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The Food Of The Gods And How It =
Came
To Earth
By
H. G. Wells
Contents
BOOK
I - THE DAWN OF THE FOOD.
CHAPTER
THE FIRST - THE DISCOVERY OF THE FOOD.
CHAPTER
THE SECOND - THE EXPERIMENTAL FARM.
CHAPTER
THE THIRD - THE GIANT RATS.
CHAPTER
THE FOURTH - THE GIANT CHILDREN.
CHAPTER
THE FIFTH - THE MINIMIFICENCE OF MR. BENSINGTON.
BOOK
II - THE FOOD IN THE VILLAGE.
CHAPTER
THE FIRST - THE COMING OF THE FOOD.
CHAPTER
THE SECOND - THE BRAT GIGANTIC.
BOOK
III - THE HARVEST OF THE FOOD.
CHAPTER
THE FIRST - THE ALTERED WORLD.
CHAPTER
THE SECOND - THE GIANT LOVERS.
CHAPTER
THE THIRD - YOUNG CADDLES IN LONDON.
CHAPTER
THE FOURTH - REDWOOD'S TWO DAYS.
CHAPTER
THE FIFTH - THE GIANT LEAGUER.
BOOK I - THE DAWN OF THE
FOOD.
CHAPTER THE FIRST - THE
DISCOVERY OF THE FOOD.
I.
In the middle yea=
rs
of the nineteenth century there first became abundant in this strange world=
of
ours a class of men, men tending for the most part to become elderly, who a=
re
called, and who are very properly called, but who dislike extremely to be
called--"Scientists." They dislike that word so much that from the
columns of Nature, which was from the first their distinctive and
characteristic paper, it is as carefully excluded as if it were--that other
word which is the basis of all really bad language in this country. But the
Great Public and its Press know better, and "Scientists" they are,
and when they emerge to any sort of publicity, "distinguished
scientists" and "eminent scientists" and "well-known
scientists" is the very least we call them.
Certainly both Mr.
Bensington and Professor Redwood quite merited any of these terms long befo=
re
they came upon the marvellous discovery of which this story tells. Mr.
Bensington was a Fellow of the Royal Society and a former president of the
Chemical Society, and Professor Redwood was Professor of Physiology in the =
Bond
Street College of the London University, and he had been grossly libelled by
the anti-vivisectionists time after time. And they had led lives of academic
distinction from their very earliest youth.
They were of cour=
se
quite undistinguished looking men, as indeed all true Scientists are. There=
is
more personal distinction about the mildest-mannered actor alive than there=
is
about the entire Royal Society. Mr. Bensington was short and very, very bal=
d,
and he stooped slightly; he wore gold-rimmed spectacles and cloth boots that
were abundantly cut open because of his numerous corns, and Professor Redwo=
od was
entirely ordinary in his appearance. Until they happened upon the Food of t=
he
Gods (as I must insist upon calling it) they led lives of such eminent and
studious obscurity that it is hard to find anything whatever to tell the re=
ader
about them.
Mr. Bensington won
his spurs (if one may use such an expression of a gentleman in boots of sla=
shed
cloth) by his splendid researches upon the More Toxic Alkaloids, and Profes=
sor
Redwood rose to eminence--I do not clearly remember how he rose to eminence=
! I
know he was very eminent, and that's all. Things of this sort grow. I fancy=
it
was a voluminous work on Reaction Times with numerous plates of sphygmograph
tracings (I write subject to correction) and an admirable new terminology, =
that
did the thing for him.
The general public
saw little or nothing of either of these gentlemen. Sometimes at places like
the Royal Institution and the Society of Arts it did in a sort of way see M=
r.
Bensington, or at least his blushing baldness and something of his collar a=
nd
coat, and hear fragments of a lecture or paper that he imagined himself to =
be
reading audibly; and once I remember--one midday in the vanished past--when=
the
British Association was at Dover, coming on Section C or D, or some such
letter, which had taken up its quarters in a public-house, and following tw=
o, serious-looking
ladies with paper parcels, out of mere curiosity, through a door labelled
"Billiards" and "Pool" into a scandalous darkness, brok=
en
only by a magic-lantern circle of Redwood's tracings.
I watched the lan=
tern
slides come and go, and listened to a voice (I forget what it was saying) w=
hich
I believe was the voice of Professor Redwood, and there was a sizzling from=
the
lantern and another sound that kept me there, still out of curiosity, until=
the
lights were unexpectedly turned up. And then I perceived that this sound was
the sound of the munching of buns and sandwiches and things that the assemb=
led
British Associates had come there to eat under cover of the magic-lantern
darkness.
And Redwood I
remember went on talking all the time the lights were up and dabbing at the
place where his diagram ought to have been visible on the screen--and so it=
was
again so soon as the darkness was restored. I remember him then as a most
ordinary, slightly nervous-looking dark man, with an air of being preoccupi=
ed
with something else, and doing what he was doing just then under an unaccou=
ntable
sense of duty.
I heard Bensington
also once--in the old days--at an educational conference in Bloomsbury. Like
most eminent chemists and botanists, Mr. Bensington was very authoritative =
upon
teaching--though I am certain he would have been scared out of his wits by =
an
average Board School class in half-an-hour--and so far as I can remember no=
w,
he was propounding an improvement of Professor Armstrong's Heuristic method,
whereby at the cost of three or four hundred pounds' worth of apparatus, a
total neglect of all other studies and the undivided attention of a teacher=
of exceptional
gifts, an average child might with a peculiar sort of thumby thoroughness l=
earn
in the course of ten or twelve years almost as much chemistry as one could =
get
in one of those objectionable shilling text-books that were then so common.=
...
Quite ordinary
persons you perceive, both of them, outside their science. Or if anything on
the unpractical side of ordinary. And that you will find is the case with
"scientists" as a class all the world over. What there is great of
them is an annoyance to their fellow scientists and a mystery to the general
public, and what is not is evident.
There is no doubt
about what is not great, no race of men have such obvious littlenesses. They
live in a narrow world so far as their human intercourse goes; their resear=
ches
involve infinite attention and an almost monastic seclusion; and what is le=
ft
over is not very much. To witness some queer, shy, misshapen, grey-headed,
self-important, little discoverer of great discoveries, ridiculously adorned
with the wide ribbon of some order of chivalry and holding a reception of h=
is fellow-men,
or to read the anguish of Nature at the "neglect of science" when=
the
angel of the birthday honours passes the Royal Society by, or to listen to =
one
indefatigable lichenologist commenting on the work of another indefatigable
lichenologist, such things force one to realise the unfaltering littleness =
of
men.
And withal the re=
ef
of Science that these little "scientists" built and are yet build=
ing
is so wonderful, so portentous, so full of mysterious half-shapen promises =
for
the mighty future of man! They do not seem to realise the things they are
doing! No doubt long ago even Mr. Bensington, when he chose this calling, w=
hen
he consecrated his life to the alkaloids and their kindred compounds, had s=
ome
inkling of the vision,--more than an inkling. Without some such inspiration,
for such glories and positions only as a "scientist" may expect, =
what
young man would have given his life to such work, as young men do? No, they
must have seen the glory, they must have had the vision, but so near that i=
t has
blinded them. The splendour has blinded them, mercifully, so that for the r=
est
of their lives they can hold the lights of knowledge in comfort--that we may
see!
And perhaps it
accounts for Redwood's touch of preoccupation, that--there can be no doubt =
of
it now--he among his fellows was different, he was different inasmuch as
something of the vision still lingered in his eyes.
II.
The Food of the G=
ods
I call it, this substance that Mr. Bensington and Professor Redwood made
between them; and having regard now to what it has already done and all tha=
t it
is certainly going to do, there is surely no exaggeration in the name. So I=
shall
continue to call it therefore throughout my story. But Mr. Bensington would=
no
more have called it that in cold blood than he would have gone out from his
flat in Sloane Street clad in regal scarlet and a wreath of laurel. The phr=
ase
was a mere first cry of astonishment from him. He called it the Food of the
Gods, in his enthusiasm and for an hour or so at the most altogether. After
that he decided he was being absurd. When he first thought of the thing he =
saw,
as it were, a vista of enormous possibilities--literally enormous
possibilities; but upon this dazzling vista, after one stare of amazement, =
he
resolutely shut his eyes, even as a conscientious "scientist" sho=
uld.
After that, the Food of the Gods sounded blatant to the pitch of indecency.=
He
was surprised he had used the expression. Yet for all that something of that
clear-eyed moment hung about him and broke out ever and again....
"Really, you
know," he said, rubbing his hands together and laughing nervously,
"it has more than a theoretical interest.
"For
example," he confided, bringing his face close to the Professor's and
dropping to an undertone, "it would perhaps, if suitably handled, sell=
....
"Precisely,&=
quot;
he said, walking away,--"as a Food. Or at least a food ingredient.
"Assuming of
course that it is palatable. A thing we cannot know till we have prepared
it."
He turned upon the
hearthrug, and studied the carefully designed slits upon his cloth shoes.
"Name?"=
he
said, looking up in response to an inquiry. "For my part I incline to =
the
good old classical allusion. It--it makes Science res--. Gives it a touch of
old-fashioned dignity. I have been thinking ... I don't know if you will th=
ink
it absurd of me.... A little fancy is surely occasionally permissible....
Herakleophorbia. Eh? The nutrition of a possible Hercules? You know it might
...
"Of course if
you think not--"
Redwood reflected
with his eyes on the fire and made no objection.
"You think it
would do?"
Redwood moved his
head gravely.
"It might be
Titanophorbia, you know. Food of Titans.... You prefer the former?
"You're quite
sure you don't think it a little too--"
"No."
"Ah! I'm
glad."
