# Jeremy and the Ruffians

Hamlet was now on all fours, his tail up, his hair bristling. "It's all right," said Jeremy, lazily. "There 's nobody there." But even as he looked, an extraordinary phenomenon occurred. There rose from behind the boulder a tangled head of hair, and beneath the hair a round, hostile face and two fierce interrogative eyes. Then, as though this were not enough, there arose in line with the first head a second, and with the second a third, and then with the third a fourth . . .
Jeremy and the Ruffians
By Hugh Walpole
JEREMY sat on a high cliff overlooking the sea. he had never, since he was a tiny baby, had any fear of heights, and now his short, thick legs dangled over a fearful abyss in a way that would have caused his mother's heart to go faint with terror had she seen it.
The sight before him was superb, not to be exceeded, perhaps, in the whole world for strength and even ferocity of outline combined with luxuriance and Southern softness of color.
Here the two worlds met, the worlds of the North and the South; even in the early morning breeze there seemed to mingle the harsh irony of the high Glebeshire uplands and the gentle, caressing warmth of the sheltered coves and shell-scattered shores.
The sea was a vast curtain of silk, pale blue beyond the cove, a deep and shining green in the depths immediately below Jeremy's feet. That pale curtain was woven both of sea and sky, and seemed to quiver under the fingers of the morning breeze. It was suspended between two walls of sharp, black rock, jagged, ferocious, ruthless. Sharp to Jeremy's right, inside the black curve of stone, was a little beach of the palest yellow, and nestling on it, standing almost within it, was a little old church with a crooked gray tower and a wandering graveyard. Behind the church stretched a lovely champaign of the gentlest, most English country-side: hills as green as brightly colored glass rising smoothly into the blue, little valleys thickly patched with trees; cottages from whose stumpy chimneys smoke was already arising; cows and sheep; and in the distance the joyful barking of a dog, the only sound in all that early scene save the curdling whisper of the tide.
Jeremy had arrived with his family at Caerlyon Rectory the night before in a state of rebellious discontent. He had been disgusted when he heard that this summer they were to break the habit of years and to abandon his beloved Cow Farm in favor of a new camping-ground. And a rectory, too, when they always lived so close to churches and had so eternally to do with them! No farm any more! No Mrs. Monk, Mr. Monk, and the little Monks; no cows and pigs, no sheep and horses; above all, no Tim. No Tim with the red face and the strong legs, Tim perhaps the best friend he had in the world, after, of course, Riley and Hamlet. He had felt it bitterly, and during that journey from Polchester to the sea, hitherto always so wonderful a journey, he had sulked and sulked, refusing to notice any of the new scenery, the novel excitements and fresh incidents (like the driving all the way, for instance, from St. Mary Moer in a big wagonette with farmers and their wives), lest he should be betrayed into any sort of disloyalty to his old friends. The arrival at the rectory, with its old walled garden, the flowers all glimmering in the dusk, the vast oak in the middle of the lawn, was, despite himself, an interesting experience; but he allowed no expression of interest to escape from him, and went to bed the moment after supper.
He awoke, of course, at a desperately early hour, and was then compelled to jump out of bed and look out of the window. He discovered then, to his excited amazement, that the sea was right under his nose. This was marvelous to him. At Cow Farm you could see only a little cup of it between a dip in the trees, and that miles away. Here the garden seemed actually to border it, and you could see it stretch with the black cliffs to the left of it miles, miles, miles into the sky. The world was lovely at that hour; blackbirds and thrushes were on the dew-drenched lawn. Somewhere in the house a cuckoo-clock announced that it was just six o'clock. Before he knew what he was about, he had slipped on his clothes, was down the dark stairs and out in the garden.
As he sat dangling his feet above space and looked out to sea he argued with himself about Cow Farm. Of course Cow Farm would always be first, but that did not mean that other places could not be nice as well. He would never find any one in Caerlyon as delightful as Tim, and if only Tim were here, everything would be perfect; but Tim could not, of course, be in two places at once, and he had to do his duty by the Monks.
