The Project Gutenberg EBook of The New Forest Spy, by George Manville Fenn This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The New Forest Spy Author: George Manville Fenn Illustrator: W.D.E. Evans Release Date: November 15, 2007 [EBook #23502] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEW FOREST SPY *** Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England George Manville Fenn "The New Forest Spy" Chapter One. An Encounter in the Wood. “Hullo! What’s that?” The lad who uttered those words dropped a short, stiff fishing-rod in amongst the bracken and furze, and made a dash in the direction of a sharp rustling sound to his right, ran as hard as he could, full- pelt, for about five-and-twenty yards, and then, catching his toe in a tough stem of heather, went headlong down into a tuft of closely-cropped furze—the delicate finer kind—which had been nibbled off year after year till it had assumed the form of a great green-and-gold cushion, beautiful to look at, but too pointed in its attentions to make a pleasant resting-place. “Bother!” shouted the boy, as he scrambled up. “Oh, what an ass I am! Anyone would think I was old enough to know that I couldn’t catch a rabbit on the run, even if he had no hole among the hazel- stubbs. Hole? Hundreds, where he could dive down. Horrid, prickly things furzes are. That was a sharp one; but there, it hasn’t hurt much, only it makes one so jolly hot.” He walked backward along the edge of the forest much more deliberately to stoop and pick up his rod. “Yes, of course,” he grumbled, and he screwed up a rather good-looking young manly face into a grin of annoyance which shewed all his closely set white teeth; “I might have known—all in a tangle. The hook broken, of course!” He let the butt of the rod which bore a very old-fashioned brass winch, rest in the hollow of his arm, while he carefully extricated the hook at the end of his line from where it had fallen and caught hold of a stem of dwarf bracken, while to free it and the hair, feather, and dubbing which had transformed the said hook into what was supposed to be a big artificial fly, although it was not in the slightest degree like any insect that ever flew, required no little care. “Humph!” he grunted; “might have been worse. But what a stupid a trout must be to go at a thing like that! Well, so much the better for me. Now then: once more, to begin.” But the boy seemed in no hurry to start. His exertions, though slight, had made him very hot, and he took off his cap to wipe away the shining drops that covered his sun-tanned forehead and stood thickly where, higher up, the skin was white amongst the thickly set curls of his brown hair. He looked round at a common-like portion of the New Forest over a slightly undulating stretch of velvety grass, bracken, heather and stunted oak-trees, which gave the place a park-like aspect, running right up to where the oaks were clustered thickly, with an occasional silvery or ruddy barked birch, and made dense with hazel-stubbs and alder. “Oh, what a jolly day!” he said; “but isn’t it hot!” It was, for the autumn sun shone down out of a vivid blue sky upon the gloriously green growth which was beginning here and there to look mellow and ripe as if shot with ruddy gold. “I might just as well lie down and read under the shade of one of the trees,” mused the boy, “for the trout will be all in the most cranky places right under the stones and roots. But one can’t read without a book, and I came out on purpose to catch something, and I mean to do it; so here goes.” He made for the nearest portion of the forest, and plunged in at once, holding his fly carefully between finger and thumb, and shouldering his rod so that, as he walked on with the trees clustering thicker and thicker, he drew the top after him, and got on fairly well without entangling his line. Deeper and deeper into the forest, which grew more and more dense, till, breaking away from its level, it suddenly began to descend in a stiff slope, which rose as steeply fifty yards farther on, forming in all a wandering, tangled little valley, at the bottom of which trickled and gurgled a tiny river some few yards wide, flashing brightly in places where the sun passed through the overhanging trees, but for the most part darkly hidden, and only to be approached with some little difficulty and at the risk of being caught and held by one of the briars’ hundred hands. The valley was very beautiful, gloriously attractive, and evidently a very sanctuary for blackbirds, one of which every now and then darted out in full velvet plumage, skimmed a few yards, and then dived out of sight again. They were too common objects to take the boy’s attention as he cautiously made his way towards the edge of the little river, but he did stop for a minute as a loud yuk, yuk, yuk, rang out, and a good- sized bird made a streak of green, and, once well in the sunshine, of brilliant scarlet, as it flew over the bushes and amongst the trees in a series of wave-like curves before it disappeared. “That’s the greenest woodpecker and the reddest head I have seen this season,” said the boy thoughtfully. “That’s a fine old cock-bird, and no mistake. Well, green woodpeckers aren’t trout, and he wouldn’t take my fly if I dropped it near him, and I don’t want him to. Now, then, what do you say to a try here?” The lad asked himself the question, and responded by going on cautiously for about a dozen yards through about the most unsuitable pieces of woodland possible for a fly-fisher to try his craft. But Waller Froy, only son of the Squire of Brackendene, was not going to wield a twelve-foot fly-rod, tapering and lissom, and suitable for sending a delicate line floating through the air to drop its lure lightly on the surface of the water. Such practices would have been utterly impossible on any part of the woodland rivulet. But, all the same, he knew perfectly well what he was about, and how to catch the large, fat, dark-coloured, speckled beauties that haunted the stream—the only way, in fact, unless he had descended to the poacher-like practice of “tickling,” and that he scorned. Waller’s way was to