Part 11

I paused at yellow. That might do. It is a rich colour; there is something sumptuous and royal about it. Summer was approaching. I decided finally upon a jacket of nankeen.

Without delay, I set to work on my school garments. It was a work of destruction, for I wanted to make them appear as disreputable as possible. I slyly enlarged the holes, wrenched off the buttons, and decorated my person lavishly with spots and stains of all kinds. Day by day I watched, with a secret joy, the rapid progress of this work of dilapidation.

In what I judged to be an opportune moment, I timidly expressed my desire.

I had to do more--much more than that--before I could obtain my will. I begged, stormed, grumbled, sulked. I became almost ill with hope deferred. At length, for the sake of peace, my parents granted my eccentric wish.

It was a proud moment for me when, for the first time, I arrayed myself in that resplendent nankeen jacket, won at the cost of so many struggles and persevering efforts. Standing before the mirror, I surveyed myself admiringly for a full hour. I was grand! superb!

"Ah! my Lord _Met-a-Mort_! You will find yourself ousted at last! My shining jacket will soon snatch from you the _prestige_ acquired by your stupid, brute force. Georgette, astonished, fascinated, dazzled, and delighted, will run towards me, for I shall now be the handsomest boy in the school. _Met-a-Mort_ will weep for chagrin, as I have so often wept for jealousy and mortification."

Such were my complacent reflections as, with the stride of a conqueror, I entered the precincts of our school.

Alas for my rose-coloured anticipations! I was greeted with a broadside of laughter. Even our gentle mistress, Ermance Dulorre, could not repress a smile, and, above all other voices, I heard that of Georgette, who cried mirthfully:--

"Oh! look at him! Look at him! He is a canary-bird!"

The word was caught up instantly. All the scholars shouted in chorus: "He is a canary! A canary!"

Words fail me to describe my bitter disappointment, my burning shame and chagrin. I saw my folly now. But it was too late--the awful deed was done! Worse than all, in order to obtain this now odious jacket, I had spoiled all my other jackets, and had nothing else to wear! When, on the evening of that most miserable day, I told my troubles to my father and mother, they were merely amused, and said to me:--

"It is entirely your own fault. You insisted upon having the jacket, and now you must put up with it!"

Thus was I condemned to the perpetual wearing of my yellow jacket, which entailed upon me no end of petty miseries.

Every day, at school, I was jeered at and insulted. Even the babies of three years--sweet, blue-eyed, golden-haired cherubs--pointed at me with their tiny fingers, and lisped, "Canary! Canary!"

How was I to extricate myself from this extremely unpleasant situation? One upper garment still remained to me--an old, thick, heavy, winter mantle. The idea occurred to me that I might utilize this to conceal my too gorgeous plumage. We were now in the month of June, and the weather was tropical. No matter! In class and playground, I appeared buttoned up in my big cloak, bathed in perspiration, but happy in having hidden my shame.

To Mademoiselle Ermance's expression of surprise, I answered that I had a cold. I did not deviate widely from the truth. Two days later, thanks to this over-heating, I had a very real one.

The device did not serve me long. My parents found me out, and promptly deprived me of my protecting shell, thus obliging me to attend school again in the costume of a canary. The former annoyances re-commenced.

Vacation time was at hand, and Georgette, of whom I was more enamoured than ever, remained still cold and indifferent.

One day we were playing the game of brigands and gendarmes. I was one of the gendarmes, who were invariably beaten.

_Met-a-Mort_ had nominated himself captain of the brigands, and chose Georgette for his _vivandiere_.

Presently, for a few minutes there was a suspension of hostilities. Brigands and gendarmes fraternized, as they quenched their thirst, and expatiated upon the joys of the fray. Suddenly Georgette, with her accustomed vivacity, broke in upon our little group. She bore in her hands a glass ink-bottle.

"See!" said her sweet voice. "Whoever will drink this ink shall, by-and-by, be my little husband!"

_Met-a-Mort_ and the rest exploded with laughter.

When we resumed our game, I discovered that I had lost all interest in it. Georgette's words haunted me.