As he sat there, swinging his legs and looking down into that perfect green water, so clear that you could see gold and purple lights shifting beneath it and black lines of rock-like licorice-sticks twisting as the shadows moved, he was forced to admit to himself that he was wonderfully happy. He had never lived close, cheek by jowl, with the sea, as he was doing now. The thought of five whole weeks spent thus on the very edge of the water made him wriggle his legs so that there was very real danger of his falling over. The juxtaposition of Hamlet, who had, of course, followed him, saved him from further danger. He knew that he himself was safe and would never fall, but Hamlet was another matter, and must be protected. The dog was perilously near the edge, balancing on his fore feet and sniffing down; so the boy got up and dragged the dog back, and then lay down among the sea-pinks and the heather and looked up into the cloudless sky.
Hamlet rested his head on the fatty part of his master's thigh and breathed deep content. He had come into a place where there wandered a new company of smells, appetizing, tempting. Soon he would investigate them. For the present it was enough to lie warm with his master and dream.
Suddenly he was aware of something. He raised his head, and Jeremy, feeling his withdrawal, half sat up and looked about him. Facing them both were a group of giant boulders, scattered there in the heather, and looking like some Druid circle of ancient stones. Hamlet was now on all fours, his tail up, his hair bristling.
"It's all right," said Jeremy, lazily. "There 's nobody there." But even as he looked, an extraordinary phenomenon occurred. There rose from behind the boulder a tangled head of hair, and beneath the hair a round, hostile face and two fierce interrogative eyes. Then, as though this were not enough, there arose in line with the first head a second, and with the second a third, and then with the third a fourth—four round, bullet-heads, four fierce, hostile pairs of eyes staring at Hamlet and Jeremy.
Jeremy stared back, feeling that here was some trick played upon him, as when the conjurer at Thompson's had produced a pigeon out of a handkerchief. The trick effect was heightened by the fact that the four heads and the sturdy bodies connected with them were graduated in height to a nicety, as you might see four clowns at a circus, as were the four bears, a symmetry almost divine and quite unnatural.
The eldest, the fiercest, and most hostile had a face and shoulders that might belong to a boy of sixteen; the youngest and smallest might have been Jeremy's age. Jeremy did not notice any of this. Very plain to him was the fact that the four faces to whomsoever they might belong did not care either for him or his dog. One to four, he was in a situation of some danger; he was suddenly aware that he had never seen boys quite so ferocious in appearance. The street boys of Polchester were milk and water to them. Hamlet also felt this. He was sitting up, his head raised, his body stiff, intent, and you could feel within him the bark strangled by the melodrama of the situation.
Jeremy said rather feebly:
"Hullo!"
The reply was a terrific ear-shattering bellow from four lusty throats, then more distinctly:
"Get out of this!"
Fear was in his heart; he was compelled, afterward, to admit it. He could only reply very feebly:
"Why?"
Glaring, the eldest replied:
"If you don't, we 'll make you." Then, "This is ours here."
Hamlet was now quivering all over, and Jeremy was afraid lest he should make a dash for the boulders; he therefore got to his feet, holding Hamlet's collar with his hand, and, smiling, answered:
"I 'm sorry. I did n't know. I 've only just come."
"Well, get out, then," was the only reply.
What fascinated him like a dream was the way that the faces did not move or more body reveal itself. Painted against the blue sky they might have been, ferocious stares and all. There was nothing more to be done; he beat an inglorious retreat, not indeed running, but walking with what dignity he could summon, Hamlet at his side uttering noises like a kettle on the boil.

### § 2

He had not to wait long for some explanation of the vision. At breakfast (and it was a wonderful breakfast, with more eggs and bacon, cream and strawberry-jam, than he had ever known) his father said:
"Now, children, there 's one thing here that you must remember. Jeremy, are you listening?"
"Yes, Father."
"Don't speak with your mouth full. There 's a farm near the church on the sand. You can't mistake it."
