Beasts and Super Beasts

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Before making his way to the third-class compartment to acquaint his
fellow-traveller with the extent of the disaster Abbleway hurriedly
pondered the question of the woman's nationality. He had acquired a
smattering of Slavonic tongues during his residence in Vienna, and felt
competent to grapple with several racial possibilities.

"If she is Croat or Serb or Bosniak I shall be able to make her
understand," he promised himself. "If she is Magyar, heaven help me! We
shall have to converse entirely by signs."

He entered the carriage and made his momentous announcement in the best
approach to Croat speech that he could achieve.

"The train has broken away and left us!"

The woman shook her head with a movement that might be intended to convey
resignation to the will of heaven, but probably meant noncomprehension.
Abbleway repeated his information with variations of Slavonic tongues and
generous displays of pantomime.

"Ah," said the woman at last in German dialect, "the train has gone? We
are left. Ah, so."

She seemed about as much interested as though Abbleway had told her the
result of the municipal elections in Amsterdam.

"They will find out at some station, and when the line is clear of snow
they will send an engine. It happens that way sometimes."

"We may be here all night!" exclaimed Abbleway.

The woman nodded as though she thought it possible.

"Are there wolves in these parts?" asked Abbleway hurriedly.

"Many," said the woman; "just outside this forest my aunt was devoured
three years ago, as she was coming home from market. The horse and a
young pig that was in the cart were eaten too. The horse was a very old
one, but it was a beautiful young pig, oh, so fat. I cried when I heard
that it was taken. They spare nothing."

"They may attack us here," said Abbleway tremulously; "they could easily
break in, these carriages are like matchwood. We may both be devoured."

"You, perhaps," said the woman calmly; "not me."

"Why not you?" demanded Abbleway.

"It is the day of Saint Maria Kleopha, my name-day. She would not allow
me to be eaten by wolves on her day. Such a thing could not be thought
of. You, yes, but not me."

Abbleway changed the subject.

"It is only afternoon now; if we are to be left here till morning we
shall be starving."

"I have here some good eatables," said the woman tranquilly; "on my
festival day it is natural that I should have provision with me. I have
five good blood-sausages; in the town shops they cost twenty-five heller
each. Things are dear in the town shops."

"I will give you fifty heller apiece for a couple of them," said Abbleway
with some enthusiasm.

"In a railway accident things become very dear," said the woman; "these
blood-sausages are four kronen apiece."

"Four kronen!" exclaimed Abbleway; "four kronen for a blood-sausage!"

"You cannot get them any cheaper on this train," said the woman, with
relentless logic, "because there aren't any others to get. In Agram you
can buy them cheaper, and in Paradise no doubt they will be given to us
for nothing, but here they cost four kronen each. I have a small piece
of Emmenthaler cheese and a honey-cake and a piece of bread that I can
let you have. That will be another three kronen, eleven kronen in all.
There is a piece of ham, but that I cannot let you have on my name-day."

Abbleway wondered to himself what price she would have put on the ham,
and hurried to pay her the eleven kronen before her emergency tariff
expanded into a famine tariff. As he was taking possession of his modest
store of eatables he suddenly heard a noise which set his heart thumping
in a miserable fever of fear. 'There was a scraping and shuffling as of
some animal or animals trying to climb up to the footboard. In another
moment, through the snow-encrusted glass of the carriage window, he saw a
gaunt prick-eared head, with gaping jaw and lolling tongue and gleaming
teeth; a second later another head shot up.

"There are hundreds of them," whispered Abbleway; "they have scented us.
They will tear the carriage to pieces. We shall be devoured."

"Not me, on my name-day. The holy Maria Kleopha would not permit it,"
said the woman with provoking calm.

The heads dropped down from the window and an uncanny silence fell on the
beleaguered carriage. Abbleway neither moved nor spoke. Perhaps the
brutes had not clearly seen or winded the human occupants of the
carriage, and had prowled away on some other errand of rapine.

The long torture-laden minutes passed slowly away.

"It grows cold," said the woman suddenly, crossing over to the far end of
the carriage, where the heads had appeared. "The heating apparatus does
not work any longer. See, over there beyond the trees, there is a
chimney with smoke coming from it. It is not far, and the snow has
nearly stopped, I shall find a path through the forest to that house with
the chimney."

