The Little Warrior, P. G. Wodehouse [robert munsch read aloud txt] 📗

parts of Surrey. The station was just a shed on a foundation of planks which lay flush with the rails. From this shed, as the train clanked in, there emerged a tall, shambling man in a weather-beaten overcoat. He had a clean-shaven, wrinkled face, and he looked doubtfully at Jill with small eyes. Something in his expression reminded Jill of her father, as a bad caricature of a public man will recall the original, she introduced herself.

“If you’re Uncle Elmer,” she said, “I’m Jill.”

The man held out a long hand. He did not smile. He was as bleak as the east wind that swept the platform.

“Glad to meet you again,” he said in a melancholy voice. It was news to Jill that they had met before. She wondered where. Her uncle supplied the information. “Last time I saw you, you were a kiddy in short frocks, running around and shouting to beat the band.” He looked up and down the platform. “I never heard a child make so much noise!”

“I’m quite quiet now,” said Jill encouragingly. The recollection of her infant revelry seemed to her to be distressing her relative.

It appeared, however, that it was not only this that was on his mind.

“If you want to drive home,” he said, “we’ll have to phone to the Durham House for a hack.” He brooded awhile, Jill remaining silent at his side, loath to break in upon whatever secret sorrow he was wrestling with. “That would be a dollar,” he went on. “They’re robbers in these parts! A dollar! And it’s not over a mile and a half. Are you fond of walking?”

Jill was a bright girl, and could take a hint.

“I love walking,” she said. She might have added that she preferred to do it on a day when the wind was not blowing quite so keenly from the East, but her uncle’s obvious excitement at the prospect of cheating the rapacity of the sharks at the Durham House restrained her. Her independent soul had not quite adjusted itself to the prospect of living on the bounty of her fellows, relatives though they were, and she was desirous of imposing as light a burden upon them as possible. “But how about my trunk?”

“The expressman will bring that up. Fifty cents!” said Uncle Elmer in a crushed way. The high cost of entertaining seemed to be afflicting this man deeply.

“Oh, yes,” said Jill. She could not see how this particular expenditure was to be avoided. Anxious as she was to make herself pleasant, she declined to consider carrying the trunk to their destination. “Shall we start, then?”

Mr Mariner led the way out into the ice-covered road. The wind welcomed them like a boisterous dog. For some minutes they proceeded in silence.

“Your aunt will be glad to see you,” said Mr Mariner at last in the voice with which one announces the death of a dear friend.

“It’s awfully kind of you to have me to stay with you,” said Jill. It is a human tendency to think, when crises occur, in terms of melodrama, and unconsciously she had begun to regard herself somewhat in the light of a heroine driven out into the world from the old home, with no roof to shelter her head. The promptitude with which these good people, who, though relatives, were after all complete strangers, had offered her a resting-place touched her. “I hope I shan’t be in the way.”

“Major Selby was speaking to me on the telephone just now,” said Mr Mariner, “and he said that you might be thinking of settling down in Brookport. I’ve some nice little places round here which you might like to look at. Rent or buy. It’s cheaper to buy. Brookport’s a growing place. It’s getting known as a summer resort. There’s a bungalow down on the shore I’d like to show you tomorrow. Stands in a nice large plot of ground, and if you bought it for twelve thousand you’d be getting a bargain.”

Jill was too astonished to speak. Plainly Uncle Chris had made no mention of the change in her fortunes, and this man looked on her as a girl of wealth. She could only think how typical this was of Uncle Chris. There was a sort of boyish impishness about him. She could see him at the telephone, suave and important. He would have hung up the receiver with a complacent smirk, thoroughly satisfied that he had done her an excellent turn.

“I put all my money into real estate when I came to live here,” went on Mr Mariner. “I believe in the place. It’s growing all the time.”

They had come to the outskirts of a straggling village. The lights in the windows gave a welcome suggestion of warmth, for darkness had fallen swiftly during their walk and the chill of the wind had become more biting. There was a smell of salt in the air now, and once or twice Jill had caught the low booming of waves on some distant beach. This was the Atlantic pounding the sandy shore of Fire Island. Brookport itself lay inside, on the lagoon called the Great South Bay.

“This is Brookport,” said Mr Mariner. “That’s Haydock’s grocery store there by the post-office. He charges sixty cents a pound for bacon, and I can get the same bacon by walking into Patchogue for fifty-seven!” He brooded awhile on the greed of man, as exemplified by the pirates of Brookport. “The very same bacon!” he said.

“How far is Patchogue?” asked Jill, feeling that some comment was required of her.

“Four miles,” said Mr Mariner.

They passed through the village, bearing to the right, and found themselves in a road bordered by large gardens in which stood big, dark houses. The spectacle of these stimulated Mr Mariner to something approaching eloquence. He quoted the price paid for each, the price asked, the price offered, the price that had been paid five years ago. The recital carried them on for another mile, in the course of which the houses became smaller and more scattered, and finally, when the country had become bare and desolate again, they turned down a narrow lane and came to a tall, gaunt house standing by itself in a field.

“This is Sandringham,” said Mr Mariner.

“What!” said Jill. “What did you say?”