"Is the farm on the sand. Father?" asked Mary, her eyes wide open.
"No, of course not. How could a farm be on the sand? The farm-house stands back at the end of the path that runs by the church. It 's a gray farm with a high stone wall. You can't mistake it. Well, none of you children must go near that farm—on no account whatever, on no account whatever, go near it."
"Why not, Father?" asked Jeremy. "Is there scarlet fever there?"
"Because I say so is quite enough," said Mr. Cole. "There 's a family staying there you must have nothing to do with. Perhaps you will see them in the distance; you must avoid them and never speak to them."
"Are they very wicked?" asked Mary, her voice vibrating low with the drama of the situation.
"Never mind what they are. They are not fit companions for you children. It is most unfortunate that they are here so close to us. Had I known it, I would not, I think, have come here."
Jeremy said nothing; these were, of course, his friends of the morning. He could see now, straight across the breakfast-table, those eight burning, staring eyes.
Later, from the slope of the green hill above the rectory, he looked across the gleaming beach at the church, the road, and then, in the distance, the forbidden farm. Strange how the forbidding of anything made one from the very bottom of one's soul long for it! Yesterday, staring across the green slopes and hollows, the farm would have been but a gray patch sewn into the purple hill that hung behind it. Now it was mysterious, crammed with hidden life of its own, the most dramatic point in the whole landscape. What had they done, that family that was so terrible? What was there about those four boys that he had never seen in any boys before? He longed to know them with a burning, desperate longing. Nevertheless, a whole week passed without any contact. Once Jeremy saw, against the sky-line, on the hill behind the church, a trail of four, single file, silhouetted black. They passed steadily, secretly, bent on their own mysterious purposes. The sky, when their figures had left it, was painted with drama.
Once Mary reported that, wandering along the beach, a wild figure, almost naked, had started from behind a rock and shouted at her. She ran, of course, and behind her there echoed a dreadful laugh. But the best story of all was from Helen, who, passing the graveyard, had seen go down the road a most beautiful lady, most beautifully dressed. According to Helen, she was the most lovely lady ever seen, with jewels hanging from her ears, pearls round her neck, and her clothes a bright orange. She had walked up the road and gone through the gate into the farm.
The mystery would have excited them all even more than in fact it did, had Caerlyon itself been less entrancing. But what Caerlyon turned out to be no words can describe. Those were the days, of course, before golf-links in Glebeshire, and although no one who has ever played on the Caerlyon Links will ever wish them away, they the handsomest, kindest, most fantastic sea-links in all England, yet I will not pretend that those rounds on the green slopes, sliding so softly down to the sea-shore, bending back so gently to the wild mysteries of the Poonderry Moor, had not then a virgin charm that now they have lost. Who can decide?
But for children thirty years ago what a kingdom! Glittering with color, they had the softness of a loving mother, the sudden tumbled romance of an adventurous elder brother. They caught all the colors of the floating sky in their laps, and the shadows flew like birds from shoulder to shoulder, and then suddenly the hills would shake their sides, and all those shadows would slide down to the yellow beach and lie there like purple carpets. You could race and race and never grow tired, he on your back and stare into the fathomless sky, roll over forever and come to no harm, wander and never be lost. The first gate of the kingdom and the last—the little golden square underneath the tower where the green witch has her stall of treasures that she never sells.

### § 3

Then the great adventure occurred. One afternoon the sun shone so gloriously that Jeremy was blinded by it, blinded and dream-smitten, so that he sat, perched on the garden wall of the rectory, staring before him at the glitter and the sparkle, seeing nothing but perhaps a little boat of dark wood with a ruby sail floating out to the horizon, having on its boards sacks of gold and pearls and diamonds, gold in fat slabs, pearls in white, shaking heaps, diamonds that put out the eyes, so bright they were, going, going—whither? He did not know, but shaded his eyes against the sun, and the boat was gone, and there was nothing there but an unbroken blue of sea, with the black rocks fringing it.