"But the wolves!" exclaimed Abbleway; "they may--"

"Not on my name-day," said the woman obstinately, and before he could
stop her she had opened the door and climbed down into the snow. A
moment later he hid his face in his hands; two gaunt lean figures rushed
upon her from the forest. No doubt she had courted her fate, but
Abbleway had no wish to see a human being torn to pieces and devoured
before his eyes.

When he looked at last a new sensation of scandalised astonishment took
possession of him. He had been straitly brought up in a small English
town, and he was not prepared to be the witness of a miracle. The wolves
were not doing anything worse to the woman than drench her with snow as
they gambolled round her.

A short, joyous bark revealed the clue to the situation.

"Are those--dogs?" he called weakly.

"My cousin Karl's dogs, yes," she answered; "that is his inn, over beyond
the trees. I knew it was there, but I did not want to take you there; he
is always grasping with strangers. However, it grows too cold to remain
in the train. Ah, ah, see what comes!"

A whistle sounded, and a relief engine made its appearance, snorting its
way sulkily through the snow. Abbleway did not have the opportunity for
finding out whether Karl was really avaricious.




THE LUMBER ROOM


The children were to be driven, as a special treat, to the sands at
Jagborough. Nicholas was not to be of the party; he was in disgrace.
Only that morning he had refused to eat his wholesome bread-and-milk on
the seemingly frivolous ground that there was a frog in it. Older and
wiser and better people had told him that there could not possibly be a
frog in his bread-and-milk and that he was not to talk nonsense; he
continued, nevertheless, to talk what seemed the veriest nonsense, and
described with much detail the colouration and markings of the alleged
frog. The dramatic part of the incident was that there really was a frog
in Nicholas' basin of bread-and-milk; he had put it there himself, so he
felt entitled to know something about it. The sin of taking a frog from
the garden and putting it into a bowl of wholesome bread-and-milk was
enlarged on at great length, but the fact that stood out clearest in the
whole affair, as it presented itself to the mind of Nicholas, was that
the older, wiser, and better people had been proved to be profoundly in
error in matters about which they had expressed the utmost assurance.

"You said there couldn't possibly be a frog in my bread-and-milk; there
_was_ a frog in my bread-and-milk," he repeated, with the insistence of a
skilled tactician who does not intend to shift from favourable ground.

So his boy-cousin and girl-cousin and his quite uninteresting younger
brother were to be taken to Jagborough sands that afternoon and he was to
stay at home. His cousins' aunt, who insisted, by an unwarranted stretch
of imagination, in styling herself his aunt also, had hastily invented
the Jagborough expedition in order to impress on Nicholas the delights
that he had justly forfeited by his disgraceful conduct at the breakfast-
table. It was her habit, whenever one of the children fell from grace,
to improvise something of a festival nature from which the offender would
be rigorously debarred; if all the children sinned collectively they were
suddenly informed of a circus in a neighbouring town, a circus of
unrivalled merit and uncounted elephants, to which, but for their
depravity, they would have been taken that very day.

A few decent tears were looked for on the part of Nicholas when the
moment for the departure of the expedition arrived. As a matter of fact,
however, all the crying was done by his girl-cousin, who scraped her knee
rather painfully against the step of the carriage as she was scrambling
in.

"How she did howl," said Nicholas cheerfully, as the party drove off
without any of the elation of high spirits that should have characterised
it.

"She'll soon get over that," said the _soi-disant_ aunt; "it will be a
glorious afternoon for racing about over those beautiful sands. How they
will enjoy themselves!"

"Bobby won't enjoy himself much, and he won't race much either," said
Nicholas with a grim chuckle; "his boots are hurting him. They're too
tight."

"Why didn't he tell me they were hurting?" asked the aunt with some
asperity.

"He told you twice, but you weren't listening. You often don't listen
when we tell you important things."

"You are not to go into the gooseberry garden," said the aunt, changing
the subject.

"Why not?" demanded Nicholas.

"Because you are in disgrace," said the aunt loftily.

Nicholas did not admit the flawlessness of the reasoning; he felt
perfectly capable of being in disgrace and in a gooseberry garden at the
same moment. His face took on an expression of considerable obstinacy.
It was clear to his aunt that he was determined to get into the
gooseberry garden, "only," as she remarked to herself, "because I have
told him he is not to."