And so they calle=
d it
Herakleophorbia throughout their investigations, and in their report,--the
report that was never published, because of the unexpected developments that
upset all their arrangements,--it is invariably written in that way. There =
were
three kindred substances prepared before they hit on the one their speculat=
ions
had foretolds and these they spoke of as Herakleophorbia I, Herakleophorbia=
II,
and Herakleophorbia III. It is Herakleophorbia IV. which I--insisting upon =
Bensington's
original name--call here the Food of the Gods.
III.
The idea was Mr.
Bensington's. But as it was suggested to him by one of Professor Redwood's =
contributions
to the Philosophical Transactions, he very properly consulted that gentleman
before he carried it further. Besides which it was, as a research, a
physiological, quite as much as a chemical inquiry.
Professor Redwood=
was
one of those scientific men who are addicted to tracings and curves. You are
familiar--if you are at all the sort of reader I like--with the sort of
scientific paper I mean. It is a paper you cannot make head nor tail of, an=
d at
the end come five or six long folded diagrams that open out and show peculi=
ar
zigzag tracings, flashes of lightning overdone, or sinuous inexplicable thi=
ngs
called "smoothed curves" set up on ordinates and rooting in
abscissae--and things like that. You puzzle over the thing for a long time =
and
end with the suspicion that not only do you not understand it but that the
author does not understand it either. But really you know many of these sci=
entific
people understand the meaning of their own papers quite well: it is simply a
defect of expression that raises the obstacle between us.
I am inclined to
think that Redwood thought in tracings and curves. And after his monumental
work upon Reaction Times (the unscientific reader is exhorted to stick to it
for a little bit longer and everything will be as clear as daylight) Redwood
began to turn out smoothed curves and sphygmographeries upon Growth, and it=
was
one of his papers upon Growth that really gave Mr. Bensington his idea.
Redwood, you know,
had been measuring growing things of all sorts, kittens, puppies, sunflower=
s,
mushrooms, bean plants, and (until his wife put a stop to it) his baby, and=
he
showed that growth went out not at a regular pace, or, as he put it, so,
=
/ =
/
=
/
=
/
=
/
=
/
/ =
/
/ /
but with bursts a=
nd
intermissions of this sort,
=
&nb=
sp;
=
&nb=
sp; /
=
&nb=
sp;/
=
/
=
/
=
/
/ /
and that apparent=
ly
nothing grew regularly and steadily, and so far as he could make out nothing
could grow regularly and steadily: it was as if every living thing had just=
to
accumulate force to grow, grew with vigour only for a time, and then had to
wait for a space before it could go on growing again. And in the muffled and
highly technical language of the really careful "scientist," Redw=
ood
suggested that the process of growth probably demanded the presence of a
considerable quantity of some necessary substance in the blood that was only
formed very slowly, and that when this substance was used up by growth, it =
was
only very slowly replaced, and that meanwhile the organism had to mark time=
. He
compared his unknown substance to oil in machinery. A growing animal was ra=
ther
like an engine, he suggested, that can move a certain distance and must the=
n be
oiled before it can run again. ("But why shouldn't one oil the engine =
from
without?" said Mr. Bensington, when he read the paper.) And all this, =
said
Redwood, with the delightful nervous inconsecutiveness of his class, might =
very
probably be found to throw a light upon the mystery of certain of the ductl=
ess
glands. As though they had anything to do with it at all!
In a subsequent
communication Redwood went further. He gave a perfect Brock's benefit of
diagrams--exactly like rocket trajectories they were; and the gist of it--so
far as it had any gist--was that the blood of puppies and kittens and the s=
ap
of sunflowers and the juice of mushrooms in what he called the "growin=
g phase"
differed in the proportion of certain elements from their blood and sap on =
the
days when they were not particularly growing.
And when Mr.
Bensington, after holding the diagrams sideways and upside down, began to s=
ee
what this difference was, a great amazement came upon him. Because, you see,
the difference might probably be due to the presence of just the very subst=
ance
he had recently been trying to isolate in his researches upon such alkaloid=
s as
are most stimulating to the nervous system. He put down Redwood's paper on =
the
patent reading-desk that swung inconveniently from his arm-chair, took off =
his gold-rimmed
spectacles, breathed on them and wiped them very carefully.
"By Jove!&qu=
ot;
said Mr. Bensington.
Then replacing his
spectacles again he turned to the patent reading-desk, which immediately, as
his elbow came against its arm, gave a coquettish squeak and deposited the
paper, with all its diagrams in a dispersed and crumpled state, on the floo=
r.
"By Jove!" said Mr. Bensington, straining his stomach over the
arm-chair with a patient disregard of the habits of this convenience, and t=
hen,
finding the pamphlet still out of reach, he went down on all fours in pursu=
it.
It was on the floor that the idea of calling it the Food of the Gods came to
him....
For you see, if he
was right and Redwood was right, then by injecting or administering this new
substance of his in food, he would do away with the "resting phase,&qu=
ot;
and instead of growth going on in this fashion,
=
&nb=
sp;
=
/
it would (if you
follow me) go thus--
=
/ =
/
=
/
=
/
=
/
=
/
=
/
=
/
/ /
IV.
The night after h=
is
conversation with Redwood Mr. Bensington could scarcely sleep a wink. He did
seem once to get into a sort of doze, but it was only for a moment, and the=
n he
dreamt he had dug a deep hole into the earth and poured in tons and tons of=
the
Food of the Gods, and the earth was swelling and swelling, and all the
boundaries of the countries were bursting, and the Royal Geographical Socie=
ty
was all at work like one great guild of tailors letting out the equator....=
That of course wa=
s a
ridiculous dream, but it shows the state of mental excitement into which Mr.
Bensington got and the real value he attached to his idea, much better than=
any
of the things he said or did when he was awake and on his guard. Or I should
not have mentioned it, because as a general rule I do not think it is at all
interesting for people to tell each other about their dreams.
By a singular coincidence Redwood also had a dream that night, and his dream was this:--<= o:p>
| =
|
| =
|
=
|
=
|
=
|
=
|
=
|
=
|
It was a diagram =
done
in fire upon a long scroll of the abyss. And he (Redwood) was standing on a
planet before a sort of black platform lecturing about the new sort of grow=
th
that was now possible, to the More than Royal Institution of Primordial
Forces--forces which had always previously, even in the growth of races,
empires, planetary systems, and worlds, gone so:--
=
=
/
=
/
=
/
/ /
And even in some
cases so:--
=
=
/ \ / /
And he was explai=
ning
to them quite lucidly and convincingly that these slow, these even
retrogressive methods would be very speedily quite put out of fashion by his
discovery.
Ridiculous of cou=
rse!
But that too shows--
That either dream=
is
to be regarded as in any way significant or prophetic beyond what I have
categorically said, I do not for one moment suggest.
CHAPTER THE SECOND - THE
EXPERIMENTAL FARM.
I.
Mr. Bensington
proposed originally to try this stuff, so soon as he was really able to pre=
pare
it, upon tadpoles. One always does try this sort of thing upon tadpoles to
begin with; this being what tadpoles are for. And it was agreed that he sho=
uld
conduct the experiments and not Redwood, because Redwood's laboratory was
occupied with the ballistic apparatus and animals necessary for an
investigation into the Diurnal Variation in the Butting Frequency of the Yo=
ung
Bull Calf, an investigation that was yielding curves of an abnormal and ver=
y perplexing
sort, and the presence of glass globes of tadpoles was extremely undesirable
while this particular research was in progress.
But when Mr.
Bensington conveyed to his cousin Jane something of what he had in mind, she
put a prompt veto upon the importation of any considerable number of tadpol=
es,
or any such experimental creatures, into their flat. She had no objection
whatever to his use of one of the rooms of the flat for the purposes of a
non-explosive chemistry that, so far as she was concerned, came to nothing;=
she
let him have a gas furnace and a sink and a dust-tight cupboard of refuge f=
rom
the weekly storm of cleaning she would not forego. And having known people
addicted to drink, she regarded his solicitude for distinction in learned s=
ocieties
as an excellent substitute for the coarser form of depravity. But any sort =
of
living things in quantity, "wriggly" as they were bound to be ali=
ve
and "smelly" dead, she could not and would not abide. She said th=
ese
things were certain to be unhealthy, and Bensington was notoriously a delic=
ate
man--it was nonsense to say he wasn't. And when Bensington tried to make the
enormous importance of this possible discovery clear, she said that it was =
all
very well, but if she consented to his making everything nasty and unwholes=
ome
in the place (and that was what it all came to) then she was certain he wou=
ld
be the first to complain.
And Mr. Bensington
went up and down the room, regardless of his corns, and spoke to her quite
firmly and angrily without the slightest effect. He said that nothing ought=
to
stand in the way of the Advancement of Science, and she said that the
Advancement of Science was one thing and having a lot of tadpoles in a flat=
was
another; he said that in Germany it was an ascertained fact that a man with=
an
idea like his would at once have twenty thousand properly-fitted cubic feet=
of
laboratory placed at his disposal, and she said she was glad and always had
been glad that she was not a German; he said that it would make him famous =
for
ever, and she said it was much more likely to make him ill to have a lot of
tadpoles in a flat like theirs; he said he was master in his own house, and=
she
said that rather than wait on a lot of tadpoles she'd go as matron to a sch=
ool;
and then he asked her to be reasonable, and she asked him to be reasonable =
then
and give up all this about tadpoles; and he said she might respect his idea=
s,
and she said not if they were smelly she wouldn't, and then he gave way
completely and said--in spite of the classical remarks of Huxley upon the
subject--a bad word. Not a very bad word it was, but bad enough.
And after that she
was greatly offended and had to be apologised to, and the prospect of ever =
trying
the Food of the Gods upon tadpoles in their flat at any rate vanished
completely in the apology.