Mary called up to him from the garden and suggested that they should go out and pick flowers,and still in a dream he clambered down from the wall, and stood there nodding his head like a mandarin. He suffered himself to be led by Mary into the highroad, only stopping for a moment to whistle for Hamlet, who came running across the lawn as though he had just been shot out of a cannon.
It can have been only because he was sunk so deep in his dream that he wandered, without knowing it, down over the beach, jumping the hill stream that intersected it, up the sand past the church, out along the road that led straight to the forbidden farm. Nor was Mary thinking of their direction; she was having one of her happy days, her straw hat on the back of her head, her glasses full of sunlight, her stockings wrinkled about her legs, walking, her head in the air, singing one of the strange tuneless chants that came to her when she was happy. There was a field on their right, with a break in the hedge; through the break she saw buttercups, thousands of them, and loosestrife and snapdragons. She climbed the gate and vanished into the field. Jeremy walked on, scarcely realizing her absence. Suddenly he heard a scream; he stopped, and Hamlet stopped, pricking up his ears. Another scream, then a succession, piercing and terrible; then over the field-gate Mary appeared, tumbling over regardless of all beholders and proprieties, then running, crying, "Jeremy! Jeremy! Jeremy!" buttercups scattering from her hand as she ran. Her face was one question-mark of terror, her hat was gone, her hair-ribbon dangling, her stockings about her ankles. All she could do was to cling to Jeremy crying: "Oh! oh! oh! Ah! ah! ah!"
"What is it?" he asked roughly, his fear for her making him impatient. "Was it a bull?"
"No, no. Oh, Jeremy! Oh dear! oh dear! The boys! They hit me—pulled my hair!"
"What boys?" But already he knew.
Recovering a little, she told him. She had not been in the field a moment, and was bending down, picking her first buttercups, when she felt herself violently seized from behind, her arms held, and, looking up, there were three boys standing there, all around her, terrible, fierce boys, looking ever so wicked. They tore her hat off her head, pulled her hair, and told her to leave the field at once, never to come into it again; that it was their field and she 'd better not forget it, and to tell all her beastly family that they 'd better not forget it either, and that they 'd be shot if they came in there.
"Then they took me to the gate and pushed me over. They were very rough. I 've got bruises." She began to cry as the full horror of the event broke upon her.
Jeremy's anger was terrible to witness. He took her by the arm.
"Come with me," he said.
He led her to the end of the road beyond the church.
"Now you go home," he said. "Don't breathe a word to any one till I get back."
"Very well," she sobbed; "but I 've lost my hat."
"I 'll get your hat," he answered. "And take Hamlet with you."
He watched her set off. No harm could come to her there, in the open. She had only to cross the beach and climb the hill. He watched her until she had jumped the stream, Hamlet running in front of her; then he turned back. He climbed the gate into the field. There was no one; only the golden sea of buttercups, and near the gate a straw hat. He picked it up and, back in the road again, stood hesitating. There was only one thing to do, and he knew it; but he hesitated. He had been forbidden to enter the place, and there were four of them. And such a four! Then he shrugged his shoulders, a very characteristic action of his, and marched ahead.
The gate of the farm swung easily open, and then at once he was upon them, all four of them sitting in a row upon a stone wall at the far corner of the yard and staring at him. It was a dirty, messy place, and a fitting background for that company. The farm itself looked fierce, with its blind gray wall and its sullen windows, and the yard was in fearful confusion, oozing between the stones with shiny yellow streams and dank coagulating pools, piled high with heaps of stinking manure, pigs wandering in middle distance, hens and chickens, and a ruffian dog chained to his kennel.
The four looked at Jeremy without moving.
Jeremy came close to them and said:
"You 're a lot of dirty cads." They made neither answer nor movement.
"Dirty cads to touch my sister, a girl who could n't touch you."
Still no answer, only one, the smallest, jumped off the wall and ran to the gate behind Jeremy.