Now the gooseberry garden had two doors by which it might be entered, and
once a small person like Nicholas could slip in there he could
effectually disappear from view amid the masking growth of artichokes,
raspberry canes, and fruit bushes. The aunt had many other things to do
that afternoon, but she spent an hour or two in trivial gardening
operations among flower beds and shrubberies, whence she could keep a
watchful eye on the two doors that led to the forbidden paradise. She
was a woman of few ideas, with immense powers of concentration.

Nicholas made one or two sorties into the front garden, wriggling his way
with obvious stealth of purpose towards one or other of the doors, but
never able for a moment to evade the aunt's watchful eye. As a matter of
fact, he had no intention of trying to get into the gooseberry garden,
but it was extremely convenient for him that his aunt should believe that
he had; it was a belief that would keep her on self-imposed sentry-duty
for the greater part of the afternoon. Having thoroughly confirmed and
fortified her suspicions Nicholas slipped back into the house and rapidly
put into execution a plan of action that had long germinated in his
brain. By standing on a chair in the library one could reach a shelf on
which reposed a fat, important-looking key. The key was as important as
it looked; it was the instrument which kept the mysteries of the lumber-
room secure from unauthorised intrusion, which opened a way only for
aunts and such-like privileged persons. Nicholas had not had much
experience of the art of fitting keys into keyholes and turning locks,
but for some days past he had practised with the key of the schoolroom
door; he did not believe in trusting too much to luck and accident. The
key turned stiffly in the lock, but it turned. The door opened, and
Nicholas was in an unknown land, compared with which the gooseberry
garden was a stale delight, a mere material pleasure.

Often and often Nicholas had pictured to himself what the lumber-room
might be like, that region that was so carefully sealed from youthful
eyes and concerning which no questions were ever answered. It came up to
his expectations. In the first place it was large and dimly lit, one
high window opening on to the forbidden garden being its only source of
illumination. In the second place it was a storehouse of unimagined
treasures. The aunt-by-assertion was one of those people who think that
things spoil by use and consign them to dust and damp by way of
preserving them. Such parts of the house as Nicholas knew best were
rather bare and cheerless, but here there were wonderful things for the
eye to feast on. First and foremost there was a piece of framed tapestry
that was evidently meant to be a fire-screen. To Nicholas it was a
living, breathing story; he sat down on a roll of Indian hangings,
glowing in wonderful colours beneath a layer of dust, and took in all the
details of the tapestry picture. A man, dressed in the hunting costume
of some remote period, had just transfixed a stag with an arrow; it could
not have been a difficult shot because the stag was only one or two paces
away from him; in the thickly-growing vegetation that the picture
suggested it would not have been difficult to creep up to a feeding stag,
and the two spotted dogs that were springing forward to join in the chase
had evidently been trained to keep to heel till the arrow was discharged.
That part of the picture was simple, if interesting, but did the huntsman
see, what Nicholas saw, that four galloping wolves were coming in his
direction through the wood? There might be more than four of them hidden
behind the trees, and in any case would the man and his dogs be able to
cope with the four wolves if they made an attack? The man had only two
arrows left in his quiver, and he might miss with one or both of them;
all one knew about his skill in shooting was that he could hit a large
stag at a ridiculously short range. Nicholas sat for many golden minutes
revolving the possibilities of the scene; he was inclined to think that
there were more than four wolves and that the man and his dogs were in a
tight corner.

But there were other objects of delight and interest claiming his instant
attention: there were quaint twisted candlesticks in the shape of snakes,
and a teapot fashioned like a china duck, out of whose open beak the tea
was supposed to come. How dull and shapeless the nursery teapot seemed
in comparison! And there was a carved sandal-wood box packed tight with
aromatic cotton-wool, and between the layers of cotton-wool were little
brass figures, hump-necked bulls, and peacocks and goblins, delightful to
see and to handle. Less promising in appearance was a large square book
with plain black covers; Nicholas peeped into it, and, behold, it was
full of coloured pictures of birds. And such birds! In the garden, and
in the lanes when he went for a walk, Nicholas came across a few birds,
of which the largest were an occasional magpie or wood-pigeon; here were
herons and bustards, kites, toucans, tiger-bitterns, brush turkeys,
ibises, golden pheasants, a whole portrait gallery of undreamed-of
creatures. And as he was admiring the colouring of the mandarin duck and
assigning a life-history to it, the voice of his aunt in shrill
vociferation of his name came from the gooseberry garden without. She
had grown suspicious at his long disappearance, and had leapt to the
conclusion that he had climbed over the wall behind the sheltering screen
of the lilac bushes; she was now engaged in energetic and rather hopeless
search for him among the artichokes and raspberry canes.