“Sandringham. Where we live. I got the name from your father. I remember him telling me there was a place called that in England.”

“There is.” Jill’s voice bubbled. “The King lives there.”

“Is that so?” said Mr Mariner. “Well, I bet he doesn’t have the trouble with help that we have here. I have to pay our girl fifty dollars a month, and another twenty for the man who looks after the furnace and chops wood. They’re all robbers. And if you kick they quit on you!”

§ 3.

Jill endured Sandringham for ten days; and, looking back on that period of her life later, she wondered how she did it. The sense of desolation which had gripped her on the station platform increased rather than diminished as she grew accustomed to her surroundings. The east wind died away, and the sun shone fitfully with a suggestion of warmth, but her uncle’s bleakness appeared to be a static quality, independent of weather conditions. Her aunt, a faded woman with a perpetual cold in the head, did nothing to promote cheerfulness. The rest of the household consisted of a gloomy child, “Tibby,” aged eight; a spaniel, probably a few years older, and an intermittent cat, who, when he did put in an appearance, was the life and soul of the party, but whose visits to his home were all too infrequent for Jill. Thomas was a genial animal, whose color-scheme, like a Whistler picture, was an arrangement in black and white. He had green eyes and a purr like a racing automobile. But his social engagements in the neighborhood kept him away much of the time. He was the popular and energetic secretary of the local cats’ debating society. One could hear him at night sometimes reading the minutes in a loud, clear voice; after which the debate was considered formally open.

Each day was the same as the last, almost to the final detail. Sometimes Tibby would be naughty at breakfast, sometimes at lunch; while Rover, the spaniel, a great devotee of the garbage-can, would occasionally be sick at mid-day instead of after the evening meal. But, with these exceptions, there was a uniformity about the course of life in the Mariner household which began to prey on Jill’s nerves as early as the third day.

The picture which Mr Mariner had formed in his mind of Jill as a wealthy young lady with a taste for house property continued as vivid as ever. It was his practice each morning to conduct her about the neighborhood, introducing her to the various houses in which he had sunk most of the money which he had made in business. Mr Mariner’s life centered around Brookport real estate, and the embarrassed Jill was compelled to inspect sitting-rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, and master’s bedrooms till the sound of a key turning in a lock gave her a feeling of nervous exhaustion. Most of her uncle’s houses were converted farmhouses and, as one unfortunate purchaser had remarked, not so darned converted at that. The days she spent at Brookport remained in Jill’s memory as a smell of dampness and chill and closeness.

“You want to buy,” said Mr Mariner every time he shut a front-door behind them. “Not rent. Buy. Then, if you don’t want to live here, you can always rent in the summer.”

It seemed incredible to Jill that the summer would ever come. Winter held Brookport in its grip. For the first time in her life she was tasting real loneliness. She wandered over the snow-patched fields down to the frozen bay, and found the intense stillness, punctuated only by the occasional distant gunshot of some optimist trying for duck, oppressive rather than restful. She looked on the weird beauty of the ice-bound marshes which glittered red and green and blue in the sun with unseeing eyes; for her isolation was giving her time to think, and thought was a torment.

On the eighth day came a letter from Uncle Chris,—a cheerful, even rollicking letter. Things were going well with Uncle Chris, it seemed. As was his habit, he did not enter into details, but he wrote in a spacious way of large things to be, of affairs that were coming out right, of prosperity in sight. As tangible evidence of success, he enclosed a present of twenty dollars, for Jill to spend in the Brookport shops.

The letter arrived by the morning mail, and two hours later Mr Mariner took Jill by one of his usual overland routes to see a house nearer the village than most of those which she had viewed. Mr Mariner had exhausted the supply of cottages belonging to himself, and this one was the property of an acquaintance. There would be an agent’s fee for him in the deal, if it went through, and Mr Mariner was not a man who despised money in small quantities.

There was a touch of hopefulness in his gloom this morning, like the first intimation of sunshine after a wet day. He had been thinking the thing over, and had come to the conclusion that Jill’s unresponsiveness when confronted with the houses she had already seen was due to the fact that she had loftier ideas than he had supposed. Something a little more magnificent than the twelve thousand dollar places he had shown her was what she desired. This house stood on a hill looking down on the bay, in several acres of ground. It had its private landing-stage and bath-house, its dairy, its sleeping-porches,—everything, in fact, that a sensible girl could want. Mr Mariner could not bring himself to suppose that he would fail again today.

“They’re asking a hundred and five thousand,” he said, “but I know they’d take a hundred thousand. And, if it was a question of cash down, they would go even lower. It’s a fine house. You could entertain there. Mrs Bruggenheim rented it last summer, and wanted to buy, but she wouldn’t go above ninety thousand. If you want it, you’d better make up your mind quick. A place like this is apt to be snapped up in a hurry.”

Jill could endure it no longer.

“But, you see,” she said gently, “all I have in the world is twenty dollars!”

There was a painful pause. Mr Mariner shot a swift glance at her in the hope of discovering that she had spoken humorously, but was compelled to decide that she had not. His face under normal conditions always achieved the maximum gloom possible for any face, so he gave no outward sign of the shock which had shattered his mental poise; but he expressed his