"I 'm not afraid of you," said Jeremy (he was, terribly afraid). "I would n't be afraid of a lot of dirty sneaks like you are—to hit a girl!"
Still no answer; so he ended:
"And we 'll go wherever we like. It is n't your field, and we 've just as much right to it as you have."
He turned to go, and faced the boy at the gate. The other three had now climbed off the wall, and he was surrounded. He had never, since the night with the sea-captain, been in so perilous a situation. He thought that they would murder him, and then hide his body under the manure. They looked quite capable of it, and in some strange way this farm was so completely shut off from the outside world, the house watched so silently, the wall was so high! And he was very small indeed compared with the biggest of the four. No, he did not feel happy.
Nothing could be more terrifying than their silence, but if they were silent, he could be silent, too; so he just stood there and said nothing.
"What are you going to do about it?" suddenly asked the biggest of the four.
"Do about what?" he replied, his voice trembling despite himself, simply, as it seemed to him, from the noisy beating of his heart.
"Our cheeking your sister."
"I can't do much," Jeremy said, "when there are four of you; but I 'll fight the one my own size."
That hero, grinning, moved forward to Jeremy, but the one who had already spoken broke out:
"Let him out. We don't want him. And don't you come back again!" he suddenly shouted.
"I will," Jeremy shouted in return, "if I want to," and then, I regret to say, took to his heels and ran madly down the road.

### § 4

Now, this was an open declaration of war and not lightly to be disregarded. Jeremy said not a word of it to any one, not even to the wide-eyed Mary, who had been waiting in a panic of terror under the oak-tree, like the lady in Carpaccio's picture of St. George and the dragon, longing for her true knight to return, all "bloody and tumbled," to quote Miss Jane Porter's "Thaddeus of Warsaw." He was not bloody, nor was he tumbled, but he was serious-minded and preoccupied. This was all very nice, but it was pretty well going to spoil the holidays, these fellows hanging round and turning up just whenever they pleased, frightening everybody and perhaps—this sudden thought made, for a moment, his heart stand still—doing something really horrible to Hamlet.
He felt as though he had the whole burden of it on his shoulders, as though he were on guard for all the family. There was no one to whom he could speak, no one at all.
For several days he moved about as though in enemy country, looking closely at hedges, scanning hill horizons, keeping Hamlet as close to his side as possible. No sign of the ruffians, no word of them at home; they had faded into smoke and gone down with the wind.
Suddenly, one morning, when he was in a hollow of the downs, throwing pebbles at a tree, he heard a voice: "Hands up or I fire!"
He turned round, and saw the eldest of the quartet close to him. Although he had spoken so fiercely, he was not looking fierce, but rather was smiling in a curious crooked kind of way. Jeremy could see him more clearly than before, and a strange enough object he was.
He was wearing a dirty old pair of flannel cricketing trousers and a grubby shirt open at the neck. One of his eyes was bruised, and he had a cut across his nose; but the thing in the main that struck Jeremy now was his appearance of immense physical strength. His muscles seemed simply to bulge under his shirt; he had the neck of a prize-fighter. He was a great deal older than Jeremy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years of age. His eyes, which were gray and clear, were his best feature; but he was no beauty, and in his dirty clothes, and with his bruises, he looked a most dangerous character. Jeremy called Hamlet to him and held him by the collar.
"All right," said the ruffian; "I 'm not going to touch your dog."
"I did n't think you were," said Jeremy, lying.
"Oh, yes, you did. I suppose you think we eat dog-flesh and murder babies. Lots of people do."
The sudden sense that other folk in the world also thought the quartet outlaws was new to Jeremy. He had envisaged the affair as a struggle in which the Cole family only were engaged.
"Eat babies!" Jeremy cried. "No; do you?"
"Of course not," said the boy. "That's the sort of damned rot people talk. They think we 'd do anything."
He suddenly sat down on the turf, and Jeremy sat down, too, dramatically picturing to himself the kind of thing that would happen did his father turn the corner and find him there amicably in league with his enemy. There followed a queer in-and-out little conversation, bewildering in some strange way, so that they seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the thick velvet pile of the green downs, lost to all the world that was humming like a top beyond the barrier.