proceed cautiously through the undergrowth without stirring bough or leaf till he came to some opening on the bank where he could see the dark, slowly gliding stream, or perhaps eddy, through the overhanging boughs. Then, with his fly wound up close to the top ring of his short rod, he would pass it through the leaves and twigs with the greatest care and unwind again, letting the fly descend till it dropped lightly on the surface. This he did patiently in fully a dozen different places, winding up after each attempt, and then cautiously following the edge of the stream to try again wherever he came upon a suitable spot. But upon that particular occasion the trout were not at home at the lairs he tried, or else not hungry, so the fly was drawn up again for fresh trials. “It’s too hot,” muttered the boy. But he had all the good qualities of a fisherman, including patience and perseverance, and he went on and on deeper and deeper into the forest, managing so skilfully that he never once entangled his line. It was very beautiful there in the soft shades. The sun was almost completely shut out, and in some of the openings the pools looked absolutely black, while Waller, perfectly confident that there were plenty of good pound trout lurking in this hiding-place of theirs, went on and on. He had left the outskirts of the forest far behind, threading the rugged oaks, to make his way through the undergrowth that flourished amongst the beeches—huge forest monarchs that had once been pollarded by the foresters of old, to sprout out again upon losing their heads into a cluster of fresh stems, each a big tree—so ancient that, as the boy gazed back at them from where he wound his way in and out, following the curves and zigzags of the little river, he asked himself why it was that this tract of land was called the New Forest, where everything looked so old. “How stupid!” he muttered, the next moment. “I forgot. Of course, it was because W illiam Rufus made it for hunting in. It was new then if it isn’t now. I wonder whether he ever fished for trout,” added the boy, with a laugh. “Good thing for him if he had; people who go fishing don’t often get shot. Ah! there ought to be one here.” The denseness of the briars and wild-rose tangles had forced him to make a détour, and now, on drawing near the river again, he came upon so likely a spot that, practising the greatest caution, he dropped his big ugly fly through what was quite a hole in the overgrowth of verdure, beneath which the water lay still and dark. He was quite right. He felt that there ought to be a fish there waiting for some big fat caterpillar or fly to drop from the leaves above; and his ugly lure had hardly touched the surface of the water before there was a loud smack, a disturbance as if a stone had been thrown in to fall without a splash, and a well-hooked trout was darting here and there at the end of the short line, making frantic struggles to escape. But though Waller Froy had so many yards of twisted silk upon his winch for the convenience of lowering and winding-in his bait, the tangle of bushes and overhanging boughs necessitated fishing with a tight line, with trust in its strength for the rapid hauling out of the prize. It was no question of skill, but the roughest of rough work; and after a few rapid plunges and splashes, the fish was lifted out on to the bank, to begin leaping and making the first steps to entangle the line amongst the twigs which rose everywhere about the boy’s knees. “W hat a beauty!” he cried, as he released his hook, placed his prize in his creel, and proceeded to examine his ruffled fly, getting it ready for tempting another fish. This was tried for in a similar place about a dozen yards farther along the river, but without result; and on stepping onwards the river wound along a dell amongst the great beech trees, with the sunlight flashing from the surface and turning to bronzed silver patch after patch of bracken that spread its broad fronds in glistening sheets five and six feet high. There was no tempting fishing-place here among the broad slopes, but beyond there was more than one favourite spot from which in times past the boy had taken many a speckled beauty, and to reach one of these he was pressing on with arms raised, and creel and rod held high, simply wading, as it were, through the rustling bracken, and every now and then beating back some frond that attacked his face, when, all at once, he stopped short, with his heart beating fast, for there was a quick rush, and something sprang up from almost at his feet and dashed away. The bracken was so thick that all he saw was the quivering fronds, and, with no other thought than to catch a glimpse of the deer he had started from its lair, Waller rapidly gave a turn to the ferrule which made one rod of its two joints, and, using the butt to strike right and left at the ferns which impeded his way, he dashed on for about a dozen yards, and then stopped short. For he had brought his quarry to bay, forcing it to turn upon him fiercely, while the boy’s heart beat faster still from the exertion mingled with his startled surprise. But it was no fat buck with palmated antlers ready to be thrown forward for a fierce attack, for in his rapid glance amongst the bracken Waller found himself face to face with a lad of about his own age— no poaching gipsy, given to preying upon the indwellers of the forest, but a strange-looking, wild- eyed being, sunken of cheek, hollow of eye, and with long unkempt hair hanging about his shoulders. Yet he was no threatening beggar, for, in spite of his garments being muddied, stained, and torn, he was well dressed, but menacing of aspect all the same; for as he stood there, bareheaded and fierce, there was danger in his dark flashing eyes, and a gleam of white, as, like those of some animal, his thin lips were drawn from his glistening teeth. “W ho are you? W hat do you want?” cried Waller, in his excitement; while, as the words left his lips, there was a quick movement upon the stranger’s part, and he felt for and drew something from his breast. The next moment he was presenting a big flintlock pistol at his