Part 14

"Thirsty Travellers' Rest."

"The Travellers' Joy."

These names were suggested, but not cared for extra.

Then some one said--I think it was Oswald:

"Why not 'The House Beautiful'?"

"It can't be a house, it must be in the road. It'll only be a stall."

"The 'Stall Beautiful' is simply silly," Oswald said.

"The 'Bar Beautiful' then," said Dicky, who knows what the "Rose and Crown" bar is like inside, which of course is hidden from girls.

"Oh, wait a minute," cried the Dentist, snapping his fingers like he always does when he is trying to remember things. "I thought of something, only Daisy tickled me and it's gone--I know--let's call it the Benevolent Bar!"

It was exactly right, and told the whole truth in two words. "Benevolent" showed it was free, and "Bar" showed what was free--_e.g._, things to drink. The "Benevolent Bar" it was.

We went home at once to prepare for the morrow, for of course we meant to do it the very next day. Procrastination is, you know, what--and delays are dangerous. If we had waited long we might have happened to spend our money on something else.

The utmost secrecy had to be observed, because Mrs. Pettigrew hates tramps. Most people do who keep fowls. Albert's uncle was in London till the next evening, so we could not consult him, but we know he is always chock full of intelligent sympathy with the poor and needy.

Acting with the deepest disguise, we made an awning to cover the Benevolent Bar keepers from the searching rays of the monarch of the skies. We found some old striped sun-blinds in the attic, and the girls sewed them together. They were not very big when they were done, so we added the girls' striped petticoats. I am sorry their petticoats turn up so constantly in my narrative, but they really are very useful, especially when the band is cut off. The girls borrowed Mrs. Pettigrew's sewing-machine; they could not ask her leave without explanations, which we did not wish to give just then, and she had lent it to them before. They took it into the cellar to work it, so that she should not hear the noise and ask bothering questions. They had to balance it on one end of the beer-stand. It was not easy. While they were doing the sewing we boys went out and got willow poles and chopped the twigs off, and got ready as well as we could to put up the awning.

When we returned a detachment of us went down to the shop in the village for Eiffel Tower lemonade. We bought seven-and-sixpence worth; then we made a great label to say what the bar was for. Then there was nothing else to do except to make rosettes out of a blue sash of Daisy's to show we belonged to the Benevolent Bar.

The next day was as hot as ever. We rose early from our innocent slumbers, and went out to the Dover Road to the spot we had marked down the day before. It was at a cross-roads, so as to be able to give drinks to as many people as possible.

We hid the awning and poles behind the hedge and went home to brekker.

After brek we got the big zinc bath they wash clothes in, and after filling it with clean water we just had to empty it again, because it was too heavy to lift. So we carried it vacant to the trysting-spot and left H. O. and Noël to guard it while we went and fetched separate pails of water; very heavy work, and no one who wasn't really benevolent would have bothered about it for an instant. Oswald alone carried three pails. So did Dicky and the Dentist. Then we rolled down some empty barrels and stood up three of them by the road-side, and put planks on them. This made a very first-class table, and we covered it with the best table-cloth we could find in the linen cupboard. We brought out several glasses and some teacups--not the best ones, Oswald was firm about that--and the kettle and spirit-lamp and the teapot, in case any weary tramp-woman fancied a cup of tea instead of Eiffel Tower. H. O. and Noël had to go down to the shop for tea; they need not have grumbled; they had not carried any of the water. And their having to go the second time was only because we forgot to tell them to get some real lemons to put on the bar to show what the drink would be like when you got it. The man at the shop kindly gave us tick for the lemons, and we cashed up out of our next week's pocket-money.

Two or three people passed while we were getting things ready, but no one said anything except the man who said, "Bloomin' Sunday-school treat," and as it was too early in the day for any one to be thirsty we did not stop the wayfarers to tell them their thirst could be slaked without cost at our Benevolent Bar.