"Nicholas, Nicholas!" she screamed, "you are to come out of this at once.
It's no use trying to hide there; I can see you all the time."

It was probably the first time for twenty years that anyone had smiled in
that lumber-room.

Presently the angry repetitions of Nicholas' name gave way to a shriek,
and a cry for somebody to come quickly. Nicholas shut the book, restored
it carefully to its place in a corner, and shook some dust from a
neighbouring pile of newspapers over it. Then he crept from the room,
locked the door, and replaced the key exactly where he had found it. His
aunt was still calling his name when he sauntered into the front garden.

"Who's calling?" he asked.

"Me," came the answer from the other side of the wall; "didn't you hear
me? I've been looking for you in the gooseberry garden, and I've slipped
into the rain-water tank. Luckily there's no water in it, but the sides
are slippery and I can't get out. Fetch the little ladder from under the
cherry tree--"

"I was told I wasn't to go into the gooseberry garden," said Nicholas
promptly.

"I told you not to, and now I tell you that you may," came the voice from
the rain-water tank, rather impatiently.

"Your voice doesn't sound like aunt's," objected Nicholas; "you may be
the Evil One tempting me to be disobedient. Aunt often tells me that the
Evil One tempts me and that I always yield. This time I'm not going to
yield."

"Don't talk nonsense," said the prisoner in the tank; "go and fetch the
ladder."

"Will there be strawberry jam for tea?" asked Nicholas innocently.

"Certainly there will be," said the aunt, privately resolving that
Nicholas should have none of it.

"Now I know that you are the Evil One and not aunt," shouted Nicholas
gleefully; "when we asked aunt for strawberry jam yesterday she said
there wasn't any. I know there are four jars of it in the store
cupboard, because I looked, and of course you know it's there, but she
doesn't, because she said there wasn't any. Oh, Devil, you _have_ sold
yourself!"

There was an unusual sense of luxury in being able to talk to an aunt as
though one was talking to the Evil One, but Nicholas knew, with childish
discernment, that such luxuries were not to be over-indulged in. He
walked noisily away, and it was a kitchenmaid, in search of parsley, who
eventually rescued the aunt from the rain-water tank.

Tea that evening was partaken of in a fearsome silence. The tide had
been at its highest when the children had arrived at Jagborough Cove, so
there had been no sands to play on--a circumstance that the aunt had
overlooked in the haste of organising her punitive expedition. The
tightness of Bobby's boots had had disastrous effect on his temper the
whole of the afternoon, and altogether the children could not have been
said to have enjoyed themselves. The aunt maintained the frozen muteness
of one who has suffered undignified and unmerited detention in a rain-
water tank for thirty-five minutes. As for Nicholas, he, too, was
silent, in the absorption of one who has much to think about; it was just
possible, he considered, that the huntsman would escape with his hounds
while the wolves feasted on the stricken stag.




FUR


"You look worried, dear," said Eleanor.

"I am worried," admitted Suzanne; "not worried exactly, but anxious. You
see, my birthday happens next week--"

"You lucky person," interrupted Eleanor; "my birthday doesn't come till
the end of March."

"Well, old Bertram Kneyght is over in England just now from the
Argentine. He's a kind of distant cousin of my mother's, and so
enormously rich that we've never let the relationship drop out of sight.
Even if we don't see him or hear from him for years he is always Cousin
Bertram when he does turn up. I can't say he's ever been of much solid
use to us, but yesterday the subject of my birthday cropped up, and he
asked me to let him know what I wanted for a present."

"Now I understand the anxiety," observed Eleanor.

"As a rule when one is confronted with a problem like that," said
Suzanne, "all one's ideas vanish; one doesn't seem to have a desire in
the world. Now it so happens that I have been very keen on a little
Dresden figure that I saw somewhere in Kensington; about thirty-six
shillings, quite beyond my means. I was very nearly describing the
figure, and giving Bertram the address of the shop. And then it suddenly
struck me that thirty-six shillings was such a ridiculously inadequate
sum for a man of his immense wealth to spend on a birthday present. He
could give thirty-six pounds as easily as you or I could buy a bunch of
violets. I don't want to be greedy, of course, but I don't like being
wasteful."