Cries of joy arose from our camp. The enemy's _vivandiere_ had been captured. I was told off to guard the prisoner; you may guess whether I was happy!

Georgette tried bribery.

"Oh! let me go! let me go! and I will give you ten pens."

Much I cared for her pens!

"Did you mean what you said just now, mademoiselle?" I timidly inquired.

"What?"

"That whoever would drink the ink should be your little husband?"

"Yes, stupid! But let me go--"

"Then it is true?"

"Of course it is. Let me go!"

She was growing impatient. For a moment I hesitated; then I said:--

"Run away quickly! nobody can see us."

She did not need telling twice. As swiftly as her feet could carry her, she ran off to the enemy's camp.

I was a double-dyed traitor. After conniving at my captive's escape I deserted.

"Can it indeed be true?" I pondered. "Have I only to drain that phial of ink in order to become Georgette's husband some day? She said so, and she must know!"

I went to look for the ink-bottle, which the child had carried back into the schoolroom. There I stood contemplating the black, uninviting-looking liquid.

Not for a single moment did I dream of swallowing the loathsome stuff in the girl's presence. It did not occur to me that she ought to be a witness of my sacrifice, or that she had demanded it as a proof of love. My idea was rather that the beverage was a sort of love-philtre, such as I had read of in my book of fairy tales. She had said: "Whoever will drink the ink shall be my husband."

Faugh! the bottle was full to overflowing. How nasty it looked! Never mind! So much the better! I should have liked it to have been nastier still.

I closed my eyes, and raised the bottle to my lips.

"What are you about, you dirty little thing?" exclaimed a voice from behind me, at the same instant that I received a smart blow upon my uplifted arm.

Covered with confusion, I turned, and beheld Mademoiselle Ermance, who had surprised me in my singular occupation.

"What is the meaning of this nonsense?" said she, with unwonted severity.

I had no time to explain. Just at that moment my schoolfellows came trooping in. Georgette seeing me standing there, ink-stained and disgraced, and already--the coquette!--forgetful of her promise, exclaimed, with a face of disgust:--

"Oh, the dirty boy! The nasty, dirty boy!"

Everything, however, has its bright side. Mademoiselle Ermance's tap and my own start of surprise, had jerked the ink-bottle from my grasp; my yellow jacket was literally flooded! I was rid of it at last!

It was to Georgette that I owed this happy deliverance. I thank her for it to-day! What has become, I wonder, of that lovely child? Does she ever think now of those old times? How often have I dreamed of her! I have forgiven her for the tears which she caused me to shed. Her charming face dwells always in my mind as a pure ray from the bygone light of youth. I am not her husband, and probably never shall be. I am resigned to my fate, which I richly deserve, because--

_I did not drink the ink!_

_The Queer Side of Things._

OLD JOE'S PICNIC

It was all old Joe Wilkings's notion, every ounce of it: you see, there never was anybody anywhere to compare with old Joe for "go." He _was_ goey, was old Joe--but I'll tell you.

Old Joe had been laid up with rheumatism and gout--ah! and asthma, that's more--for a matter of eleven weeks; pretty bad he'd been too, and everybody had said he would never pull through, being, you see, ninety-seven, and a wooden leg in, that he'd lost in the Crimean War; at least, not the wooden one, for he'd found that in the loft over the stable years ago and taken to it.

Well, old Joe was sunning himself in his wicker chair in the front garden, propped up with pillows and things; and he'd just finished his beef-tea, when he begins to chuckle so, in an internal kind of manner, that the last drop going down got startled and separated from the others on ahead, and tried to turn back, and got in a panic, so that it nearly choked old Joe, who got purple in the face, and had to be thumped.

He'd no sooner got right than he began to chuckle again, but luckily that last drop had got further down now, and wedged in among its comrades, so that it only heard the chuckles faintly, and kept quiet this time.

"Whatever _is_ the matter, grandfather?" said Kate.