"I liked your coming into the yard about your sister. That was damned plucky of you."
For some reason hidden deep in the green down Jeremy had never before known praise that pleased him so deeply. He flushed, kicking the turf with the heels of his boots.
"You were cads to hit my sister," he said. He let Hamlet's collar go, and the dog went over and smelled the dirty trousers and sniffed at the rough, reddened hand.
"How old are you?"
"Ten and a half."
"I know. You 're called Cole. You 're the son of the parson at the rectory."
Jeremy nodded his head. The boy was now sprawling his length, his head resting on his arms, his thick legs stretched out.
"You 're awfully strong," Jeremy suddenly said.
The boy nodded his head.
"I am that. I can throw a cricket-ball from here to the church. I can wrestle any one. Box, too."
He did n't say this boastfully, but quite calmly, stating well known facts.
Jeremy opened his eyes wide.
"What are you called?" he asked.
"Humphrey Charles Ruthven."
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go. I was kicked out of Harrow. But it did n't matter, anyway, because my governor could n't pay the school-bills."
Expelled! This was exciting indeed.
"What did you do?" Jeremy asked breathlessly.
"Telling smutty stories."
"Telling what?" Jeremy repeated, not at all understanding.
"Telling dirty stories—about babies and all that."
"About babies?"
The boy looked at him, then sat up.
"Don't you know about babies?" he asked.
"Babies?" Jeremy repeated. "What about them? We 've got one in our family, if that 's what you mean."
"No—but the way they come. Has n't any one ever told you?"
"Oh, that!" said Jeremy, contemptuously. "Yes, of course. They 're brought in the night. You have to write for them or something. I can't think, myself, why any one ever does. They 're an awful nuisance."
The big boy whistled.
"Well, I 'm damned!" he said. "Where are you at school?"
"At Thompson's, Chudleigh, in Somerset."
"How long have you been there?"
"A year and a half."
"And you don't know about babies?"
"No. What about them?"
"Oh, never mind." The boy smiled. "You 're right; they 're brought in the night by a postman." He chuckled. "I say, you are a kid!"
"No, but what—" Jeremy paused, puzzled.
"Don't you worry," said the boy. "I was only ragging. There 's nothing funny about babies. You 're quite right; it 's strange any one writes for them. You 'd think they 'd be more sensible." He suddenly went on in another tone, "You know every one hates us, don't you?"
"Yes," said Jeremy. "Why is it?"
"Because we 're bad," Humphrey said solemnly. "Our hand is against every one, and every one's hand is against us."
"But why?" asked Jeremy again.
"Well, for one thing, they don't like father. He's got, if you were speaking very politely, what you 'd call a damned bad temper. By Jove! you should see him lose it! He 's broken three chairs in the farm already! I don't suppose we shall be here very long. We 're always moving about. Then another reason is that we never have any money. Father makes a bit racing sometimes, and then we 're flush for a week or two; but it never lasts long. Why," he went one, drawing himself up with an air of pride, "we owe money all over the country. That 's why we came down to this rotten dull hole—because we had n't been down here before. And another reason they don't like us is because that woman who lives with us is n't father's wife, and she is n't our mother either. I should rather think not! She 's a beast. I hate her," he added reflectively.
There was a great deal of all this that Jeremy did n't understand, but he got from it an immense impression of romance and adventure. And then, as he looked across at the boy opposite to him, a new feeling came to him—a feeling that he had never known before. It was an exciting, strange emotion, something that was suddenly almost adoration. He was aware, all in a second, that he would do anything in the world for this strange boy. He would like to be ordered by him to run down the shoulder of the down and race across the sands and plunge into the sea, and he would do it. Or to command him all the way to St. Mary's, ever so many miles, to fetch something for him. It was so new an experience that he felt exceedingly shy about it, and could only sit there, kicking at the turf and saying nothing.