So Bensington had=
to
consider some other way of carrying out these experiments in feeding that w=
ould
be necessary to demonstrate his discovery, so soon as he had his substance
isolated and prepared. For some days he meditated upon the possibility of
boarding out his tadpoles with some trustworthy person, and then the chance
sight of the phrase in a newspaper turned his thoughts to an Experimental F=
arm.
And chicks. Direc=
tly
he thought of it, he thought of it as a poultry farm. He was suddenly taken
with a vision of wildly growing chicks. He conceived a picture of coops and
runs, outsize and still more outsize coops, and runs progressively larger.
Chicks are so accessible, so easily fed and observed, so much drier to hand=
le
and measure, that for his purpose tadpoles seemed to him now, in comparison
with them, quite wild and uncontrollable beasts. He was quite puzzled to
understand why he had not thought of chicks instead of tadpoles from the
beginning. Among other things it would have saved all this trouble with his
cousin Jane. And when he suggested this to Redwood, Redwood quite agreed wi=
th him.
Redwood said that=
in
working so much upon needlessly small animals he was convinced experimental
physiologists made a great mistake. It is exactly like making experiments in
chemistry with an insufficient quantity of material; errors of observation =
and
manipulation become disproportionately large. It was of extreme importance =
just
at present that scientific men should assert their right to have their mate=
rial
big. That was why he was doing his present series of experiments at the Bond
Street College upon Bull Calves, in spite of a certain amount of inconvenie=
nce
to the students and professors of other subjects caused by their incidental
levity in the corridors. But the curves he was getting were quite exception=
ally
interesting, and would, when published, amply justify his choice. For his o=
wn
part, were it not for the inadequate endowment of science in this country, =
he
would never, if he could avoid it, work on anything smaller than a whale. B=
ut a
Public Vivarium on a sufficient scale to render this possible was, he feare=
d, at
present, in this country at any rate, a Utopian demand. In Germany--Etc.
As Redwood's Bull
calves needed his daily attention, the selection and equipment of the
Experimental Farm fell largely on Bensington. The entire cost also, was, it=
was
understood, to be defrayed by Bensington, at least until a grant could be
obtained. Accordingly he alternated his work in the laboratory of his flat =
with
farm hunting up and down the lines that run southward out of London, and his
peering spectacles, his simple baldness, and his lacerated cloth shoes fill=
ed
the owners of numerous undesirable properties with vain hopes. And he
advertised in several daily papers and Nature for a responsible couple
(married), punctual, active, and used to poultry, to take entire charge of =
an Experimental
Farm of three acres.
He found the plac=
e he
seemed in need of at Hickleybrow, near Urshot, in Kent. It was a little que=
er
isolated place, in a dell surrounded by old pine woods that were black and
forbidding at night. A humped shoulder of down cut it off from the sunset, =
and
a gaunt well with a shattered penthouse dwarfed the dwelling. The little ho=
use
was creeperless, several windows were broken, and the cart shed had a black
shadow at midday. It was a mile and a half from the end house of the villag=
e,
and its loneliness was very doubtfully relieved by an ambiguous family of e=
choes.
The place impress=
ed
Bensington as being eminently adapted to the requirements of scientific
research. He walked over the premises sketching out coops and runs with a
sweeping arm, and he found the kitchen capable of accommodating a series of
incubators and foster mothers with the very minimum of alteration. He took =
the
place there and then; on his way back to London he stopped at Dunton Green =
and
closed with an eligible couple that had answered his advertisements, and th=
at same
evening he succeeded in isolating a sufficient quantity of Herakleophorbia =
I.
to more than justify these engagements.
The eligible coup=
le
who were destined under Mr. Bensington to be the first almoners on earth of=
the
Food of the Gods, were not only very perceptibly aged, but also extremely
dirty. This latter point Mr. Bensington did not observe, because nothing
destroys the powers of general observation quite so much as a life of
experimental science. They were named Skinner, Mr. and Mrs. Skinner, and Mr.
Bensington interviewed them in a small room with hermetically sealed window=
s, a
spotted overmantel looking-glass, and some ailing calceolarias.
Mrs. Skinner was a
very little old woman, capless, with dirty white hair drawn back very very
tightly from a face that had begun by being chiefly, and was now, through t=
he
loss of teeth and chin, and the wrinkling up of everything else, ending by
being almost exclusively--nose. She was dressed in slate colour (so far as =
her
dress had any colour) slashed in one place with red flannel. She let him in=
and
talked to him guardedly and peered at him round and over her nose, while Mr.
Skinner she alleged made some alteration in his toilette. She had one tooth
that got into her articulations and she held her two long wrinkled hands
nervously together. She told Mr. Bensington that she had managed fowls for
years; and knew all about incubators; in fact, they themselves had run a
Poultry Farm at one time, and it had only failed at last through the want of
pupils. "It's the pupils as pay," said Mrs. Skinner.
Mr. Skinner, when=
he
appeared, was a large-faced man, with a lisp and a squint that made him look
over the top of your head, slashed slippers that appealed to Mr. Bensington=
's
sympathies, and a manifest shortness of buttons. He held his coat and shirt
together with one hand and traced patterns on the black-and-gold tablecloth
with the index finger of the other, while his disengaged eye watched Mr.
Bensington's sword of Damocles, so to speak, with an expression of sad
detachment. "You don't want to run thith Farm for profit. No, Thir. Ith
all the thame, Thir. Ekthperimenth! Prethithely."
He said they coul=
d go
to the farm at once. He was doing nothing at Dunton Green except a little
tailoring. "It ithn't the thmart plathe I thought it wath, and what I =
get
ithent thkarthely worth having," he said, "tho that if it ith any
convenienth to you for uth to come...."
And in a week Mr.=
and
Mrs. Skinner were installed in the farm, and the jobbing carpenter from Hic=
kleybrow
was diversifying the task of erecting runs and henhouses with a systematic
discussion of Mr. Bensington.
"I haven't t=
heen
much of 'im yet," said Mr. Skinner. "But as far as I can make 'im=
out
'e theems to be a thtewpid o' fool."
"I thought '=
e seemed
a bit Dotty," said the carpenter from Hickleybrow.
"'E fanthieth
'imself about poultry," said Mr. Skinner. "O my goodneth! You'd t=
hink
nobody knew nothin' about poultry thept 'im."
"'E looks li=
ke a
'en," said the carpenter from Hickleybrow; "what with them specta=
cles
of 'is."
Mr. Skinner came
closer to the carpenter from Hickleybrow, and spoke in a confidential manne=
r,
and one sad eye regarded the distant village, and one was bright and wicked.
"Got to be meathured every blethed day--every blethed 'en, 'e thays. T=
ho
as to thee they grow properly. What oh ... eh? Every blethed 'en--every ble=
thed
day."
And Mr. Skinner p=
ut
up his hand to laugh behind it in a refined and contagious manner, and hump=
ed
his shoulders very much--and only the other eye of him failed to participat=
e in
his laughter. Then doubting if the carpenter had quite got the point of it,=
he
repeated in a penetrating whisper; "Meathured!"
"'E's worse =
than
our old guvnor; I'm dratted if 'e ain't," said the carpenter from
Hickleybrow.
II.
Experimental work=
is
the most tedious thing in the world (unless it be the reports of it in the
Philosophical Transactions), and it seemed a long time to Mr. Bensington be=
fore
his first dream of enormous possibilities was replaced by a crumb of realis=
ation.
He had taken the Experimental Farm in October, and it was May before the fi=
rst
inklings of success began. Herakleophorbia I. and II. and III. had to be tr=
ied,
and failed; there was trouble with the rats of the Experimental Farm, and t=
here
was trouble with the Skinners. The only way to get Skinner to do anything he
was told to do was to dismiss him. Then he would nib his unshaven chin--he =
was
always unshaven most miraculously and yet never bearded--with a flattened h=
and,
and look at Mr. Bensington with one eye, and over him with the other, and s=
ay,
"Oo, of courthe, Thir--if you're theriouth!"
But at last succe=
ss
dawned. And its herald was a letter in the long slender handwriting of Mr.
Skinner.
"The new Bro=
od
are out," wrote Mr. Skinner, "and don't quite like the look of th=
em.
Growing very rank--quite unlike what the similar lot was before your last
directions was given. The last, before the cat got them, was a very nice,
stocky chick, but these are Growing like thistles. I never saw. They peck so
hard, striking above boot top, that am unable to give exact Measures as
requested. They are regular Giants, and eating as such. We shall want more =
com
very soon, for you never saw such chicks to eat. Bigger than Bantams. Going=
on
at this rate, they ought to be a bird for show, rank as they are. Plymouth
Rocks won't be in it. Had a scare last night thinking that cat was at them,=
and
when I looked out at the window could have sworn I see her getting in under=
the
wire. The chicks was all awake and pecking about hungry when I went out, but
could not see anything of the cat. So gave them a peck of corn, and fastene=
d up
safe. Shall be glad to know if the Feeding to be continued as directed. Food
you mixed is pretty near all gone, and do not like to mix any more myself on
account of the accident with the pudding. With best wishes from us both, and
soliciting continuance of esteemed favours,
"Respectfully
yours,
"ALFRED NEWT=
ON
SKINNER."
The allusion towards the end referr=
ed to
a milk pudding with which some Herakleophorbia II. had got itself mixed with
painful and very nearly fatal results to the Skinners.
But Mr. Bensingto=
n,
reading between the lines saw in this rankness of growth the attainment of =
his
long sought goal. The next morning he alighted at Urshot station, and in the
bag in his hand he carried, sealed in three tins, a supply of the Food of t=
he
Gods sufficient for all the chicks in Kent.
It was a bright a=
nd
beautiful morning late in May, and his corns were so much better that he
resolved to walk through Hickleybrow to his farm. It was three miles and a =
half
altogether, through the park and villages and then along the green glades of
the Hickleybrow preserves. The trees were all dusted with the green spangle=
s of
high spring, the hedges were full of stitchwort and campion and the woods of
blue hyacinths and purple orchid; and everywhere there was a great noise of
birds--thrushes, blackbirds, robins, finches, and many more--and in one warm
corner of the park some bracken was unrolling, and there was a leaping and
rushing of fallow deer.