pursuer’s head. Chapter Two. A Surrender. Waller had a glimpse of the pistol as it was suddenly presented at his head, and then he only saw what seemed to be a round, rusty ring, through which he peered at nothing, but in full expectation of seeing a puff of smoke and hearing a report, while in the quick flash of thought that darted through his brain, the question he asked himself was, “Will it kill me?” But he did not stop to think, in this startling, novel position, for he acted simultaneously. As quick as his thought he gave a turn to the lower joint of his rod, separated the two pieces, and delivered a cut with the butt end, which took effect upon the presented weapon, knocking it out of its holder’s hands, and then, tossing the rod aside, he sprang forward and closed, while the stranger, breathing hard, finding himself unarmed, tried to get a grip at his adversary’s throat, failed, and wound his arms well round him instead, following this up by trying to lift Waller from the ground and throw him backward. The next moment the beautiful little miniature tropic forest of ferns was faring badly, being kicked, broken, and trampled down as the two boys, breathing hard and panting with their exertions, swayed here and there, and wherever they planted foot there came up a curious crackling sound, for beneath the huge trees the earth was thickly covered with beechmast. “Brute—savage!” Whop! The dull sound was caused by the wild-looking young stranger coming down flat upon his back. For after a brief struggle, during the first part of which he was furious and strong, all his power seemed to depart at once like a blown-out flame, while Waller, who had grown stronger moment by moment, and hotter with temper as he wrestled here and there, put an end to the struggle as cleverly as any wrestler by heaving up the frantic youth, and falling with him to the earth. For quite a minute they lay motionless, arms interlocked and chest to chest, their breath coming and going with a hoarse, harsh sound, and their eyes glaring as they looked defiance one at the other. Then, as the conquered stranger’s face grew more savage, Waller’s, in his triumph, slowly softened down into a smile, and as he recovered his breath, he said triumphantly: “Done you, in spite of your old pistol! I say, was it loaded?” There was no reply, but the panting of the stranger’s breast seemed to grow louder. “You coward!” he groaned out, at last, in a despairing tone. “Ha, ha!” laughed Waller. “Brute, savage, and now coward! W hy, you were the coward to aim at me with a pistol when I had nothing but a stick. Suppose it had gone off!” “I wish it had,” panted the prostrate boy, with a vicious look. “What! Why, it might have killed me!” cried Waller. “I wish it had,” repeated the boy viciously. “Stuff! You are savage because you are beaten.” “Get off!” cried the stranger; and he made a desperate effort to throw his adversary from his chest, but only for Waller to wrench out his hands plant them upon the other’s breast, and thrust him down helpless and exhausted, while he raised himself up, got well astride, and sat up, laughing in the stranger’s face, as he raised one hand and dragged the strap of the creel over his head and tossed it aside. “Got rid of you,” he muttered. “There, it’s no good,” he cried. “I have you quite tight. If you try to get up again I will give you such a drubbing.” “Oh–oh!” groaned the boy addressed, passionately; and his breast heaved with the despairing, hysterical sobs that struggled for utterance. “Ah, that’s right!” cried Waller. “You had better lie still. I am too strong for a fellow like you.” “Yes,” panted the other; “I’m beaten. It’s all over now.” “Then you give in?” cried Waller, who grew more and more excited in his triumph, while he gazed down at the distorted countenance beneath him, wondering who the lad was and why there was a something un-English in his accent and the turn of his words, though they sounded native all the same. “Yes, I give up,” panted the boy; “and you can be proud of having mastered a poor starving wretch who never did you any harm.” “No, because I stopped you,” cried Waller. “Who are you, and where did you steal that pistol?” “It was my own,” said the other proudly. “But what were you doing with that pistol here?—poaching, I suppose? Lucky for you my fine fellow, that I stopped you. Do you know what would have happened to you if you had killed one of the deer? Ha, ha, ha! Killed one of the deer! Why, you could not have hit a haystack with that thing.” “Deer!” cried the lad. “I did not want to kill the deer.” “Don’t believe you!” cried Waller. The lad’s face flushed, and an indignant flash darted from his eyes. “How dare you doubt my word of honour,” he cried. “Here, let me get up.” “Shan’t! Lie still!” shouted Waller, flinging out his doubled fist and holding it within a few inches of his prisoner’s nose. “Your word of honour, eh? W hy, who do you call yourself, my dirty, ragged Jack, with your honour! Who are you, and where do you come from?” “Yes, you are a coward,” said the lad bitterly, “or you would not insult a gentleman lying weak and helpless at your mercy.” Waller felt a little touched. “Oh, I don’t want to insult you,” he said: “and perhaps I am as much of a gentleman as you are. But look here; who are you?” “You know,” said the lad bitterly. “I give up, I tell you. Be content that you have got the upper hand of me. I won’t struggle against fate; only make me one promise,” he continued, in a bitter, mocking tone. “Well, what is it?” said Waller. “Come and see your prisoner hung, for I suppose your brutal Dutchmen will not have me shot.” “I say,” said Waller, staring more wonderingly than ever at his prisoner, “you are using very fine language. Are you a bit off your head? Who wants to hang or shoot you? What Dutchmen?” “The enemy—the brutal soldiery, of course.” “I say, look here, I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Waller, “and I don’t know who you are, only that you jumped out at me like a highwayman with a pistol. I say, what are you?” “One of the spies, I suppose,” said the boy mockingly. “One of the poor unfortunate wretches