Humphrey's brow was suddenly as black as thunder. He got up.
"I see what it is," he said, "you 're like the rest. Now I 've told you what we are, you don't want to have anything more to do with us. Well, you need n't. Nobody asked you. You can just go back to your old parson and say to him: 'Oh, Father, I met such a wicked boy to-day. He was naughty, and I 'm never going to talk to him again.' All right, then. Go along."
The attack was so sudden that Jeremy was taken entirely by surprise. He had been completely absorbed by this new feeling; he had not known that he had been silent.
"Oh, no. I don't care what you are, or your father, or whether you have n't any money. I 've got some money. I 'll give it you if you like. And you shall have threepence more on Saturday; fourpence, if I know my collect. I say,"—he stammered over this request,—"I wish you 'd throw a stone from here and see how far you can."
Humphrey was immensely gratified. He bent down and picked up a pebble, then, straining backward ever so slightly, flung it. It vanished into the blue sea. Jeremy sighed with admiration.
"You can throw!" he said. "Would you mind if I felt the muscle on your arm?" He felt it. He had never imagined such a muscle. "Do you think I could have more if I worked at it?" he asked, stretching out his own arm.
Humphrey graciously felt it.
"That's not bad for a kid your size," he said. "You ought to lift weights in the morning. That's the way to bring it up." Then he added: "You 're a sporting kid. I like you. I 'll be here again same time to-morrow," and, without another word, he was running off, with a strange jumping motion, across the down.
Jeremy went home, and could think of nothing at all but his adventure. How sad it was that always, without his in the least desiring it, he was running up against authority! He had been forbidden to go near the farm or to have anything to do with the wild, outlawed tenants of it, and now here he was making close friends with one of the worst of them. He could not help it. He did not want to help it. When he looked round the family supper-table, how weak, colorless, and uninteresting they all seemed! No muscles, no outlawry, no running from place to place to escape the police! He saw Humphrey standing against the sky and slinging that stone. He could throw! There was no doubt of it. He could throw, perhaps, better than any one else in the world.
They met, then, every day, and for a glorious, wonderful week nobody knew. I am sorry to say that Jeremy was involved at once in a perfect mist of lies and false excuses. What a business it was, being always with the family! He had felt it now for a long time, the apparent impossibility of going anywhere or doing anything without everybody all round you asking multitudes of questions. "Where are you going to, Jeremy?" "Where have you been?" "What have you been doing?" "I have n't seen you for the last two hours, Jeremy. Mother's been looking for you everywhere."
So he lied and lied and lied; otherwise he got no harm from this wonderful week. One must do Humphrey that justice, that he completely respected Jeremy's innocence. He even, for perhaps the first time in his young life, tried to restrain his swearing. They found the wild moor at the back of the downs a splendid hunting-ground. Here, in the miles of gorse and shrub and pond and heather, they were safe from the world, their companions birds and rabbits. Humphrey knew more about animals than any one else in England. He said so himself, so it must be true. The weather was glorious, hot, and gorse-scented. They bathed in the pools and ran about naked, Humphrey doing exercises, standing on his head, turning somersaults, lifting Jeremy with his hands as though he weighed nothing at all. Humphrey's body was brown all over, like an animal's. Humphrey talked, and Jeremy listened. He told Jeremy the most marvelous stories, and Jeremy believed every word of them. They sat on a little hummock, with a dark wood behind them, and watched the moon rise.
"You 're a decent kid," said Humphrey. "I like you better than my brothers. I suppose you 'll forget me as soon as I 'm gone."
"I 'll never forget you," said Jeremy. "Can't you leave your family and be somebody else? Then you can come and stay with us."
"Stay with a parson? Not much. You 'll see me again one day. I 'll send you a line from time to time and let you know where I am."
Finally they swore friendship. They exchanged gifts. Humphrey gave Jeremy a broken pocket-knife, and Jeremy gave Humphrey his silver watch-chain. They shook hands and swore to be friends forever.