These things brou=
ght
back to Mr. Bensington his early and forgotten delight in life; before him =
the
promise of his discovery grew bright and joyful, and it seemed to him that
indeed he must have come upon the happiest day in his life. And when in the
sunlit run by the sandy bank under the shadow of the pine trees he saw the
chicks that had eaten the food he had mixed for them, gigantic and gawky,
bigger already than many a hen that is married and settled and still growin=
g,
still in their first soft yellow plumage (just faintly marked with brown al=
ong
the back), he knew indeed that his happiest day had come.
At Mr. Skinner's
urgency he went into the runs but after he had been pecked through the crac=
ks
in his shoes once or twice he got out again, and watched these monsters thr=
ough
the wire netting. He peered close to the netting, and followed their moveme=
nts
as though he had never seen a chick before in his life.
"Whath they'=
ll
be when they're grown up ith impothible to think," said Mr. Skinner.
"Big as a
horse," said Mr. Bensington.
"Pretty
near," said Mr. Skinner.
"Several peo=
ple
could dine off a wing!" said Mr. Bensington. "They'd cut up into
joints like butcher's meat."
"They won't =
go
on growing at thith pathe though," said Mr. Skinner.
"No?" s=
aid
Mr. Bensington.
"No," s=
aid
Mr. Skinner. "I know thith thort. They begin rank, but they don't go o=
n,
bleth you! No."
There was a pause=
.
"Itth
management," said Mr. Skinner modestly.
Mr. Bensington tu=
rned
his glasses on him suddenly.
"We got 'em
almoth ath big at the other plathe," said Mr. Skinner, with his better=
eye
piously uplifted and letting himself go a little; "me and the
mithith."
Mr. Bensington ma=
de
his usual general inspection of the premises, but he speedily returned to t=
he
new run. It was, you know, in truth ever so much more than he had dared to
expect. The course of science is so tortuous and so slow; after the clear
promises and before the practical realisation arrives there comes almost al=
ways
year after year of intricate contrivance, and here--here was the Foods of t=
he
Gods arriving after less than a year of testing! It seemed too good--too go=
od.
That Hope Deferred which is the daily food of the scientific imagination wa=
s to
be his no more! So at least it seemed to him then. He came back and stared =
at
these stupendous chicks of his, time after time.
"Let me
see," he said. "They're ten days old. And by the side of an ordin=
ary
chick I should fancy--about six or seven times as big...."
"Itth about =
time
we artht for a rithe in thkrew," said Mr. Skinner to his wife. "H=
e'th
ath pleathed ath Punth about the way we got thothe chickth on in the further
run--pleathed ath Punth he ith."
He bent
confidentially towards her. "Thinkth it'th that old food of hith,"=
; he
said behind his hands and made a noise of suppressed laughter in his pharyn=
geal
cavity....
Mr. Bensington was
indeed a happy man that day. He was in no mood to find fault with details of
management. The bright day certainly brought out the accumulating slovenlin=
ess
of the Skinner couple more vividly than he had ever seen it before. But his
comments were of the gentlest. The fencing of many of the runs was out of
order, but he seemed to consider it quite satisfactory when Mr. Skinner
explained that it was a "fokth or a dog or thomething" did it. He
pointed out that the incubator had not been cleaned.
"That it asn=
't,
Sir," said Mrs. Skinner with her arms folded, smiling coyly behind her
nose. "We don't seem to have had time to clean it not since we been
'ere...."
He went upstairs =
to
see some rat-holes that Skinner said would justify a trap--they certainly w=
ere
enormous--and discovered that the room in which the Food of the Gods was mi=
xed
with meal and bran was in a quite disgraceful order. The Skinners were the =
sort
of people who find a use for cracked saucers and old cans and pickle jars a=
nd
mustard boxes, and the place was littered with these. In one corner a great
pile of apples that Skinner had saved was decaying, and from a nail in the
sloping part of the ceiling hung several rabbit skins, upon which he propos=
ed
to test his gift as a furrier. ("There ithn't mutth about furth and
thingth that I don't know," said Skinner.)
Mr. Bensington
certainly sniffed critically at this disorder, but he made no unnecessary f=
uss,
and even when he found a wasp regaling itself in a gallipot half full of
Herakleophorbia IV, he simply remarked mildly that his substance was better
sealed from the damp than exposed to the air in that manner.
And he turned from
these things at once to remark--what had been for some time in his
mind--"I think, Skinner--you know, I shall kill one of these chicks--a=
s a
specimen. I think we will kill it this afternoon, and I will take it back w=
ith
me to London."
He pretended to p=
eer
into another gallipot and then took off his spectacles to wipe them.
"I should
like," he said, "I should like very much, to have some relic--some
memento--of this particular brood at this particular day."
"By-the-bye,=
"
he said, "you don't give those little chicks meat?"
"Oh! no,
Thir," said Skinner, "I can athure you, Thir, we know far too much
about the management of fowlth of all dethcriptionth to do anything of that
thort."
"Quite sure =
you
don't throw your dinner refuse--I thought I noticed the bones of a rabbit
scattered about the far corner of the run--"
But when they cam=
e to
look at them they found they were the larger bones of a cat picked very cle=
an
and dry.
III.
"That's no
chick," said Mr. Bensington's cousin Jane.
"Well, I sho=
uld
think I knew a chick when I saw it," said Mr. Bensington's cousin Jane
hotly.
"It's too big
for a chick, for one thing, and besides you can see perfectly well it isn't=
a
chick.
"It's more l=
ike
a bustard than a chick."
"For my
part," said Redwood, reluctantly allowing Bensington to drag him into =
the
argument, "I must confess that, considering all the evidence--"
"Oh I if you=
do
that," said Mr. Bensington's cousin Jane, "instead of using your =
eyes
like a sensible person--"
"Well, but
really, Miss Bensington--!"
"Oh! Go
on!" said Cousin Jane. "You men are all alike."
"Considering=
all
the evidence, this certainly falls within the definition--no doubt it's
abnormal and hypertrophied, but still--especially since it was hatched from=
the
egg of a normal hen--Yes, I think, Miss Bensington, I must admit--this, so =
far
as one can call it anything, is a sort of chick."
"You mean it=
's a
chick?" said cousin Jane.
"I think it'=
s a
chick," said Redwood.
"What
NONSENSE!" said Mr. Bensington's cousin Jane, and "Oh!" dire=
cted
at Redwood's head, "I haven't patience with you," and then sudden=
ly
she turned about and went out of the room with a slam.
"And it's a =
very
great relief for me to see it too, Bensington," said Redwood, when the
reverberation of the slam had died away. "In spite of its being so big=
."
Without any urgen=
cy
from Mr. Bensington he sat down in the low arm-chair by the fire and confes=
sed
to proceedings that even in an unscientific man would have been indiscreet.
"You will think it very rash of me, Bensington, I know," he said,
"but the fact is I put a little--not very much of it--but some--into
Baby's bottle, very nearly a week ago!"
"But
suppose--!" cried Mr. Bensington.
"I know,&quo=
t;
said Redwood, and glanced at the giant chick upon the plate on the table.
"It's turned=
out
all right, thank goodness," and he felt in his pocket for his cigarett=
es.
He gave fragmenta=
ry
details. "Poor little chap wasn't putting on weight... desperately
anxious.--Winkles, a frightful duffer ... former pupil of mine ... no good.=
...
Mrs. Redwood--unmitigated confidence in Winkles.... You know, man with a ma=
nner
like a cliff--towering.... No confidence in me, of course.... Taught
Winkles.... Scarcely allowed in the nursery.... Something had to be done....
Slipped in while the nurse was at breakfast ... got at the bottle."
"But he'll
grow," said Mr. Bensington.
"He's growin=
g.
Twenty-seven ounces last week.... You should hear Winkles. It's management,=
he
said."
"Dear me! Th=
at's
what Skinner says!"
Redwood looked at=
the
chick again. "The bother is to keep it up," he said. "They w=
on't
trust me in the nursery alone, because I tried to get a growth curve out of
Georgina Phyllis--you know--and how I'm to give him a second dose--"
"Need you?&q=
uot;
"He's been
crying two days--can't get on with his ordinary food again, anyhow. He wants
some more now."
"Tell
Winkles."
"Hang
Winkles!" said Redwood.
"You might g=
et
at Winkles and give him powders to give the child--"
"That's about
what I shall have to do," said Redwood, resting his chin on his fist a=
nd
staring into the fire.
Bensington stood =
for
a space smoothing the down on the breast of the giant chick. "They wil=
l be
monstrous fowls," he said.
"They
will," said Redwood, still with his eyes on the glow.
"Big as
horses," said Bensington.
"Bigger,&quo=
t;
said Redwood. "That's just it!"
Bensington turned
away from the specimen. "Redwood," he said, "these fowls are
going to create a sensation."
Redwood nodded his
head at the fire.
"And by
Jove!" said Bensington, coming round suddenly with a flash in his
spectacles, "so will your little boy!"
"That's just
what I'm thinking of," said Redwood.
He sat back, sigh=
ed,
threw his unconsumed cigarette into the fire and thrust his hands deep into=
his
trousers pockets. "That's precisely what I'm thinking of. This
Herakleophorbia is going to be queer stuff to handle. The pace that chick m=
ust
have grown at--!"
"A little boy
growing at that pace," said Mr. Bensington slowly, and stared at the c=
hick
as he spoke.
"I Say!"
said Bensington, "he'll be Big."
"I shall give
him diminishing doses," said Redwood. "Or at any rate Winkles
will."
"It's rather=
too
much of an experiment."