you people are hunting through the woods.” “Nonsense!” cried Waller. “You must be fancying all this. There are no soldiers here hunting people. Do you know where you are?” “Yes; in the New Forest.” “That’s right, and in the part my father holds the shooting over. But,” continued Waller, showing his white teeth, “he wouldn’t want to shoot you if he were at home; you are not fat enough. Pooh! Nobody would want to shoot a boy like you.” “Boy! Who do you call a boy?” cried the poor fellow, flushing up again. “Why, you, of course. You are no older than I am, and I am a boy.” “Well, never mind that. You have made me a prisoner. What are you going to do next?” “Well, I think I am going to pick up that pistol, wherever it lies.” “Bah!” cried the prisoner. “I only did it to scare you off. It isn’t loaded.” “Oh!” said Waller. “Well, that’s one to you. I couldn’t tell.” “What are you going to do with me now?” said the lad haughtily. “Chain me?” “Chain you!” said Waller, laughing, “why, you are not a dog. I am not going to do anything with you. I don’t want you.” “No; but you want the blood-money, I suppose.” “There you go again,” cried Waller pettishly. “Chains and blood! I say, do you know what you are talking about? Blood-money?” “Yes; the reward for taking me.” “Reward! For taking you?” “Yes, where are your bloodhounds?” “Well, you are a rum chap,” said Waller, laughing. “You talk like a fellow in a romance. We have no bloodhounds. We have a pointer, a water-spaniel, and a retriever. Why, what sort of an idea have you got in your head about bloodhounds hunting you?” “I—I meant the soldiers,” said the poor fellow faintly: and his eyes began to close. “Let me sit up, please. I think I’m dying.” Chapter Three. On Parole. The words sounded so real, and there was such a deathly aspect in the pallor and the cold perspiration that started upon the prostrate lad’s ghastly-looking face, that Waller was convinced at once, and quickly rising from where he sat he bent over and raised the lad’s head a little, but only to lay it down again as the poor fellow fell back quite insensible. But the attack passed off as quickly as it had come, and, relieved by the removal of the heavy pressure upon his chest, he began to breathe more freely, his eyes opened slowly in a wild stare of wonder as if he could not comprehend where he was, and then, as his senses fully returned, a faint smile dawned upon his thin lips. “Don’t laugh at me,” he said. “It was like a great girl. I must have fainted dead away.” “Yes, you did, and no mistake,” said Waller. “Come down to the stream and have a drink of water.—If I let you get up you won’t try to escape?” “No,” said the lad bitterly, as he raised one hand, and let it fall again heavily amongst the bracken. “I am as weak as a child.” “Yes,” said Waller, “you are. Now, look here; you remember what you said about the honour of a gentleman?” The lad bowed his head slightly. “You are a gentleman?” “Yes.” “Then give me your word that you won’t try to escape.” “I will not try to escape. I could not if I wished. I tell you it is all over now, I am taken at last.” “I say,” cried Waller, gazing at the poor fellow anxiously, “why are you here? W hat have you done?” And then slowly, and in almost a whisper, as he glanced sharply round for the pistol, “You haven’t killed anybody, have you?” “Killed! No! W hat have I done? Nothing that should disgrace a gentleman. Nothing but fight for the cause of my lawful king.” Waller looked at the lad curiously, for his words and the wildness of his looks again brought up the idea that he was a little off his head. “But I say,” he said, “if you were fighting, as you call it, for your lawful king, why should the soldiers be after you?” “Because I am an enemy—a follower of the Stuarts.” “Oh,” said Waller, in a puzzled tone, as the lad slowly and painfully rose and then snatched at something to save himself, for he reeled. “Here, I say, you are weak,” cried Waller, saving him from falling, “lean on me. The stream is just over there,” and he led his feeble adversary down the slope to the nearest opening where he could lie down and reach over the bank to drink from the clear water in the most ancient and natural way—that is, by lowering his lips till they touched the surface. The lad drank deeply, and then rose to a sitting position, making no effort to stand. “Ah,” he said faintly, “I feel better now. There,” he went on, “I suppose you didn’t know the soldiers were here?” Waller shook his head, content to listen. “They are; and you know all about the trouble—about the Stuarts making another stand for their rights?” “Oh, not much,” said Waller. “I have read, of course, about the Old Pretender and the Young Pretender.” “Pretenders!” said the lad bitterly. “Those who fought for their rights as heirs to the British Crown. They are at rest, but an heir still lives, and it is his fortunes we follow.” “Oh,” said Waller thoughtfully. “Yes, I have heard of him—in France,” and he looked more curiously in the other’s eyes as he asked his next question, thinking the while of the slight accent in the lad’s speech. “But you have not come from there?” “Yes,” said the lad quietly, and with a bitter tone of sadness in his words; “we crossed over from Cherbourg—oh, it must be a month ago.” “We?” said Waller inquiringly. “Yes; I came with my father and four other gentlemen to Lymington.” “And are they here in the forest?” The lad looked at him wonderingly. “No,” he said; “they were all hunted down like wild beasts—treated as spies.” “And where are they now?” said Waller eagerly. “W ho knows?” replied the lad sadly. “Lingering in prison, if they have not already been shot. Quick! Tell me,” he continued, catching Waller by the arm. “My father! Have you heard anything about him?” “I? No,” said Waller. “Oh, surely not shot! But in this quiet country place at the Manor we hear so little of what is going on. I can’t help being so ignorant about all these things.” “You are all the happier, perhaps,” said the lad sadly. “Oh, I don’t know,” said Waller. “I am afraid I don’t know much about what’s going on. I am fond of being out here in the woods. It is holiday-time