"Matter?" said old Joe. "Nothing's the matter. You don't understand the ways of young 'uns, nor their methods neither. When youth chuckles, it's a sign of good spirits and healthy. If you _must_ know, I was thinking we might have a picnic--just like we used to have sixty years back--"

"Ah! that _would_ be nice," said Kate.

"Not _you_," said old Joe. "No young 'uns in it--they're too slow. No; I and Georgie Worble, and his aunt Susan, and her mother, and--"

"Why," said Kate, "Mr. Worble hasn't walked from one room to another without assistance for--"

"I know--seven years," said old Joe, "and he's seventy-six; and his aunt Susan's seventy-one; and his aunt Susan's mother's ninety-two, and bedridden--but I tell you what: it's all fudge and the undue influence of imagination--that's the whole story. Georgie W. can get up if he likes; and his aunt Susan's bronchitis and paralytic strokes are all fudge; and as to her mother being bedridden--pooh! we'll just see; and if she doesn't dance just as well as me----"

"Dance!"

"Ah--we'll have a dance, of course--we _used_ to have a dance always; finished up with a dance. I've been thinking--and I don't mind telling you--that this imagination and fudge is making us all old before our time; and I'm not going to stand any more of it, and that's all about it."

With that old Joe Wilkings waved his stick and jumped up--that's what he did; and he ninety-seven years and nine weeks! Talk about greyness!

Kate stared, and all the neighbours stared, and Mrs. Widdlcombe's pug next door stared so that its eyes nearly fell out, as old Joe trotted quickly out of the garden and down the street, and trotted up Mr. Worble's steps, and tapped at the door like a boy that means to run away; and when they opened the door, up he ran to old Worble's room, and toddled in.

And now comes in old Joe Wilkings's other remarkable quality--his influence over others. It was all the outcome of his wonderful determination--the influence of mind over matter. He could bamboozle anyone, could Joe--it was for all the world like magic.

Old Worble was drooping over the fire in his big chair, into which he had been put hours before.

What did old Joe do but go right up and slap him on the back in that hearty way that old Worble went as near screaming as his weak state would let him!

"Get up, Georgie Worble," shouted old Joe," and come round with me to Sam Waggs to arrange about that picnic!"

Old Worble crooned and doddered, and feebly repeated "Picnic?"

"Ah, picnic, young 'un; and you've just hit it. But GET UP, I say!"

And, if you'll believe it, the third time old Joe Wilkings shouted "Get up" in that voice of his, a-staring straight at Worble all the time, old Worble _did_ slowly get up and stood, doddering, but without support.

"Don't you stand a-doddering at me like that as if you were a decrepit old idiot instead of a boy; but just reach down your hat and bustle along," said old Joe; and if Worble, after looking feebly and hopelessly up at the hat on the high peg--the hat he had not worn for years--didn't hop up on a wooden chair and fetch it down, and dash it on his head, and then toddle downstairs and into the street arm-in-arm with old Joe!

If people had stared when old Joe came out of his garden, what did they do _now_ when he and old Worble went dancing down the street arm-in-arm, both of 'em chuckling like mad and chattering like magpies?

At the corner they met old Peter Scroutts in a bath-chair. Peter had a paralyzed leg, and was so feeble that he could hardly wink his eye, and so deaf that it was all he could do to hear with an ear-trumpet as big as the cornucopia belonging to the wooden young lady over the provision stores.

"Just you step out and walk!" roared old Joe in the ear-trumpet. And the queer thing is that old Peter did begin to get out; and not only began, but went on; and stood on the pavement; and then took Joe's arm; and the three went careering down the street together!

The whole place came out to stare open-mouthed at those three old boys bouncing down the street together.

Half-way down old Joe Wilkings stopped with a jerk, and turned on old Peter.

"What, in the name of goodness, _do_ you want with that trumpet machine?" he roared. "A young 'un like you! Lookee here--let's get rid of it." And Joe snatched the ear-trumpet out of his hand, and jerked it over a shed into the field behind. It was a good long jerk; and most of the young men of the place would have been proud to do it.

"Can hear just as well as I can; that's what _you_ can do! Can't he, young George?"