But when everything was quite ready, and our blue rosettes fastened on our breasts over our benevolent hearts, we stuck up the great placard we had made with "Benevolent Bar. Free Drinks to all Weary Travellers," in white wadding on red calico, like Christmas decorations in church. We had meant to fasten this to the edge of the awning, but we had to pin it to the front of the table-cloth, because I am sorry to say the awning went wrong from the first. We could not drive the willow poles into the road; it was much too hard. And in the ditch it was too soft, besides being no use. So we had just to cover our benevolent heads with our hats, and take it in turns to go into the shadow of the tree on the other side of the road. For we had pitched our table on the sunny side of the way, of course, relying on our broken-reed-like awning, and wishing to give it a fair chance.

Everything looked very nice, and we longed to see somebody really miserable come along so as to be able to allieve their distress.

A man and woman were the first; they stopped and stared, but when Alice said, "Free drinks! Free drinks! Aren't you thirsty?" they said, "No, thank you," and went on. Then came a person from the village; he didn't even say "Thank you" when we asked him, and Oswald began to fear it might be like the awful time when we wandered about on Christmas Day trying to find poor persons and persuade them to eat our Conscience pudding.

But a man in a blue jersey and a red bundle eased Oswald's fears by being willing to drink a glass of lemonade, and even to say, "Thank you, I'm sure," quite nicely.

After that it was better. As we had foreseen, there were plenty of thirsty people walking along the Dover Road, and even some from the crossroad.

We had had the pleasure of seeing nineteen tumblers drained to the dregs ere we tasted any ourselves. Nobody asked for tea.

More people went by than we gave lemonade to. Some wouldn't have it because they were too grand. One man told us he could pay for his own liquor when he was dry, which, praise be, he wasn't over and above, at present; and others asked if we hadn't any beer, and when we said "No," they said it showed what sort we were--as if the sort was not a good one, which it is.

And another man said, "Slops again! You never get nothing for nothing, not this side heaven you don't. Look at the bloomin' blue ribbon on 'em! Oh, Lor'!" and went on quite sadly without having a drink.

Our Pig-man who helped us on the Tower of Mystery day went by and we hailed him, and explained it all to him and gave him a drink, and asked him to call as he came back. He liked it all, and said we were a real good sort. How different from the man who wanted the beer. Then he went on.

One thing I didn't like, and that was the way boys began to gather. Of course we could not refuse to give drinks to any traveller who was old enough to ask for it, but when one boy had had three glasses of lemonade and asked for another, Oswald said:

"I think you've had jolly well enough. You can't be really thirsty after all that lot."

The boy said, "Oh, can't I? You'll just see if I can't," and went away. Presently he came back with four other boys, all bigger than Oswald; and they all asked for lemonade. Oswald gave it to the four new ones, but he was determined in his behavior to the other one, and wouldn't give him a drop. Then the five of them went and sat on a gate a little way off and kept laughing in a nasty way, and whenever a boy went by they called out:

"I say, 'ere's a go," and as often as not the new boy would hang about with them. It was disquieting, for though they had nearly all had lemonade, we could see it had not made them friendly.

A great glorious glow of goodness gladdened (those go all together and are called alliteration) our hearts when we saw our own tramp coming down the road. The dogs did not growl at him as they had at the boys or the beer-man. (I did not say before that we had the dogs with us, but of course we had, because we had promised never to go out without them.)

Oswald said, "Hullo," and the tramp said, "Hullo."

Then Alice said, "You see we've taken your advice; we're giving free drinks. Doesn't it all look nice?"

"It does that," said the tramp. "I don't mind if I do."

So we gave him two glasses of lemonade succeedingly, and thanked him for giving us the idea. He said we were very welcome, and if we'd no objection he'd sit down a bit and put on a pipe. He did, and after talking a little more he fell asleep. Drinking anything seemed to end in sleep with him. I always thought it was only beer and things made people sleepy, but he was not so. When he was asleep he rolled into the ditch, but it did not wake him up.

The boys were getting very noisy, and they began to shout things, and to make silly noises with their mouths, and when Oswald and Dicky went over to them and told them to just chuck it, they were worse than ever. I think perhaps Oswald and Dicky might have fought and settled them--though there were eleven, yet back to back you can always do it against overwhelming numbers in a book--only Alice called out:

"Oswald, here's some more, come back!"