now my father’s out. But I say,” he continued, with a frank laugh, “isn’t it rather funny that you and I should be talking together like this, after—you know —such a little while ago?” “Yes, I suppose so; but I thought you were one of the enemy coming to take me.” “Yes,” said Waller; “and I don’t know what I thought about you when I was looking down the barrel of that pistol.” “I—I beg your pardon,” faltered the lad. “I was half-mad.” “Quite mad, I think,” said Waller to himself. Then aloud, “But, I say, why were you here?” “I was hiding; trying to get down to the coast and make my way back to France. The soldiers have been hunting me for days, but I have escaped so far.” “To get back to France?” said Waller. “But are you not English?” “Yes, of course. Don’t I speak like an Englishman?” “Well, there is a little something queer about it,” said Waller—“a sort of accent.” “I said English,” continued the other, “but my family, the Boynes, are of Irish descent, and staunch followers of the Stuarts.” “Yes; but that’s all over now, you know,” said Waller. “Don’t you think you had better give all that up and go back?” “I was trying to go back,” said the lad despairingly. “Or stop here.” “You talk like a follower of the Pretender,” said the lad bitterly. “That I don’t!” cried Waller indignantly. “My father is a magistrate, and a staunch supporter of King George. But there, I didn’t mean to talk like that,” he cried, as he noted the change that came over his companion’s face. “Here, I say, never mind about politics. You look—well, very ill. Hadn’t you better go home?” “Go home! How? Separated from my friends, who perhaps by now are dead!” The words came with a sob, “Go! How? Hunted from place to place like a wolf!” He tried to rise, but sank back. “Ill? Yes,” he groaned; “deadly faint. You don’t know what I have suffered. I am starving.” “How long have you been here?” said Waller, whose sympathies were growing more and more strong in favour of his prisoner. “I don’t know. Days.” “But why were you starving?” said Waller half-indignantly. “Why should I not be?” said the boy bitterly. “Alone in these wilds.” “Well,” cried Waller. “I shouldn’t have starved if I had been like you. I should have liked it, and had rather a jolly time,” and he gazed hard at the delicate-looking lad, whose very aspect, in spite of his disorder, suggested that he had led a gentle life, possibly mingling with the followers of the Court. The gaze was returned—a gaze full of wonderment. “What would you have done?” said the stranger. “Eaten the bitter acorns and the leaves?” “No,” cried Waller, laughing, “I should just think not! W hy, I should have done as Bunny Wrigg would —scraped myself out a good hole in the side of one of the sandpits, half-filled it with dry bracken for my bed, made a corner for my fire somewhere outside, and then had a good go in at the rabbits and the fish; and there are plenty of pig-nuts and truffles, if you know how to hunt for them. There are several places where you can get mushrooms out in the open part among the furze where the grass grows short; and then there’s that kind that grows on the oak-trees. You can trap birds, too, or knock over ducks that come down the stream if you are lucky. I have several times got one with a bow and arrow. Oh, there are lots of ways to keep from starving out in the woods.” “Ah,” said the lad feebly, “you are a country boy. I come from French cities, and know nothing of these things.” “Oh!” said Waller thoughtfully. “What have you had to eat this morning?” The boy laughed sadly. “I have picked some leaves,” he said. “Picked some leaves!” cried Waller contemptuously. “W hy didn’t you hunt for some of the hens’ eggs? There are lots about here, half-wild, that have strayed away from the farms and taken to the woods. Of course a raw egg is not so good as one nicely cooked, but it would keep a fellow from looking as bad as you do. Here, I say, I am sorry that I knocked you about so. I didn’t know that you were so bad as this.” “It doesn’t matter now,” was the reply. “You had better give me up to the soldiers at once. I suppose they will give me something to eat. My pride’s all gone now, and I only want to get it over and bring it to an end. It’s very contemptible, I know, but it is very horrible, all the same.” “What is?” said Waller quickly. “To feel that you are starving to death.” “There, now you are talking nonsense,” said Waller warmly. “W hy, of course it is. W ho’s going to starve to death? Here, I suppose I oughtn’t to help you?” “No; I am an enemy. Give me up to the soldiers as quickly as you can.” “Bother the soldiers!” cried Waller hotly. “Let them do their work themselves. I don’t know anything about enemies. You are half-starved and ill, and if you stop till I come back I’ll run off and get you something to eat. I could take you home with me at once, but if I did the servants would see you, and begin to talk, and then it might get to the ears of the soldiers, if there are any about. Don’t run away till I come back with them,” continued Waller, with a mocking laugh. “You don’t want any more water, do you?” The lad shook his head. “Then creep in there under those ferns. Nobody could see you even if he came by, and Bunny Wrigg is the only one likely to be about here. Clever as he is, I don’t suppose he would spy you out. W hy, I shouldn’t have seen you if you hadn’t started up as you did. That’s right. I shan’t be long.” Waller snatched up the two joints of his rod, and the creel which he had thrown down, and started off at a smart trot in and out amongst the great beeches, not traversing the way by which he had come, but striking a bee-line for home. Chapter Four. A Raid on the Larder. Brackendene was the very model of an Elizabethan country house, with clusters of twisted chimneys, and ivy clinging to the red bricks everywhere that it could find a hold. There was an attractive porch opening out upon the well-kept pleasaunce, but, instead of going straight to it, Waller looked sharply to right and left, saw nobody and heard nothing but a dull, distant thump, thump, and the barking of a dog from somewhere at the back. The next minute