"Much."=
"Yet still, =
you
know, I must confess--... Some baby will sooner or later have to try it.&qu=
ot;
"Oh, we'll t=
ry
it on some baby--certainly."
"Exactly
so," said Bensington, and came and stood on the hearthrug and took off=
his
spectacles to wipe them.
"Until I saw
these chicks, Redwood, I don't think I began to realise--anything--of the
possibilities of what we were making. It's only beginning to dawn upon me .=
..
the possible consequences...."
And even then, you
know, Mr. Bensington was far from any conception of the mine that little tr=
ain
would fire.
IV.
That happened ear=
ly
in June. For some weeks Bensington was kept from revisiting the Experimental
Farm by a severe imaginary catarrh, and one necessary flying visit was made=
by
Redwood. He returned an even more anxious-looking parent than he had gone.
Altogether there were seven weeks of steady, uninterrupted growth....
And then the Wasps
began their career.
It was late in Ju=
ly
and nearly a week before the hens escaped from Hickleybrow that the first of
the big wasps was killed. The report of it appeared in several papers, but =
I do
not know whether the news reached Mr. Bensington, much less whether he
connected it with the general laxity of method that prevailed in the
Experimental Farm.
There can be but
little doubt now, that while Mr. Skinner was plying Mr. Bensington's chicks
with Herakleophorbia IV, a number of wasps were just as industriously--perh=
aps
more industriously--carrying quantities of the same paste to their early su=
mmer
broods in the sand-banks beyond the adjacent pine-woods. And there can be no
dispute whatever that these early broods found just as much growth and bene=
fit
in the substance as Mr. Bensington's hens. It is in the nature of the wasp =
to
attain to effective maturity before the domestic fowl--and in fact of all t=
he creatures
that were--through the generous carelessness of the Skinners--partaking of =
the
benefits Mr. Bensington heaped upon his hens, the wasps were the first to m=
ake
any sort of figure in the world.
It was a keeper n=
amed
Godfrey, on the estate of Lieutenant-Colonel Rupert Hick, near Maidstone, w=
ho
encountered and had the luck to kill the first of these monsters of whom
history has any record. He was walking knee high in bracken across an open
space in the beechwoods that diversify Lieutenant-Colonel Hick's park, and =
he
was carrying his gun--very fortunately for him a double-barrelled gun--over=
his
shoulder, when he first caught sight of the thing. It was, he says, coming =
down
against the light, so that he could not see it very distinctly, and as it c=
ame
it made a drone "like a motor car." He admits he was frightened. =
It
was evidently as big or bigger than a barn owl, and, to his practised eye, =
its
flight and particularly the misty whirl of its wings must have seemed weird=
ly
unbirdlike. The instinct of self-defence, I fancy, mingled with long habit,
when, as he says, he "let fly, right away."
The queerness of =
the
experience probably affected his aim; at any rate most of his shot missed, =
and
the thing merely dropped for a moment with an angry "Wuzzzz" that
revealed the wasp at once, and then rose again, with all its stripes shining
against the light. He says it turned on him. At any rate, he fired his seco=
nd
barrel at less than twenty yards and threw down his gun, ran a pace or so, =
and
ducked to avoid it.
It flew, he is
convinced, within a yard of him, struck the ground, rose again, came down a=
gain
perhaps thirty yards away, and rolled over with its body wriggling and its
sting stabbing out and back in its last agony. He emptied both barrels into=
it
again before he ventured to go near.
When he came to
measure the thing, he found it was twenty-seven and a half inches across its
open wings, and its sting was three inches long. The abdomen was blown clean
off from its body, but he estimated the length of the creature from head to
sting as eighteen inches--which is very nearly correct. Its compound eyes w=
ere
the size of penny pieces.
That is the first
authenticated appearance of these giant wasps. The day after, a cyclist rid=
ing,
feet up, down the hill between Sevenoaks and Tonbridge, very narrowly missed
running over a second of these giants that was crawling across the roadway.=
His
passage seemed to alarm it, and it rose with a noise like a sawmill. His
bicycle jumped the footpath in the emotion of the moment, and when he could
look back, the wasp was soaring away above the woods towards Westerham.
After riding
unsteadily for a little time, he put on his brake, dismounted--he was tremb=
ling
so violently that he fell over his machine in doing so--and sat down by the
roadside to recover. He had intended to ride to Ashford, but he did not get
beyond Tonbridge that day....
After that, curio=
usly
enough, there is no record of any big wasps being seen for three days. I fi=
nd
on consulting the meteorological record of those days that they were overca=
st
and chilly with local showers, which may perhaps account for this intermiss=
ion.
Then on the fourth day came blue sky and brilliant sunshine and such an
outburst of wasps as the world had surely never seen before.
How many big wasps
came out that day it is impossible to guess. There are at least fifty accou=
nts
of their apparition. There was one victim, a grocer, who discovered one of
these monsters in a sugar-cask and very rashly attacked it with a spade as =
it
rose. He struck it to the ground for a moment, and it stung him through the
boot as he struck at it again and cut its body in half. He was first dead of
the two....
The most dramatic=
of
the fifty appearances was certainly that of the wasp that visited the Briti=
sh
Museum about midday, dropping out of the blue serene upon one of the
innumerable pigeons that feed in the courtyard of that building, and flying=
up
to the cornice to devour its victim at leisure. After that it crawled for a
time over the museum roof, entered the dome of the reading-room by a skylig=
ht,
buzzed about inside it for some little time--there was a stampede among the=
readers--and
at last found another window and vanished again with a sudden silence from
human observation.
Most of the other
reports were of mere passings or descents. A picnic party was dispersed at
Aldington Knoll and all its sweets and jam consumed, and a puppy was killed=
and
torn to pieces near Whitstable under the very eyes of its mistress....
The streets that
evening resounded with the cry, the newspaper placards gave themselves up
exclusively in the biggest of letters to the "Gigantic Wasps in
Kent." Agitated editors and assistant editors ran up and down tortuous
staircases bawling things about "wasps." And Professor Redwood,
emerging from his college in Bond Street at five, flushed from a heated
discussion with his committee about the price of bull calves, bought an eve=
ning
paper, opened it, changed colour, forgot about bull calves and committee
forthwith, and took a hansom headlong for Bensington's flat.
V.
The flat was
occupied, it seemed to him--to the exclusion of all other sensible objects-=
-by
Mr. Skinner and his voice, if indeed you can call either him or it a sensib=
le
object!
The voice was up =
very
high slopping about among the notes of anguish. "Itth impothible for u=
th
to thtop, Thir. We've thtopped on hoping thingth would get better and they'=
ve
only got worth, Thir. It ithn't on'y the waptheth, Thir--thereth big earwig=
th,
Thir--big ath that, Thir." (He indicated all his hand and about three
inches of fat dirty wrist.) "They pretty near give Mithith Thkinner fi=
tth,
Thir. And the thtinging nettleth by the runth, Thir, they're growing, Thir,=
and
the canary creeper, Thir, what we thowed near the think, Thir--it put itth =
tendril
through the window in the night, Thir, and very nearly caught Mithith Thkin=
ner
by the legth, Thir. Itth that food of yourth, Thir. Wherever we thplathed it
about, Thir, a bit, it'th thet everything growing ranker, Thir, than I ever
thought anything could grow. Itth impothible to thtop a month, Thir. Itth m=
ore
than our liveth are worth, Thir. Even if the waptheth don't thting uth, we =
thall
be thuffocated by the creeper, Thir. You can't imagine, Thir--unleth you co=
me
down to thee, Thir--"
He turned his
superior eye to the cornice above Redwood's head. "'Ow do we know the
ratth 'aven't got it, Thir! That 'th what I think of motht, Thir. I 'aven't
theen any big ratth, Thir, but 'ow do I know, Thir. We been frightened for
dayth becauth of the earwigth we've theen--like lobthters they wath--two of
'em, Thir--and the frightful way the canary creeper wath growing, and direc=
tly
I heard the waptheth--directly I 'eard 'em, Thir, I underthood. I didn't wa=
it
for nothing exthept to thow on a button I'd lortht, and then I came on up. =
Even
now, Thir, I'm arf wild with angthiety, Thir. 'Ow do I know watth happenin'=
to
Mithith Thkinner, Thir! Thereth the creeper growing all over the plathe lik=
e a thnake,
Thir--thwelp me but you 'ave to watch it, Thir, and jump out of itth way!--=
and
the earwigth gettin' bigger and bigger, and the waptheth--. She 'athen't ev=
en
got a Blue Bag, Thir--if anything thould happen, Thir!"
"But the
hens," said Mr. Bensington; "how are the hens?"
"We fed 'em =
up
to yethterday, thwelp me," said Mr. Skinner, "But thith morning we
didn't dare, Thir. The noithe of the waptheth wath--thomething awful, Thir.
They wath coming ont--dothenth. Ath big ath 'enth. I thayth, to 'er, I thay=
th
you juth thow me on a button or two, I thayth, for I can't go to London like
thith, I thayth, and I'll go up to Mithter Benthington, I thayth, and ekthp=
lain
thingth to 'im. And you thtop in thith room till I come back to you, I thay=
th,
and keep the windowth thhut jutht ath tight ath ever you can, I thayth.&quo=
t;
"If you hadn=
't
been so confoundedly untidy--" began Redwood.
"Oh! don't t=
hay
that, Thir," said Skinner. "Not now, Thir. Not with me tho
diththrethed, Thir, about Mithith Thkinner, Thir! Oh, don't, Thir! I 'aven't
the 'eart to argue with you. Thwelp me, Thir, I 'aven't! Itth the ratth I k=
eep
a thinking of--'Ow do I know they 'aven't got at Mithith Thkinner while I b=
een
up 'ere?"
"And you hav=
en't
got a solitary measurement of all these beautiful growth curves!" said
Redwood.