We went. Three big men were coming down the road, very red and hot, and not amiable-looking. They stopped in front of the Benevolent Bar and slowly read the wadding and red-stuff label.

Then one of them said he was blessed, or something like that, and another said he was too. The third one said, "Blessed or not, a drink's a drink. Blue ribbon though by ----" (a word you ought not to say, though it is in the Bible and the catechism as well). "Let's have a liquor, little missy."

The dogs were growling, but Oswald thought it best not to take any notice of what the dogs said, but to give these men each a drink. So he did. They drank, but not as if they cared about it very much, and then they set their glasses down on the table, a liberty no one else had entered into, and began to try and chaff Oswald. Oswald said in an undervoice to H. O.:

"Just take charge. I want to speak to the girls a sec. Call if you want anything." And then he drew the others away, to say he thought there'd been enough of it, and considering the boys and the new three men, perhaps we'd better chuck it and go home. We'd been benevolent nearly four hours anyway.

While this conversation and the objections of the others were going on, H. O. perpetuated an act which nearly wrecked the Benevolent Bar.

Of course Oswald was not an eye or ear witness of what happened, but from what H. O. said in the calmer moments of later life, I think this was about what happened:

One of the big disagreeable men said to H. O.:

"Ain't got such a thing as a drop o' spirit, 'ave yer?"

H. O. said no, we hadn't, only lemonade and tea.

"Lemonade and tea! blank" (bad word I told you about) "and blazes," replied the bad character, for such he afterwards proved to be. "What's _that_ then?"

He pointed to a bottle labelled Dewar's whiskey, which stood on the table near the spirit-kettle.

"Oh, is _that_ what you want?" said H. O., kindly.

The man is understood to have said he should bloomin' well think so, but H. O. is not sure about the bloomin'.

He held out his glass with about half the lemonade in it, and H. O. generously filled up the tumbler out of the bottle labelled Dewar's whiskey. The man took a great drink, and then suddenly he spat out what happened to be left in his mouth just then, and began to swear. It was then that Oswald and Dicky rushed upon the scene. The man was shaking his fist in H. O.'s face, and H. O. was still holding on to the bottle we had brought out the methylated spirit in for the lamp, in case of any one wanting tea, which they hadn't.

"If I was Jim," said the second ruffian, for such indeed they were, when he had snatched the bottle from H. O. and smelt it, "I'd chuck the whole show over the hedge, so I would, and you young gutter-snipes after it, so I wouldn't."

Oswald saw in a moment that in point of strength, if not numbers, he and his party were outmatched, and the unfriendly boys were drawing gladly near. It is no shame to signal for help when in distress--the best ships do it every day. Oswald shouted "Help! help!" Before the words were out of his brave yet trembling lips our own tramp leaped like an antelope from the ditch and said:

"Now then, what's up?"

The biggest of the three men immediately knocked him down. He lay still.

The biggest then said, "Come on--any more of you? Come on!"

Oswald was so enraged at this cowardly attack that he actually hit out at the big man--and he really got one in just above the belt. Then he shut his eyes, because he felt that now all was indeed up. There was a shout and a scuffle, and Oswald opened his eyes in astonishment at finding himself still whole and unimpaired. Our own tramp had artfully stimulated insensibleness, to get the men off their guard, and then had suddenly got his arms round a leg each of two of the men, and pulled them to the ground, helped by Dicky, who saw his game and rushed in at the same time, exactly like Oswald would have done if he had not had his eyes shut ready to meet his doom.

The unpleasant boys shouted, and the third man tried to help his unrespectable friends, now on their backs, involved in a desperate struggle with our own tramp, who was on top of them, accompanied by Dicky. It all happened in a minute, and it was all mixed up. The dogs were growling and barking--Martha had one of the men by the trouser leg and Pincher had another; the girls were screaming like mad and the strange boys shouted and laughed (little beasts!), and then suddenly our Pig-man came round the corner, and two friends of his with him. He had gone and fetched them to take care of us if anything unpleasant occurred. It was very thoughtful, and just like him.

