?’ Why, some, I think, out of the water, and some out of the ground. They look like that. But I am sure it is best to take no notice of them, and not to touch them.

  Yes, I certainly prefer the daylight population of the Playing Fields to that which comes there after dark.

  Wailing Well

  In the year 19—there were two members of the troop of scouts attached to a famous school, named respectively Arthur Wilcox and Stanley Judkins. They were the same age, boarded in the same house, were in the same division, and naturally were members of the same patrol. They were so much alike in appearance as to cause anxiety and trouble, and even irritation, to the masters who came in contact with them. But oh how different were they in their inward man, or boy!

  It was to Arthur Wilcox that the headmaster said, looking up with a smile as the boy entered chambers, ‘Why, Wilcox, there will be a deficit in the prize fund if you stay here much longer! Here, take this handsomely bound copy of the Life and Works of Bishop Ken, and with it my hearty congratulations to yourself and your excellent parents.’ It was Wilcox again, whom the provost noticed as he passed through the playing fields, and, pausing for a moment, observed to the vice-provost, ‘That lad has a remarkable brow!’ ‘Indeed, yes,’ said the vice-provost. ‘It denotes either genius or water on the brain.’

  As a scout, Wilcox secured every badge and distinction for which he competed. The cookery badge, the map-making badge, the life-saving badge, the badge for picking up bits of newspaper, the badge for not slamming the door when leaving pupil-room, and many others. Of the life-saving badge I may have a word to say when we come to treat of Stanley Judkins.

  You cannot be surprised to hear that Mr Hope Jones added a special verse to each of his songs, in commendation of Arthur Wilcox, or that the lower master burst into tears when handing him the good conduct medal in its handsome claret-coloured case: the medal which had been unanimously voted to him by the whole of Third Form. Unanimously, did I say? I am wrong. There was one dissentient, Judkins mi., who said that he had excellent reasons for acting as he did. He shared, it seems, a room with his major. You cannot, again, wonder that in after years Arthur Wilcox was the first, and so far the only boy, to become captain of both the school and of the Oppidans, or that the strain of carrying out the duties of both positions, coupled with the ordinary work of the school, was so severe that a complete rest for six months, followed by a voyage round the world, was pronounced an absolute necessity by the family doctor.

  It would be a pleasant task to trace the steps by which he attained the giddy eminence he now occupies; but for the moment enough of Arthur Wilcox. Time presses, and we must turn to a very different matter: the career of Stanley Judkins – Judkins ma.

  Stanley Judkins, like Arthur Wilcox, attracted the attention of the authorities; but in quite another fashion. It was to him that the lower master said, with no cheerful smile, ‘What, again, Judkins? A very little persistence in this course of conduct, my boy, and you will have cause to regret that you ever entered this academy. There, take that, and that, and think yourself very lucky you don’t get that and that!’ It was Judkins, again, whom the provost had cause to notice as he passed through the playing fields, when a cricket ball struck him with considerable force on the ankle, and a voice from a short way off cried, ‘Thank you, cut-over!’ ‘I think,’ said the provost, pausing for a moment to rub his ankle, ‘that that boy had better fetch his cricket ball for himself!’ ‘Indeed, yes,’ said the vice-provost, ‘and if he comes within reach, I will do my best to fetch him something else.’

  As a scout, Stanley Judkins secured no badge save those which he was able to abstract from members of other patrols. In the cookery competition he was detected trying to introduce squibs into the Dutch oven of the next-door competitors. In the tailoring competition he succeeded in sewing two boys together very firmly, with disastrous effect when they tried to get up. For the tidiness badge he was disqualified, because, in the midsummer schooltime, which chanced to be hot, he could not be dissuaded from sitting with his fingers in the ink: as he said, for coolness’ sake. For one piece of paper which he picked up, he must have dropped at least six banana skins or orange peels. Aged women seeing him approaching would beg him with tears in their eyes not to carry their pails of water across the road. They knew too well what the result would inevitably be. But it was in the life-saving competition that Stanley Judkins’s conduct was most blameable and had the most far-reaching effects. The practice, as you know, was to throw a selected lower boy, of suitable dimensions, fully dressed, with his hands and feet tied together, into the deepest part of Cuckoo Weir, and to time the scout whose turn it was to rescue him. On every occasion when he was entered for this competition Stanley Judkins was seized, at the critical moment, with a severe fit of cramp, which caused him to roll on the ground and utter alarming cries. This naturally distracted the attention of those present from the boy in the water, and had it not been for the presence of Arthur Wilcox the death-roll would have been a heavy one. As it was, the lower master found it necessary to take a firm line and say that the competition must be discontinued. It was in vain that Mr Beasley Robinson represented to him that in five competitions only four lower boys had actually succumbed. The lower master said that he would be the last to interfere in any way with the work of the Scouts; but that three of these boys had been valued members of his choir, and both he and Dr Ley felt that the inconvenience caused by the losses outweighed the advantages of the competitions. Besides, the correspondence with the parents of these boys had become annoying, and even distressing: they were no longer satisfied with the printed form which he was in the habit of sending out, and more than one of them had actually visited Eton and taken up much of his valuable time with complaints. So the life-saving competition is now a thing of the past.