Old Peter looked dazed; but old Joe stood nodding at him so decisively that old George took it up and nodded decisively too; and they were so convincing about the matter that old Peter began to believe he _could_ hear; and from that moment, if you'll believe me, he _did_ hear quite comfortably!

Then the inhabitants collected in little knots, and talked the matter over; and decided that there must be something wrong, in the witchcraft line; and shook their heads doubtfully; but those three old boys trotted into the "Bun and Bottle" and ordered--ah! and drank off--a pint of beer apiece; a thing they had not done those ten years. Drank it off at a draught, if you'll believe me.

Well, then they went the round and beat up all the old folks of that place to bid them to the picnic. Those old people stared, and shook their heads, and scoffed; but old Joe Wilkings hadn't talked to them for five minutes before they were up on their feet and trotting about as if they were acrobats, though perhaps it's hard to believe.

"We'll have a row on the river," said old Joe; "and then we'll picnic on the bank, and see who can climb trees best; and then we'll have a room at an hotel, and finish up with a dance, and just show 'em how it ought to be done."

I tell you he had to busy himself, had old Joe, to keep them up to it; for as soon as he had been away from any one of them a few hours that one would begin to collapse again, and think he or she was as weak as ever; but Joe wouldn't allow this; all day long he was here and there among them applying the spur, bullying them into getting up and dancing, and roaring with indignation at the idea of their being old. He made them practise their steps, and while those who possessed crutches were doing it, he sneaked off with the crutches and concealed them. He wouldn't even allow them sticks, wouldn't old Joe--not he.

Old Worble's aunt Susan got quite young and skittish; and as for old Worble's aunt Susan's mother, who was bedridden, up she had to get on old Joe Wilkings's third visit, and had to toddle across the room. He drilled her--kept on at it; he was there twice a day; and every time she had to get out of bed and toddle across the room. Had to live in her dressing-gown, and could get no peace for the life of her; but, bless you, in ten days she had begun to believe that she had never been bedridden at all, and that it was all fancy! And all in consequence of that strange influence of old Joe Wilkings; that awful determination of his.

Then there were the provisions to prepare for that picnic; and old Joe would insist upon the old folks preparing them. He wouldn't have any young people in it--not he. He was here, there, and everywhere, compelling them to superintend the cooking of the joints and pies--for he was not going to have any beef-tea or arrow-root or pap at the picnic, but all good solid food for robust people.

Well, the eventful day came; and there were the old folks collected at the railway station with their hampers and bags. The whole population of younger folks had turned out to see them off; but not a single one of them was to go, for old Joe wouldn't have anyone under the age of sixty-five, as he said children were always a trouble at an outing. And, what's more, his word seemed to be law, and that was the long and the short of it.

The young people shook their heads forebodingly, and said they didn't know what on earth would come of it all, that they didn't; and they only hoped uncle and aunt and grandfather would come back all right!

But the train came in, and in hopped the old parties, and away they went.

Old Joe Wilkings had his work cut out now, with a vengeance and all: for as soon as they had got away from the younger folks who usually took care of them, they began to think it was all over with them and to give way; but Joe Wilkings roared and shouted at them, and chuckled and threatened until he had brought them all round again. There wasn't to be a single bath-chair, or crutch, or even a stick.

Then they got out at the station they had settled on; and old Joe insisted on their carrying the hampers among them down to the river: and, what's more, he chose a way across the fields where there were a lot of stiles to get over; and he made 'em do it, if you'll credit it. Old George Worble's aunt, Susan's mother, pretended she couldn't, and sat down and wept: but Joe Wilkings had her on her feet again in a twinkling; and over she had to go somehow.

Then old Peter Scroutts began to give way and grizzle for his bath-chair and ear-trumpet, but when old Joe threatened to fight him if he went on about that nonsense, why, he just had to behave himself.