"Fetch the police!" cried the Pig-man in noble tones, and H. O. started running to do it. But the scoundrels struggled from under Dicky and our tramp, shook off the dogs and some bits of trouser, and fled heavily down the road.

Our Pig-man said, "Get along home!" to the disagreeable boys, and "Shoo'd" them as if they were hens, and they went. H. O. ran back when they began to go up the road, and there we were, all standing breathless and in tears on the scene of the late desperate engagement. Oswald gives you his word of honor that his and Dicky's tears were tears of pure rage. There are such things as tears of pure rage. Any one who knows will tell you so.

We picked up our own tramp and bathed the lump on his forehead with lemonade. The water in the zinc bath had been upset in the struggle. Then he and the Pig-man and his kind friends helped us carry our things home.

The Pig-man advised us on the way not to try these sort of kind actions without getting a grown-up to help us. We've been advised this before, but now I really think we shall never try to be benevolent to the poor and needy again. At any rate not unless we know them very well first.

We have seen our own tramp often since. The Pig-man gave him a job. He has got work to do at last. The Pig-man says he is not such a very bad chap, only he will fall asleep after the least drop of drink. We know that is his failing. We saw it at once. But it was lucky for us he fell asleep that day near our benevolent bar.

I will not go into what my father said about it all. There was a good deal in it about minding your own business--there generally is in most of the talkings to we get. But he gave our tramp a sovereign, and the Pig-man says he went to sleep on it for a solid week.

THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS

The author of these few lines really does hope to goodness that no one will be such an owl as to think from the number of things we did when we were in the country, that we were wretched, neglected little children, whose grown-up relations sparkled in the bright haunts of pleasure, and whirled in the giddy what's-its-name of fashion, while we were left to weep forsaken at home. It was nothing of the kind, and I wish you to know that my father was with us a good deal--and Albert's uncle gave up a good many of his valuable hours to us. And the father of Denny and Daisy came now and then, and other people, quite as many as we wished to see. And we had some very decent times with them; and enjoyed ourselves very much indeed, thank you. In some ways the good times you have with grown-ups are better than the ones you have by yourselves. At any rate, they are safer. It is almost impossible, then, to do anything fatal without being pulled up short by a grown-up ere yet the deed is done. And, if you are careful, anything that goes wrong can be looked on as the grown-up's fault. But these secure pleasures are not so interesting to tell about as the things you do when there is no one to stop you on the edge of the rash act.

It is curious, too, that many of our most interesting games happened when grown-ups were far away. For instance, when we were pilgrims.

It was just after the business of the benevolent bar, and it was a wet day. It is not so easy to amuse yourself indoors on a wet day as older people seem to think, especially when you are far removed from your own home, and haven't got all your own books and things. The girls were playing Halma--which is a beastly game--Noël was writing poetry, H. O. was singing "I don't know what to do" to the tune of "Canaan's Happy Shore." It goes like this, and is very tiresome to listen to:

"I don't know what to do--oo--oo--oo! I don't know what to do--oo--oo! It is a beastly rainy day And I don't know what to do."

The rest of us were trying to make him shut up. We put a carpet-bag over his head, but he went on inside it; and then we sat on him, but he sang under us; we held him upside down and made him crawl head first under the sofa, but when, even there, he kept it up, we saw that nothing short of violence would induce him to silence, so we let him go. And then he said we had hurt him, and we said we were only in fun, and he said if we were he wasn't, and ill feeling might have grown up even out of a playful brotherly act like ours had been, only Alice chucked the Halma and said:

"Let dogs delight. Come on--let's play something."

Then Dora said, "Yes, but look here. Now we're all together, I do want to say something. What about the Wouldbegoods Society?"

Many of us groaned, and one said, "Hear! hear!" I will not say which one, but it was not Oswald.