"I been too
upthet, Thir," said Mr. Skinner. "If you knew what we been throug=
h--me
and the mithith! All thith latht month. We 'aven't known what to make of it,
Thir. What with the henth gettin' tho rank, and the earwigth, and the canary
creeper. I dunno if I told you, Thir--the canary creeper ..."
"You've told=
us
all that," said Redwood. "The thing is, Bensington, what are we to
do?"
"What are we=
to
do?" said Mr. Skinner.
"You'll have=
to
go back to Mrs. Skinner," said Redwood. "You can't leave her there
alone all night."
"Not alone,
Thir, I don't. Not if there wath a dothen Mithith Thkinnerth. Itth Mithter
Benthington--"
"Nonsense,&q=
uot;
said Redwood. "The wasps will be all right at night. And the earwigs w=
ill
get out of your way--"
"But about t=
he
ratth?"
"There aren't
any rats," said Redwood.
VI.
Mr. Skinner might
have foregone his chief anxiety. Mrs. Skinner did not stop out her day.
About eleven the
canary creeper, which had been quietly active all the morning, began to cla=
mber
over the window and darken it very greatly, and the darker it got the more =
and
more clearly Mrs. Skinner perceived that her position would speedily become
untenable. And also that she had lived many ages since Skinner went. She pe=
ered
out of the darkling window, through the stirring tendrils, for some time, a=
nd
then went very cautiously and opened the bedroom door and listened....
Everything seemed
quiet, and so, tucking her skirts high about her, Mrs. Skinner made a bolt =
for
the bedroom, and having first looked under the bed and locked herself in,
proceeded with the methodical rapidity of an experienced woman to pack for
departure. The bed had not been made, and the room was littered with pieces=
of
the creeper that Skinner had hacked off in order to close the window overni=
ght,
but these disorders she did not heed. She packed in a decent sheet. She pac=
ked
all her own wardrobe and a velveteen jacket that Skinner wore in his finer
moments, and she packed a jar of pickles that had not been opened, and so f=
ar
she was justified in her packing. But she also packed two of the hermetical=
ly closed
tins containing Herakleophorbia IV. that Mr. Bensington had brought on his =
last
visit. (She was honest, good woman--but she was a grandmother, and her heart
had burned within her to see such good growth lavished on a lot of dratted
chicks.)
And having packed=
all
these things, she put on her bonnet, took off her apron, tied a new boot-la=
ce
round her umbrella, and after listening for a long time at door and window,
opened the door and sallied out into a perilous world. The umbrella was und=
er
her arm and she clutched the bundle with two gnarled and resolute hands. It=
was
her best Sunday bonnet, and the two poppies that reared their heads amidst =
its splendours
of band and bead seemed instinct with the same tremulous courage that posse=
ssed
her.
The features about
the roots of her nose wrinkled with determination. She had had enough of it!
All alone there! Skinner might come back there if he liked.
She went out by t=
he
front door, going that way not because she wanted to go to Hickleybrow (her
goal was Cheasing Eyebright, where her married daughter resided), but becau=
se
the back door was impassable on account of the canary creeper that had been
growing so furiously ever since she upset the can of food near its roots. S=
he
listened for a space and closed the front door very carefully behind her.
At the corner of =
the
house she paused and reconnoitred....
An extensive sandy
scar upon the hillside beyond the pine-woods marked the nest of the giant
Wasps, and this she studied very earnestly. The coming and going of the mor=
ning
was over, not a wasp chanced to be in sight then, and except for a sound
scarcely more perceptible than a steam wood-saw at work amidst the pines wo=
uld
have been, everything was still. As for earwigs, she could see not one. Down
among the cabbage indeed something was stirring, but it might just as proba=
bly
be a cat stalking birds. She watched this for a time.
She went a few pa=
ces
past the corner, came in sight of the run containing the giant chicks and
stopped again. "Ah!" she said, and shook her head slowly at the s=
ight
of them. They were at that time about the height of emus, but of course much
thicker in the body--a larger thing altogether. They were all hens and five=
all
told, now that the two cockerels had killed each other. She hesitated at th=
eir
drooping attitudes. "Poor dears!" she said, and put down her bund=
le;
"they've got no water. And they've 'ad no food these twenty-four hours!
And such appetites, too, as they 'ave!" She put a lean finger to her l=
ips
and communed with herself.
Then this dirty o=
ld
woman did what seems to me a quite heroic deed of mercy. She left her bundle
and umbrella in the middle of the brick path and went to the well and drew =
no
fewer than three pailfuls of water for the chickens' empty trough, and then
while they were all crowding about that, she undid the door of the run very
softly. After which she became extremely active, resumed her package, got o=
ver
the hedge at the bottom of the garden, crossed the rank meadows (in order to
avoid the wasps' nest) and toiled up the winding path towards Cheasing
Eyebright.
She panted up the hill, and as she went she paused ever and again, to rest her bundle and get= her breath and stare back at the little cottage beside the pine-wood below. And when at last, when she was near the crest of the hill, she saw afar off thr= ee several wasps dropping heavily westward, it helped her greatly on her way.<= o:p>
She soon got out =
of
the open and in the high banked lane beyond (which seemed a safer place to
her), and so up by Hickleybrow Coombe to the downs. There at the foot of the
downs where a big tree gave an air of shelter she rested for a space on a
stile.
Then on again very
resolutely....
You figure her, I
hope, with her white bundle, a sort of erect black ant, hurrying along the
little white path-thread athwart the downland slopes under the hot sun of t=
he
summer afternoon. On she struggled after her resolute indefatigable nose, a=
nd
the poppies in her bonnet quivered perpetually and her spring-side boots gr=
ew
whiter and whiter with the downland dust. Flip-flap, flip-flap went her
footfalls through the still heat of the day, and persistently, incurably, h=
er
umbrella sought to slip from under the elbow that retained it. The mouth
wrinkle under her nose was pursed to an extreme resolution, and ever and ag=
ain
she told her umbrella to come up or gave her tightly clutched bundle a vind=
ictive
jerk. And at times her lips mumbled with fragments of some foreseen argument
between herself and Skinner.
And far away, mil=
es
and miles away, a steeple and a hanger grew insensibly out of the vague blu=
e to
mark more and more distinctly the quiet corner where Cheasing Eyebright she=
ltered
from the tumult of the world, recking little or nothing of the Herakleophor=
bia
concealed in that white bundle that struggled so persistently towards its
orderly retirement.
VII.
So far as I can
gather, the pullets came into Hickleybrow about three o'clock in the aftern=
oon.
Their coming must have been a brisk affair, though nobody was out in the st=
reet
to see it. The violent bellowing of little Skelmersdale seems to have been =
the
first announcement of anything out of the way. Miss Durgan of the Post Offi=
ce
was at the window as usual, and saw the hen that had caught the unhappy chi=
ld,
in violent flight up the street with its victim, closely pursued by two oth=
ers.
You know that swinging stride of the emancipated athletic latter-day pullet!
You know the keen insistence of the hungry hen! There was Plymouth Rock in
these birds, I am told, and even without Herakleophorbia that is a gaunt and
striding strain.
Probably Miss Dur=
gan
was not altogether taken by surprise. In spite of Mr. Bensington's insisten=
ce
upon secrecy, rumours of the great chicken Mr. Skinner was producing had be=
en
about the village for some weeks. "Lor!" she cried, "it's wh=
at I
expected."
She seems to have
behaved with great presence of mind. She snatched up the sealed bag of lett=
ers
that was waiting to go on to Urshot, and rushed out of the door at once. Al=
most
simultaneously Mr. Skelmersdale himself appeared down the village, gripping=
a
watering-pot by the spout, and very white in the face. And, of course, in a
moment or so every one in the village was rushing to the door or window.
The spectacle of =
Miss
Durgan all across the road, with the entire day's correspondence of Hickley=
brow
in her hand, gave pause to the pullet in possession of Master Skelmersdale.=
She
halted through one instant's indecision and then turned for the open gates =
of
Fulcher's yard. That instant was fatal. The second pullet ran in neatly, got
possession of the child by a well-directed peck, and went over the wall into
the vicarage garden.
"Charawk, ch=
awk,
chawk, chawk, chawk, chawk!" shrieked the hindmost hen, hit smartly by=
the
watering-can Mr. Skelmersdale had thrown, and fluttered wildly over Mrs. Gl=
ue's
cottage and so into the doctor's field, while the rest of those Gargantuan
birds pursued the pullet, in possession of the child across the vicarage la=
wn.
"Good
heavens!" cried the Curate, or (as some say) something much more manly,
and ran, whirling his croquet mallet and shouting, to head off the chase.
"Stop, you
wretch!" cried the curate, as though giant hens were the commonest fac=
ts
in life.
And then, finding=
he
could not possibly intercept her, he hurled his mallet with all his might a=
nd
main, and out it shot in a gracious curve within a foot or so of Master
Skelmersdale's head and through the glass lantern of the conservatory. Smas=
h!
The new conservatory! The Vicar's wife's beautiful new conservatory!
It frightened the
hen. It might have frightened any one. She dropped her victim into a Portug=
al
laurel (from which he was presently extracted, disordered but, save for his
less delicate garments, uninjured), made a flapping leap for the roof of
Fulcher's stables, put her foot through a weak place in the tiles, and
descended, so to speak, out of the infinite into the contemplative quiet of=
Mr.
Bumps the paralytic--who, it is now proved beyond all cavil, did, on this o=
ne
occasion in his life, get down the entire length of his garden and indoors
without any assistance whatever, bolt the door after him, and immediately
relapse again into Christian resignation and helpless dependence upon his
wife....
The rest of the
pullets were headed off by the other croquet players, and went through the
vicar's kitchen garden into the doctor's field, to which rendezvous the fif=
th
also came at last, clucking disconsolately after an unsuccessful attempt to
walk on the cucumber frames in Mr. Witherspoon's place.