he was through one of the dining-room casements, and crossed into the hall, where he stood listening for a moment or two to the thump, thump, which now sounded nearer. “That’s Martha at her churn,” he muttered. “How stupid it seems! Anyone would think I was a thief.” He felt like one as he crossed the hall, opened a big oak door cautiously, and made his way into the great red-brick-floored kitchen, where from an opening to his left the thumping of the churn came louder still, accompanied by a dull humming sound, something like the buzz of a musical bee, but which was intended by the utterer to represent a tune. Waller nodded his head with satisfaction, and went off to his right out of the kitchen into a cool stone passage, and then through a door into a stone-floored larder, whose wire-covered, ivy-shaded windows gave upon the north. But Waller Froy had no thought for the situation of the larder. His attention was taken up by about three-quarters of a raised pork-pie, which he took off the dish, and, after a moment’s hesitation, drew his big trout out of the creel and dabbed it in where the pie had stood, making the latter take the fish’s place in the creel. “Make it taste a bit,” muttered the boy. “Can’t stop to find a cloth, and he will be too hungry to notice. Now for some bread.” The larder was not his place, but the boy was quite at home there, due to surreptitious visits connected with fishing excursions and provisions for lunch. Taking the great brown lid off a bread-pan, he placed it on the floor and pounced upon a loaf, which he broke in two and crammed into his fishing-creel. He then rose up and looked round, till his eyes lighted upon a big jug full of creamy-looking milk, which he annexed at once, and then made for the door, passed through the kitchen, where the thumping and musical buzz still went on, made his way back to the dining-room, and through the window again out into the garden, and then passed breathlessly into the dense forest once again, panting slightly from his exertions. “I have as good a right to the things as anybody,” he muttered, to quiet his uneasy conscience, “and if Martha asks me if I took the pie I shall say yes, of course. I am not going to enter into explanations. Let her think I was hungry and wanted some lunch; and if she does think it’s my doing —oh!” he ejaculated, “she will know it was when she finds the fish; and there—if I didn’t leave the great cover of the pan on the floor! Bother!” he ejaculated. “I am master when father’s out, and I shall do as I like. W ish I could,” he grumbled, as he hurried along, not so fast as he wished, for his way was rough and tangled, and the jug of milk was very full, besides being an awkward thing to carry steadily where brambles continually crossed the path and the thorny strands of the dog-rose hung down from on high as if fishing for everyone who passed. “I should like to think about what to do,” mused Waller to himself, “but it only makes one so uncomfortable. This fellow must be one of the King’s enemies, and if I am helping the King’s enemies, shan’t I be committing high treason? Oh, bother!” he cried aloud. “I am going to give a poor fellow who is starving something to eat, and, enemy or no, I am sure if King George saw him starving he’d do the same. There, I won’t think about it any more.” He reached the spot where he had left his new acquaintance, in a state of repentance because he had not lowered the milk by taking a good draught, the consequence being that he had spilt a good deal. All was perfectly still, and he began to wade through the ferns, and then stopped to look straight before him, and then sharply to right and left. “W hy, he isn’t a gentleman, after all,” muttered the boy. “He’s gone. It was just in there that I told him to crawl, and—no, it was farther on, by that next beech—no—oh, I say, how much alike all these places are! I believe I must have passed it.” He stood still and whistled. There was no reply. Then he whistled again, and, after glancing about him, hazarded a call. “Hi! Hullo! Where are you?—It’s all right; no soldiers near.” There was a faint rustling then amongst the bracken, and the stranger’s head was slowly raised some thirty yards away. Waller hurried to him. “What made you change your place?” he said, as he came up. “Change my place? I have not moved.” “Never mind. There, sit down now. Here’s something to take off the hunger. There, if I didn’t forget a knife! Never mind; mine will do. It’s quite clean. That’s right. Nobody’s likely to come by here. Take a good drink of this first.” He placed the jug in the lad’s hand as he seated himself between the great buttress-like roots of a huge beech: and after that long, deep drink there was an interval of time during which Waller watched, with a feeling of wonder, the ravenous manner in which his new friend—or enemy—partook of food. “I am ashamed,” he muttered; “I am ashamed. But eat some, too.” “Oh, no; go on,” said Waller. “I can’t eat another mouthful unless you join.” “Oh, very well; there is plenty,” said Waller, “and seeing you eat has made me hungry, too.” No more words were spoken for a time, and at last, with the hunger of both pretty well assuaged, Waller began to note the humour of the position, and in a half-bantering way exclaimed: “Here, I say, you ought to leave a snack for the soldiers when they come.” The lad’s hand dropped, and he turned, with a wild look, to fix his eyes on Waller’s. “Ah,” he said, the next moment, with his face softening, “you are laughing at me.” “Well, suppose I am. It’s because I am pleased to see you better now.” “Better! Yes. I think you have saved my life,” said the lad softly. “I say, I wish we could be friends— but no; impossible. You could not be, with one like me.” “I don’t see why not,” said Waller. “We are good enough friends now. There, I am sorry I knocked you about so much and treated you as I did. I didn’t know you were so weak and hungry. W ill you shake hands?” “W ill I shake hands?” cried the lad, with all the effusion of a young Frenchman, and catching the one which Waller stretched out, he held it tightly for a few moments between his own, holding