"No, but really," Dora said, "I don't want to be preachy--but you know we _did_ say we'd try to be good. And it says in a book I was reading only yesterday that _not_ being naughty is not enough. You must _be_ good. And we've hardly done anything. The Golden Deed book's almost empty."

"Couldn't we have a book of leaden deeds," said Noël, coming out of his poetry, "then there'd be plenty for Alice to write about if she wants to, or brass or zinc or aluminium deeds? We sha'n't ever fill the book with golden ones."

H. O. had rolled himself in the red table-cloth, and said Noël was only advising us to be naughty, and again peace waved in the balance. But Alice said, "Oh, H. O., _don't_--he didn't mean that; but really and truly, I wish wrong things weren't so interesting. You begin to do a noble act, and then it gets so exciting, and before you know where you are you are doing something wrong as hard as you can lick."

"And enjoying it too," Dicky said.

"It's very curious," Denny said, "but you don't seem to be able to be certain inside yourself whether what you're doing is right if you happen to like doing it, but if you don't like doing it you know quite well. I only thought of that just now. I wish Noël would make a poem about it."

"I am," Noël said; "it began about a crocodile, but it is finishing itself up quite different from what I meant it to at first. Just wait a minute."

He wrote very hard while his kind brothers and sisters and his little friends waited the minute he had said, and then he read:

"The crocodile is very wise, He lives in the Nile with little eyes, He eats the hippopotamus too, And if he could he would eat up you.

"The lovely woods and starry skies He looks upon with glad surprise; He sees the riches of the east, And the tiger and lion, kings of beast.

"So let all be good and beware Of saying sha'n't and won't and don't care; For doing wrong is easier far Than any of the right things I know about are.

And I couldn't make it king of beasts because of it not rhyming with east, so I put the _s_ off beasts on to king. It comes even in the end."

We all said it was a very nice piece of poetry. Noël gets really ill if you don't like what he writes, and then he said, "If it's trying that's wanted, I don't care how hard we _try_ to be good, but we may as well do it some nice way. Let's be Pilgrim's Progress, like I wanted to at first."

And we were all beginning to say we didn't want to, when suddenly Dora said, "Oh, look here! I know. We'll be the Canterbury Pilgrims. People used to go pilgrimages to make themselves good."

"With pease in their shoes," the Dentist said. "It's in a piece of poetry--only the man boiled his pease--which is quite unfair."

"Oh yes," said H. O., "and cocked hats."

"Not cocked--cockled"--it was Alice who said this. "And they had staffs and scrips, and they told each other tales. We might as well."

Oswald and Dora had been reading about the Canterbury Pilgrims in a book called A _Short History of the English People_. It is not at all short really--three fat volumes--but it has jolly good pictures. It was written by a gentleman named Green. So Oswald said:

"All right. I'll be the Knight."

"I'll be the wife of Bath," Dora said. "What will you be, Dicky?"

"Oh, I don't care, I'll be Mr. Bath if you like."

"We don't know much about the people," Alice said. "How many were there?"

"Thirty," Oswald replied, "but we needn't be all of them. There's the Nun-Priest."

"Is that a man or a woman?"

Oswald said he could not be sure by the picture, but Alice and Noël could be it between them. So that was settled. Then we got the book and looked at the dresses to see if we could make up dresses for the parts. At first we thought we would, because it would be something to do, and it was a very wet day; but they looked difficult, especially the Miller's. Denny wanted to be the Miller, but in the end he was the Doctor, because it was next door to Dentist, which is what we call him for short. Daisy was to be the Prioress--because she is good, and has "a soft little red mouth," and H. O. _would_ be the Manciple (I don't know what that is), because the picture of him is bigger than most of the others, and he said Manciple was a nice portmanteau word--half mandarin and half disciple.

"Let's get the easiest parts of the dresses ready first," Alice said--"the pilgrims' staffs and hats and the cockles."

So Oswald and Dicky braved the fury of the elements and went into the wood beyond the orchard to cut ash-sticks. We got eight jolly good long ones. Then we took them home, and the girls bothered till we changed our clothes, which were indeed sopping with the elements we had faced.