Our doctor had made up his mind that something dreadful was bound to come of the whole thing, and sneaked after them by the next train; but when Joe caught him following them, he was so angry and furious about it, that the doctor was afraid he would have an apoplectic fit unless he went away as Joe commanded him to. So he retired; and subsequently dressed himself as a rustic, and smeared his face so that he might not be recognised, and hung about the party, offering to carry things, and so on. But if old Joe Wilkings did not spot him after all; and got in such a rage that the doctor thought it best to retreat while he had a whole skin, and get back safely home.

So you see old Joe was a terrible fellow, and that determined it's awful to think about.

Well, they went on the river, and they rowed little races among themselves; and old Ben Jumper and old Tobias Budd upset their boat, skylarking--both of 'em being just turned eighty--and went in, and were very nearly drowned. However, they were hauled out and made to run about, and taken into a cottage, and rubbed down, and dressed up in borrowed clothes; and with a good jorum of brandy-and-water apiece, why, in half an hour they were as right as trivets, if you'll believe me!

The cold collation was a great success; and then the old boys had a smoke, and were all as jolly as sand-boys. But, suddenly, one of 'em looked round and said, "Why, where's old Joe Wilkings?" And after ten minutes, when old Joe did not turn up, all those old folks began to shake their heads doubtfully and dismally, and the old boys dropped their pipes, and the old ladies began to weep and whinnick.

For old Joe Wilkings, being wild-like with merriment, had gone in pretty heavily for the champagne and stuff, and had got a bit mixed, as you might say, and he had gone off a little way to get some dry wood to make a fire to boil the kettle over, and then he hadn't seemed to be able to recollect which was his way back; and had wandered and wandered off in quite the wrong direction; and at last he had got drowsy and fallen asleep in a dry ditch with his wooden leg on the lower rail of a fence; and then a local policeman who didn't know him had taken charge of him and trotted him off to Winklechurch, which was the nearest village.

And those old people at the picnic got more and more depressed and feeble and helpless; and some of 'em broke down completely, and wept and doddered; for you see the influence of old Joe Wilkings's determination was rapidly giving out. And at last, after the doctor had waited anxiously at the railway station for them, and hour after hour went by without any signs of them, he decided to look them up at any cost; and at eleven that night he found them all sitting there on the bank of the river that depressed and helpless you can't imagine. Not a single one of them all had had the courage to move, and their fright and despair were perfectly fearful. And a nice trouble he had to get them home--had to send for flys, and bath-chairs, and litters, and goodness alone knows what all!

Well, then they had to find old Joe Wilkings, and mighty anxious they were about him; and a nice tramp they had up hill and down dale before they discovered him; and when they did, they found him rolled up in a shawl on the policeman's hearthrug, for, of course, Mr. Podder, the policeman, was not going to lock up the likes of an old boy of his age. Joe Wilkings had recovered a bit now, and he was that pugnacious he wanted to fight Mr. Podder and all those that had come to find him; and what should he do but put his back against Mr. Podder's parlour-wall (smashing the glass of the chromo of "Little Red Riding-Hood" that was hanging up), and invite the lot to "Come on."

However, they quieted him down and got him home at last; and when he'd got home he was that dismal and depressed from the reaction that he sat in his armchair all day and did nothing but grumble and burst into tears, for, you see, he'd overdone it, and it was bound to tell upon him. But after that all his natural pluck and determination got hold of him again, and if he wasn't mad to have that dance that they had been balked of!

Out he went to beat up all the old folks again; but most of 'em were ill in bed--none the better for that picnic, I can tell you, though, luckily, it had been a lovely day and night, as warm as toast, so that they hadn't come to much harm beyond the exhaustion.

The younger people of the houses where he called met him with black looks enough, you may be sure, but old Joe Wilkings wasn't the sort to be daunted by that sort of thing; and bless me if he didn't succeed in getting at most of those old parties again, and even getting some of them out of bed and putting them through their paces as before.

It was really getting serious, so Mr. Sarme, the vicar, and Mr. Weazle, the curate, and Doctor Pillikin (who lived in the house with the brown shutters then, before he moved next door to the stores) went and tried to get him out of the houses and make him keep quiet; but old Joe roared at them that way that they were glad to get away home again in despair.

Ah, he _was_ a plucky one, was old Joe!