it until Waller drew it away. “There,” he said, “I must be going back now. There isn’t much left, but I must have the empty basket. You had better lie down here and have a good rest, and I will come back to you in the evening and see if I can’t think out some way of helping you to get down to Lymington.” “To Lymington? Yes!” cried the boy eagerly; for now that he was somewhat refreshed the light seemed to come back into his eyes, and a certain eagerness into his whole aspect. “But, look here,” he said, “a little while ago I thought I had nothing to do but lie down and die; now you have made me feel as if I want to live. Could you—can you find out whether there are any soldiers near?” “I don’t know, but I’ll try,” said Waller. “But I say, talk about soldiers—we never picked up that pistol, and I don’t believe we could find it now.” “Here it is,” said the lad, pointing to his breast. “I crawled about till I found it after you had gone.” “Then you had better give it to me to put away. Pistols are nasty things.” Waller held out his hand, but the lad shrank back, with a suspicious look. “Oh, very well,” said Waller, rising; “don’t trust me unless you like.” “I do trust you,” cried the lad eagerly; and, snatching out the pistol, he pressed it into the other’s hand. “There, they will be wondering what has become of me,” cried Waller. “I will come back and see you in the evening, and by then I shall have thought of somewhere for you to hide to-night. Good-bye.” Waller hurried off, thinking deeply to himself, and making the best of his way for about a hundred yards. “I wish I hadn’t brought away his pistol,” he said. “He will be thinking again that I am going to betray him. Here, I shall take it back.” He made his way as fast as he could to where he had left his new friend, expecting to see him raise his head as he drew dear; but he looked in vain, for when he reached the spot, and parted the tall bracken, he was unable to find him for a few minutes, and when he did, the figure was recumbent, utterly exhausted, and sleeping hard, while he did not even move as Waller bent over him and carefully thrust the pistol into his breast. Chapter Five. Duty or Mercy. “Oh, here you are, Master Waller!” said Bella, as he marched into the house. “Where have you been?” “Fishing,” said Waller abruptly. “But why didn’t you come back to your dinner?” “Because I have been out in the forest, and—fishing, I tell you. Why?” “Because Martha has been in such a way. There was your dinner kept three hours, till it was quite spoiled, and then we said it was no use to keep it any longer; and Martha is in a way.” “W hat about?” said Waller absently, for his thoughts were still in the forest along with the young stranger. “Because she says she won’t put up with it, and if you are to go in and out of the pantry helping yourself to what you please, she will complain to master as soon as he comes back.” “Oh, very well, Bella,” giving the fresh-looking servant girl a nod. “But aren’t you hungry?” “No.” “Well, you are a boy! You will want something to eat with your tea, won’t you?” “Yes, I suppose so. But I say, Bella, have you heard anything about there being soldiers in the forest?” “Oh, yes,” said the girl eagerly. “You haven’t seen any of them, have you?” “I? No,” said Waller quickly. “What have you heard?” “Oh, I only heard what Tony Gusset said to Martha when he came in to talk to her last night.” “What!” cried Waller. “Was that old stupid here last night?” “Yes; but he wasn’t here long. Martha won’t let him stay. She soon bundles him off again. She told me that he wouldn’t be so fond of his sister if she wasn’t the cook and couldn’t ask him to have something to eat when he came. She does hate to see him here.” “But what did he tell her?” “Oh, I don’t know,” said the girl pettishly. “Yes, you do, Bella. Tell me.” “Well, will you promise to be a good boy and come back to your meals at proper times, and not keep everything waiting about?” “Oh, yes, of course. Now what was it?” “Oh, he told her that the French had landed on the coast to turn the King off the throne and put a new foreign one on it, and that the soldiers had met them and beaten them, all but a few who were spies, and had hidden themselves in the forest; but they were catching them all till there were hardly any left, and they were looking for them. And Tony Gusset said there was a reward of a hundred pounds offered for every one that was caught, and he meant to catch one and make himself rich.” “He had better mind his mending shoes and hammering his old lapstone,” cried Waller, with an unwonted show of anger. “What’s it got to do with him?” “There, now, if that isn’t funny!” said the girl, clapping her hands. “W hy, that’s just what Martha said to him, and he quite quarrelled with her. He said it was his duty as the village constable to apprehend all vagabonds, and that if his sister did not know how to pay him more respect he should not stoop to come and speak to her again.” “Well done, cook!” cried Waller, laughing. “What then?” “W hy, she up and told him that he was only a lazy vagabond himself, for he never did hardly any work, and that since he had been made constable the place had not been big enough to hold him. But there, I can’t stop talking here; I have got to get your tea. W hat am I to say to Martha about your taking that pork-pie?” “Nothing,” said Waller gruffly. “But she meant it for your tea.” “Well, I had it for lunch instead. Now go away and don’t bother.” “Well, I am sure!” cried the girl. “What’s come to you, Master Waller? You’re as cross as two sticks.” “Of course I am, if you stop chattering here instead of getting me my tea.” “But it won’t be tea-time for another hour.” “I tell you it’s always tea-time for anyone who hasn’t had any dinner, so go and get it at once.” Bella went out of the room, and gave the door a regular whisk to make it bang, but repented directly after, and let it strike against her foot, so that it was closed quietly. Waller jumped up from his chair in an unwonted state of excitement, as soon as he was alone, and began to walk hurriedly up and down the room. “Then it’s all true,” he mused. “There