And then the final and terrible tragedy occurred.

### § 5

It came just as suddenly as for a romantic climax it should have come. On the afternoon that followed the friendship-swearing Humphrey did not appear at the accustomed place. Jeremy waited for several hours and then went sadly home. At breakfast next morning there were those grown-up. mysterious illusions that mean that some catastrophe too terrible for tender ears is occurring.
"I never heard anything so awful," said Aunt Amy.
"It 's so sad to me," said Jeremy's mother, sighing, "that people should want to do these things."
"It 's abominable," said Mr. Cole, "that they were ever allowed to come here at all. We should have been told before we came."
"But do you really think—" said Aunt Amy.
"I know, because Mrs.—"
"But just fancy if—"
"It 's quite possible, especially when—"
"What a dreadful thing that—"
Jeremy sat there, feeling as though every one was looking at him. What had happened to Humphrey? He must go at once and find out.
He slipped off after breakfast, and before he reached the bottom of the downs heard shouts and cries. He ran across the beach, and was soon involved in a crowd of farmers, women, boys, and animals, all shouting, crying out, and barking together. Being small, he was able to worry his way through without any attention being paid to him; indeed, every one was too deeply excited by what was happening in the yard of the farm to notice small boys. When at last he got to the gate and looked through, he beheld an extraordinary scene. Among the cobbles and the manure-heaps and the filth many things were scattered: articles of clothing, some chairs, and a table, some pictures, many torn papers. The yard was almost filled with men and women, all of them apparently shouting and screaming together. A big red-faced man next to Jeremy was crying over and over again: "That 'll teach him to meddle with our women." "That 'll teach him to meddle with our women."
On the steps of the farm-house an extraordinary woman was standing quite alone, no one near her, standing there, contempt in her eyes, and a curious smile, almost of pleasure, on her lips. Even to Jeremy's young innocence she was over-colored. Her face was crimson: she wore a large hat of bright green, and a bright green dress with a flowing train. She did not move; she might have been painted into the stone. But Jeremy's gaze, seen dimly and, as it were, upward through a pair of high, widely extended farmer's legs, was soon withdrawn from this highly colored lady to the central figure of the scene. This was a man who seemed to Jeremy the biggest and blackest human he had ever seen. He had jet-black hair, a black beard, and, struggling now in the middle of the yard between three rough-looking countrymen, his clothes were almost torn from the upper part of his body. His face was bleeding, and even as Jeremy caught sight of him he snatched one arm free and caught one of his captors a blow that sent him reeling. For one instant he seemed to rise above the crowd, gathering himself together for a mighty effort. He seemed in that second to look toward Jeremy, his eyes staring out of his head, his great chest heaving, his legs straining. But at once four men were upon him, and began to drive him toward the gate, the crowd bending back and driving Jeremy into a confusion of thighs and legs behind which he could see nothing. Then suddenly once more the scene cleared, and the boy saw a figure run from the house, crying something, his hand raised. Some one caught the figure and stayed it: for a second of time Jeremy saw Humphrey's face, flaming with anger. Then the crowd closed round.
At the same instant the black man seemed to be whirled toward them, there was a crushing, a screaming, a boot seemed to rise from the ground of its own volition and kick Jeremy violently in the face, and he fell down, down, down into a bottomless sea of black pitch.

### § 6

For three days he was in bed, his head aching, one cheek swollen to twice its natural size, one eye closed. To his amazement, no one scolded him; no one asked him how he had been caught in that crowd. Every one was very kind to him.
Once he asked his mother:
"What has happened?" She told him that "They were very wicked people and had gone away."
When he was up and about again, he went to the farm and looked through the gate. Within there was absolute stillness. A pig was snuffling among the manure.
He went out to the moor. It was a perfect afternoon, only a little breeze blowing. The pools, slightly ruffled, were like blue lace. A rabbit, sitting in front of his hole, did not move. He threw himself face downward on the ground, and cried as though his heart would break
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1941, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 82 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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