They seem to have stood about in a hen-like manner for a time, and scratched a little and chirrawked meditatively, and then one pecked at and pecked over a hive of t= he doctor's bees, and after that they set off in a gawky, jerky, feathery, fit= ful sort of way across the fields towards Urshot, and Hickleybrow Street saw th= em no more. Near Urshot they really came upon commensurate food in a field of swedes; and pecked for a space with gusto, until their fame overtook them.<= o:p>
The chief immedia=
te
reaction of this astonishing irruption of gigantic poultry upon the human m=
ind
was to arouse an extraordinary passion to whoop and run and throw things, a=
nd
in quite a little time almost all the available manhood of Hickleybrows and
several ladies, were out with a remarkable assortment of flappish and whang=
able
articles in hand--to commence the scooting of the giant hens. They drove th=
em
into Urshot, where there was a Rural Fete, and Urshot took them as the crow=
ning
glory of a happy day. They began to be shot at near Findon Beeches, but at =
first
only with a rook rifle. Of course birds of that size could absorb an unlimi=
ted
quantity of small shot without inconvenience. They scattered somewhere near
Sevenoaks, and near Tonbridge one of them fled clucking for a time in exces=
sive
agitation, somewhat ahead of and parallel with the afternoon boat express--=
to
the great astonishment of every one therein.
And about half-pa=
st
five two of them were caught very cleverly by a circus proprietor at Tunbri=
dge
Wells, who lured them into a cage, rendered vacant through the death of a
widowed dromedary, by scattering cakes and bread....
VIII.
When the unfortun=
ate
Skinner got out of the South-Eastern train at Urshot that evening it was
already nearly dusk. The train was late, but not inordinately late--and Mr.
Skinner remarked as much to the station-master. Perhaps he saw a certain
pregnancy in the station-master's eye. After the briefest hesitation and wi=
th a
confidential movement of his hand to the side of his mouth he asked if &quo=
t;anything"
had happened that day.
"How d'yer
mean?" said the station-master, a man with a hard, emphatic voice.
"Thethe 'ere
waptheth and thingth."
"We 'aven't =
'ad
much time to think of waptheth," said the station-master agreeably.
"We've been too busy with your brasted 'ens," and he broke the ne=
ws
of the pullets to Mr. Skinner as one might break the window of an adverse
politician.
"You ain't '=
eard
anything of Mithith Thkinner?" asked Skinner, amidst that missile show=
er
of pithy information and comment.
"No fear!&qu=
ot;
said the station-master--as though even he drew the line somewhere in the
matter of knowledge.
"I mutht make
inquireth bout thith," said Mr. Skinner, edging out of reach of the
station-master's concluding generalisations about the responsibility attach=
ing
to the excessive nurture of hens....
Going through Urs=
hot
Mr. Skinner was hailed by a lime-burner from the pits over by Hankey and as=
ked
if he was looking for his hens.
"You ain't '=
eard
anything of Mithith Thkinner?" he asked.
The lime-burner--=
his
exact phrases need not concern us--expressed his superior interest in hens.=
...
It was already
dark--as dark at least as a clear night in the English June can be--when
Skinner--or his head at any rate--came into the bar of the Jolly Drovers and
said: "Ello! You 'aven't 'eard anything of thith 'ere thtory bout my
'enth, 'ave you?"
"Oh, 'aven't
we!" said Mr. Fulcher. "Why, part of the story's been and bust in=
to
my stable roof and one chapter smashed a 'ole in Missis Vicar's green 'ouse=
--I
beg 'er pardon--Conservarratory."
Skinner came in.
"I'd like thomething a little comforting," he said, "'ot gin=
and
water'th about my figure," and everybody began to tell him things about
the pullets.
"Grathuth
me!" said Skinner.
"You 'aven't
'eard anything about Mithith Thkinner, 'ave you?" he asked in a pause.=
"That we
'aven't!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "We 'aven't thought of 'er. We ai=
n't
thought nothing of either of you."
"Ain't you b=
een
'ome to-day?" asked Fulcher over a tankard.
"If one of t=
hose
brasted birds 'ave pecked 'er," began Mr. Witherspoons and left the fu=
ll
horror to their unaided imaginations....
It appeared to the
meeting at the time that it would be an interesting end to an eventful day =
to
go on with Skinner and see if anything had happened to Mrs. Skinner. One ne=
ver
knows what luck one may have when accidents are at large. But Skinner, stan=
ding
at the bar and drinking his hot gin and water, with one eye roving over the
things at the back of the bar and the other fixed on the Absolute, missed t=
he
psychological moment.
"I thuppothe
there 'athen't been any trouble with any of thethe big waptheth to-day
anywhere?" he asked, with an elaborate detachment of manner.
"Been too bu=
sy
with your 'ens," said Fulcher.
"I thuppothe
they've all gone in now anyhow," said Skinner.
"What--the
'ens?"
"I wath thin=
king
of the waptheth more particularly," said Skinner.
And then, with, an
air of circumspection that would have awakened suspicion in a week-old baby,
and laying the accent heavily on most of the words he chose, he asked, &quo=
t;I
thuppothe nobody 'athn't 'eard of any other big thingth, about, 'ave they? =
Big
dogth or catth or anything of that thort? Theemth to me if thereth big henth
and big waptheth comin' on--"
He laughed with a
fine pretence of talking idly.
But a brooding
expression came upon the faces of the Hickleybrow men. Fulcher was the firs=
t to
give their condensing thought the concrete shape of words.
"A cat to ma=
tch
them 'ens--" said Fulcher.
"Ay!" s=
aid
Witherspoon, "a cat to match they 'ens."
"'Twould be a
tiger," said Fulcher.
"More'n a
tiger," said Witherspoon....
When at last Skin=
ner
followed the lonely footpath over the swelling field that separated Hickley=
brow
from the sombre pine-shaded hollow in whose black shadows the gigantic
canary-creeper grappled silently with the Experimental Farm, he followed it
alone.
He was distinctly
seen to rise against the sky-line, against the warm clear immensity of the
northern sky--for so far public interest followed him--and to descend again
into the night, into an obscurity from which it would seem he will nevermore
emerge. He passed--into a mystery. No one knows to this day what happened to
him after he crossed the brow. When later on the two Fulchers and Witherspo=
on,
moved by their own imaginations, came up the hill and stared after him, the
flight had swallowed him up altogether.
The three men sto=
od
close. There was not a sound out of the wooded blackness that hid the Farm =
from
their eyes.
"It's all
right," said young Fulcher, ending a silence.
"Don't see a=
ny
lights," said Witherspoon.
"You wouldn't
from here."
"It's
misty," said the elder Fulcher.
They meditated fo=
r a
space.
"'E'd 'ave c=
ome
back if anything was wrong," said young Fulcher, and this seemed so
obvious and conclusive that presently old Fulcher said, "Well," a=
nd
the three went home to bed--thoughtfully I will admit....
A shepherd out by
Huckster's Farm heard a squealing in the night that he thought was foxes, a=
nd in
the morning one of his lambs had been killed, dragged halfway towards
Hickleybrow and partially devoured....
The inexplicable =
part
of it all is the absence of any indisputable remains of Skinner!
Many weeks after,
amidst the charred ruins of the Experimental Farm, there was found something
which may or may not have been a human shoulder-blade and in another part of
the ruins a long bone greatly gnawed and equally doubtful. Near the stile g=
oing
up towards Eyebright there was found a glass eye, and many people discovered
thereupon that Skinner owed much of his personal charm to such a possession=
. It
stared out upon the world with that same inevitable effect of detachment, t=
hat same
severe melancholy that had been the redemption of his else worldly countena=
nce.
And about the rui=
ns
industrious research discovered the metal rings and charred coverings of two
linen buttons, three shanked buttons entire, and one of that metallic sort
which is used in the less conspicuous sutures of the human Oeconomy. These =
remains
have been accepted by persons in authority as conclusive of a destroyed and
scattered Skinner, but for my own entire conviction, and in view of his
distinctive idiosyncrasy, I must confess I should prefer fewer buttons and =
more
bones.
The glass eye of
course has an air of extreme conviction, but if it really is Skinner's--and
even Mrs. Skinner did not certainly know if that immobile eye of his was
glass--something has changed it from a liquid brown to a serene and confide=
nt
blue. That shoulder-blade is an extremely doubtful document, and I would li=
ke
to put it side by side with the gnawed scapulae of a few of the commoner
domestic animals before I admitted its humanity.
And where were
Skinner's boots, for example? Perverted and strange as a rat's appetite must
be, is it conceivable that the same creatures that could leave a lamb only =
half
eaten, would finish up Skinner--hair, bones, teeth, and boots?
I have closely
questioned as many as I could of those who knew Skinner at all intimately, =
and
they one and all agree that they cannot imagine anything eating him. He was=
the
sort of man, as a retired seafaring person living in one of Mr. W.W. Jacobs'
cottages at Dunton Green told me, with a guarded significance of manner not
uncommon in those parts, who would "get washed up anyhow," and as
regards the devouring element was "fit to put a fire out." He
considered that Skinner would be as safe on a raft as anywhere. The retired
seafaring man added that he wished to say nothing whatever against Skinner;
facts were facts. And rather than have his clothes made by Skinner, the ret=
ired
seafaring man remarked he would take his chance of being locked up. These
observations certainly do not present Skinner in the light of an appetising
object.
To be perfectly f=
rank
with the reader, I do not believe he ever went back to the Experimental Far=
m. I
believe he hovered through long hesitations about the fields of the Hickley=
brow
glebe, and finally, when that squealing began, took the line of least
resistance out of his perplexities into the Incognito.
And in the Incogn=
ito,
whether of this or of some other world unknown to us, he obstinately and qu=
ite
indisputably has remained to this day....