are soldiers about, and if they catch that poor fellow they will march him off to prison—and he is so ill after being hunted about. Oh, it’s too bad!” he continued, growing more and more excited. “And there’s no knowing what they would do. W hy, they hung the poor wretch who wasn’t much more than a boy for stealing that sheep; and I believe it was only because he was hungry and out of work. Here, I know I oughtn’t to interfere, but father isn’t at home, and I feel as if I ought to do something. I want to do something. It seems so horrid. Suppose it had been I who went on like that poor fellow did. I don’t think I should ever do such a thing as he has, but what did he say? He came over with his father. Well, suppose I went over to France with my father. Of course, it isn’t likely, but one might have done such a thing, and I daresay they have got a New Forest in France. To be sure they have, and I know its name—Fountainebleau. Only fancy if I were being hunted through that place by soldiers. Ugh! If there was a young fellow there found me—a young fellow just about my age—and did not help me, he’d be a brute.” In his excitement the boy went on marching up and down the quaint, old panelled dining-room, with his fists clenched and his eyes staring, as he recalled the scene in the woods that morning. Just as he was opposite the door it was thrown open quickly by Bella, who entered with the tea-tray, and who stopped short, startled by the boy’s fierce looks, while as he turned sharply round to march to the other end of the room, Bella hurriedly placed the tea-tray upon the table, and then hastened back to go and tell Martha the cook that she believed Master Waller was going mad. Chapter Six. A Good Appetite. “Yes, I’ll mad him,” retorted the cook, “if he comes meddling with my larder when my back’s turned. I have a very great mind not to finish cooking those sausage-meat cakes for his tea—behaving like that when the Squire’s out!” But all the same Martha Gusset, who was a pleasant, portly dame, went back to her fire to continue her hurried cooking for her young master’s evening meal. Meanwhile, without a thought of eating or drinking, Waller was still marching up and down the dining- room making up his mind what he should do; and, this made up, he waited impatiently for the maid’s return to finish her preparations, which were concluded by her bearing in a covered dish which evidently contained something hot and steaming, the vapour which escaped from beneath the cover having a very pleasant, savoury odour. “There, Master Waller,” said the girl good-humouredly. “Now, do make a good tea, there’s a good boy, and you know what cook is; she don’t like to be put out. I know what I should do if I was you.” “What?” said Waller, rather surlily. “Go into the kitchen as soon as you have done tea, and tell her that you never had anything nicer than those cakes; and she will be so pleased that she won’t say another word about the pie.” “Oh, very well,” said Waller, who was making another plan. “That’s a good boy. Between you and me. Master Waller, Martha’s as nice as nice, but she’s just as proud and stuck up about her cooking as her brother is about being constable. Ring when you have done, please.” Waller nodded, and lifted up the dish-cover, which the girl took from his hand, and then, nodding pleasantly, hurried out of the room. The boy’s actions the next minute were rather curious, for he followed to the door, turned the little handle that shot the small bolt into its socket, and then, after a conspirator-like glance at both the windows, he went to the bookcase and took down six or eight books from the lower shelf, to place them on a chair, before he hurried back to the table, caught up a nice hot plate and a fork, and then transferred half a dozen out of the eight nicely browned meat buns from the dish, carried the plate to the opening in the bookshelf, and pushed it as far back as it would go. Returning to the table, he paid his next attentions to a little pile of hot and buttered bread cakes, a kind of food in which Martha excelled. Taking up a couple of these, one in each hand, he was moving once more towards the bookcase, but turned back directly. “Sure to be dusty in there,” he muttered; and, turning back to the table, he deposited the cakes in a plate, which the next minute was standing beside its fellow in the back of the bookcase. The boy’s next act was to replace the books; but there was not room for them and the plates, and the consequence was that they projected about a couple of inches from the edge of the shelf, while when he tried to shut the glass bookcase door, it too, stood a little way out. “Don’t suppose she will see,” he muttered, and, satisfied now with what he had done, he went and unbolted the dining-room door, and, feeling very guilty, took his place at the table, poured out his tea, was very liberal with the sugar and milk, and then helped himself to one of the two sausage cakes left and a slice of hot bread. He had got about half-way through Martha’s appetising cake and had taken three good half-moon bites out of a slice of hot bread, thinking deeply the while, and munching mechanically with his mouth full, but quite unconscious of the flavour of that which he ate, when the door was thrown open and Bella entered, making the boy jump and feel more guilty than ever. “It’s only me, Master Waller. I have just come to see how you are getting on,” continued the girl, as she advanced towards the table, scanning everything that it held, “and whether I can—oh, my!” she burst out, snatching up her apron and holding it to her mouth to try and stifle back an immoderate burst of laughter. The next moment she had rushed out of the room, this time allowing the door to bang behind her, while Waller jumped up, staring hard at the partly closed bookcase door as if to read there the cause of the girl’s quick exit. “She must have been watching at the keyhole,” he muttered to himself, for a guilty conscience needs no accuser, “and she’s gone to tell cook.” But it was something quite different that Bella was telling her fellow-servant, after throwing herself down in one of t...