"The question is," said Eleanor, "what are his ideas as to
present-giving? Some of the wealthiest people have curiously cramped
views on that subject. When people grow gradually rich their
requirements and standard of living expand in proportion, while their
present-giving instincts often remain in the undeveloped condition of
their earlier days. Something showy and not-too-expensive in a shop is
their only conception of the ideal gift. That is why even quite good
shops have their counters and windows crowded with things worth about
four shillings that look as if they might be worth seven-and-six, and are
priced at ten shillings and labelled seasonable gifts.'"

"I know," said Suzanne; "that is why it is so risky to be vague when one
is giving indications of one's wants. Now if I say to him: 'I am going
out to Davos this winter, so anything in the travelling line would be
acceptable,' he might give me a dressing-bag with gold-mounted fittings,
but, on the other hand, he might give me Baedeker's Switzerland, or
'Skiing without Tears,' or something of that sort."

"He would be more likely to say: 'She'll be going to lots of dances, a
fan will be sure to be useful.'"

"Yes, and I've got tons of fans, so you see where the danger and anxiety
lies. Now if there is one thing more than another that I really urgently
want it is furs. I simply haven't any. I'm told that Davos is full of
Russians, and they are sure to wear the most lovely sables and things. To
be among people who are smothered in furs when one hasn't any oneself
makes one want to break most of the Commandments."

"If it's furs that you're out for," said Eleanor, "you will have to
superintend the choice of them in person. You can't be sure that your
cousin knows the difference between silver-fox and ordinary squirrel."

"There are some heavenly silver-fox stoles at Goliath and Mastodon's,"
said Suzanne, with a sigh; "if I could only inveigle Bertram into their
building and take him for a stroll through the fur department!"

"He lives somewhere near there, doesn't he?" said Eleanor. "Do you know
what his habits are? Does he take a walk at any particular time of day?"

"He usually walks down to his club about three o'clock, if it's a fine
day. That takes him right past Goliath and Mastodon's."

"Let us two meet him accidentally at the street corner to-morrow," said
Eleanor; "we can walk a little way with him, and with luck we ought to be
able to side-track him into the shop. You can say you want to get a hair-
net or something. When we're safely there I can say: 'I wish you'd tell
me what you want for your birthday.' Then you'll have everything ready
to hand--the rich cousin, the fur department, and the topic of birthday
presents."

"It's a great idea," said Suzanne; "you really are a brick. Come round
to-morrow at twenty to three; don't be late, we must carry out our ambush
to the minute."

At a few minutes to three the next afternoon the fur-trappers walked
warily towards the selected corner. In the near distance rose the
colossal pile of Messrs. Goliath and Mastodon's famed establishment. The
afternoon was brilliantly fine, exactly the sort of weather to tempt a
gentleman of advancing years into the discreet exercise of a leisurely
walk.

"I say, dear, I wish you'd do something for me this evening," said
Eleanor to her companion; "just drop in after dinner on some pretext or
other, and stay on to make a fourth at bridge with Adela and the aunts.
Otherwise I shall have to play, and Harry Scarisbrooke is going to come
in unexpectedly about nine-fifteen, and I particularly want to be free to
talk to him while the others are playing."

"Sorry, my dear, no can do," said Suzanne; "ordinary bridge at
three-pence a hundred, with such dreadfully slow players as your aunts,
bores me to tears. I nearly go to sleep over it."

"But I most particularly want an opportunity to talk with Harry," urged
Eleanor, an angry glint coming into her eyes.

"Sorry, anything to oblige, but not that," said Suzanne cheerfully; the
sacrifices of friendship were beautiful in her eyes as long as she was
not asked to make them.

Eleanor said nothing further on the subject, but the corners of her mouth
rearranged themselves.

"There's our man!" exclaimed Suzanne suddenly; "hurry!"

Mr. Bertram Kneyght greeted his cousin and her friend with genuine
heartiness, and readily accepted their invitation to explore the crowded
mart that stood temptingly at their elbow. The plate-glass doors swung
open and the trio plunged bravely into the jostling throng of buyers and
loiterers.

"Is it always as full as this?" asked Bertram of Eleanor.

"More or less, and autumn sales are on just now," she replied.