CHAPTER THE THIRD - THE G=
IANT
RATS.
I.
It was two nights
after the disappearance of Mr. Skinner that the Podbourne doctor was out la=
te
near Hankey, driving in his buggy. He had been up all night assisting anoth=
er
undistinguished citizen into this curious world of ours, and his task
accomplished, he was driving homeward in a drowsy mood enough. It was about=
two
o'clock in the morning, and the waning moon was rising. The summer night had
gone cold, and there was a low-lying whitish mist that made things indistin=
ct.
He was quite alone--for his coachman was ill in bed--and there was nothing =
to
be seen on either hand but a drifting mystery of hedge running athwart the
yellow glare of his lamps, and nothing to hear but the clitter-clatter of h=
is
horses and the gride and hedge echo of his wheels. His horse was as trustwo=
rthy
as himself, and one does not wonder that he dozed....
You know that
intermittent drowsing as one sits, the drooping of the head, the nodding to=
the
rhythm of the wheels then chin upon the breast, and at once the sudden star=
t up
again.
Pitter, litter,
patter.
"What was th=
at?"
It seemed to the
doctor he had heard a thin shrill squeal close at hand. For a moment he was
quite awake. He said a word or two of undeserved rebuke to his horse, and
looked about him. He tried to persuade himself that he had heard the distant
squeal of a fox--or perhaps a young rabbit gripped by a ferret.
Swish, swish, swi=
sh,
pitter, patter, swish--...
What was that?
He felt he was
getting fanciful. He shook his shoulders and told his horse to get on. He
listened, and heard nothing.
Or was it nothing=
?
He had the queere=
st
impression that something had just peeped over the hedge at him, a queer big
head. With round ears! He peered hard, but he could see nothing.
"Nonsense,&q=
uot;
said he.
He sat up with an
idea that he had dropped into a nightmare, gave his horse the slightest tou=
ch
of the whip, spoke to it and peered again over the hedge. The glare of his
lamp, however, together with the mist, rendered things indistinct, and he c=
ould
distinguish nothing. It came into his head, he says, that there could be
nothing there, because if there was his horse would have shied at it. Yet f=
or
all that his senses remained nervously awake.
Then he heard qui=
te
distinctly a soft pattering of feet in pursuit along the road.
He would not beli=
eve
his ears about that. He could not look round, for the road had a sinuous cu=
rve
just there. He whipped up his horse and glanced sideways again. And then he=
saw
quite distinctly where a ray from his lamp leapt a low stretch of hedge, the
curved back of--some big animal, he couldn't tell what, going along in quick
convulsive leaps.
He says he though=
t of
the old tales of witchcraft--the thing was so utterly unlike any animal he
knew, and he tightened his hold on the reins for fear of the fear of his ho=
rse.
Educated man as he was, he admits he asked himself if this could be somethi=
ng
that his horse could not see.
Ahead, and drawing
near in silhouette against the rising moon, was the outline of the little
hamlet of Hankey, comforting, though it showed never a light, and he cracke=
d his
whip and spoke again, and then in a flash the rats were at him!
He had passed a g=
ate,
and as he did so, the foremost rat came leaping over into the road. The thi=
ng
sprang upon him out of vagueness into the utmost clearness, the sharp, eage=
r,
round-eared face, the long body exaggerated by its movement; and what
particularly struck him, the pink, webbed forefeet of the beast. What must =
have
made it more horrible to him at the time was, that he had no idea the thing=
was
any created beast he knew. He did not recognise it as a rat, because of the
size. His horse gave a bound as the thing dropped into the road beside it. =
The little
lane woke into tumult at the report of the whip and the doctor's shout. The
whole thing suddenly went fast.
Rattle-clatter, c=
lash,
clatter.
The doctor, one
gathers, stood up, shouted to his horse, and slashed with all his strength.=
The
rat winced and swerved most reassuringly at his blow--in the glare of his l=
amp
he could see the fur furrow under the lash--and he slashed again and again,
heedless and unaware of the second pursuer that gained upon his off side.
He let the reins =
go,
and glanced back to discover the third rat in pursuit behind....
His horse bounded
forward. The buggy leapt high at a rut. For a frantic minute perhaps everyt=
hing
seemed to be going in leaps and bounds....
It was sheer good
luck the horse came down in Hankey, and not either before or after the hous=
es
had been passed.
No one knows how =
the
horse came down, whether it stumbled or whether the rat on the off side rea=
lly
got home with one of those slashing down strokes of the teeth (given with t=
he
full weight of the body); and the doctor never discovered that he himself w=
as
bitten until he was inside the brickmaker's house, much less did he discover
when the bite occurred, though bitten he was and badly--a long slash like t=
he
slash of a double tomahawk that had cut two parallel ribbons of flesh from =
his left
shoulder.
He was standing u=
p in
his buggy at one moment, and in the next he had leapt to the ground, with h=
is
ankle, though he did not know it, badly sprained, and he was cutting furiou=
sly
at a third rat that was flying directly at him. He scarcely remembers the l=
eap
he must have made over the top of the wheel as the buggy came over, so
obliteratingly hot and swift did his impressions rush upon him. I think mys=
elf
the horse reared up with the rat biting again at its throat, and fell sidew=
ays,
and carried the whole affair over; and that the doctor sprang, as it were, =
instinctively.
As the buggy came down, the receiver of the lamp smashed, and suddenly pour=
ed a
flare of blazing oil, a thud of white flame, into the struggle.
That was the first
thing the brickmaker saw.
He had heard the
clatter of the doctor's approach and--though the doctor's memory has nothin=
g of
this--wild shouting. He had got out of bed hastily, and as he did so came t=
he
terrific smash, and up shot the glare outside the rising blind. "It was
brighter than day," he says. He stood, blind cord in hand, and stared =
out
of the window at a nightmare transformation of the familiar road before him.
The black figure of the doctor with its whirling whip danced out against the
flame. The horse kicked indistinctly, half hidden by the blaze, with a rat =
at
its throat. In the obscurity against the churchyard wall, the eyes of a sec=
ond monster
shone wickedly. Another--a mere dreadful blackness with red-lit eyes and
flesh-coloured hands--clutched unsteadily on the wall coping to which it had
leapt at the flash of the exploding lamp.
You know the keen
face of a rat, those two sharp teeth, those pitiless eyes. Seen magnified to
near six times its linear dimensions, and still more magnified by darkness =
and
amazement and the leaping fancies of a fitful blaze, it must have been an i=
ll
sight for the brickmaker--still more than half asleep.
Then the doctor h=
ad
grasped the opportunity, that momentary respite the flare afforded, and was=
out
of the brickmaker's sight below battering the door with the butt of his
whip....
The brickmaker wo=
uld
not let him in until he had got a light.
There are those w=
ho
have blamed the man for that, but until I know my own courage better, I
hesitate to join their number.
The doctor yelled=
and
hammered....
The brickmaker sa=
ys
he was weeping with terror when at last the door was opened.
"Bolt,"
said the doctor, "bolt"--he could not say "bolt the door.&qu=
ot;
He tried to help, and was of no service. The brickmaker fastened the door, =
and
the doctor had to sit on the chair beside the clock for a space before he c=
ould
go upstairs....
"I don't know
what they are!" he repeated several times. "I don't know what they
are"--with a high note on the "are."
The brickmaker wo=
uld
have got him whisky, but the doctor would not be left alone with nothing bu=
t a
flickering light just then.
It was long befor=
e the
brickmaker could get him to go upstairs....
And when the fire=
was
out the giant rats came back, took the dead horse, dragged it across the
churchyard into the brickfield and ate at it until it was dawn, none even t=
hen
daring to disturb them....
II.
Redwood went roun=
d,
to Bensington about eleven the next morning with the "second
editions" of three evening papers in his hand.
Bensington looked=
up
from a despondent meditation over the forgotten pages of the most distracti=
ng
novel the Brompton Road librarian had been able to find him. "Anything
fresh?" he asked.
"Two men stu=
ng
near Chartham."
"They ought =
to
let us smoke out that nest. They really did. It's their own fault."
"It's their =
own
fault, certainly," said Redwood.
"Have you he=
ard
anything--about buying the farm?"
"The House
Agent," said Redwood, "is a thing with a big mouth and made of de=
nse
wood. It pretends someone else is after the house--it always does, you
know--and won't understand there's a hurry. 'This is a matter of life and
death,' I said, 'don't you understand?' It drooped its eyes half shut and s=
aid,
'Then why don't you go the other two hundred pounds?' I'd rather live in a
world of solid wasps than give in to the stonewalling stupidity of that
offensive creature. I--"
He paused, feeling
that a sentence like that might very easily be spoiled by its context.
"It's too mu=
ch
to hope," said Bensington, "that one of the wasps--"
"The wasp ha=
s no
more idea of public utility than a--than a House Agent," said Redwood.=
He talked for a l=
ittle
while about house agents and solicitors and people of that sort, in the unj=
ust,
unreasonable way that so many people do somehow get to talk of these busine=
ss
calculi ("Of all the cranky things in this cranky world, it is the most
cranky to my mind of all, that while we expect honour, courage, efficiency,
from a doctor or a soldier as a matter of course, a solicitor or a house ag=
ent
is not only permitted but expected to display nothing but a sort of greedy,
greasy, obstructive, over-reaching imbecility--" etc.)--and then, grea=
tly relieved,
he went to the window and stared out at the Sloane Street traffic.
Bensington had put
the most exciting novel conceivable on the little table that carried his
electric standard. He joined the fingers of his opposed hands very carefully
and regarded them. "Redwood," he said. "Do they say much abo=
ut
Us?"
"Not so much=
as
I should expect."
"They don't
denounce us at all?"
"Not a bit. =
But,
on the other hand, they don't back up what I point out must be done. I've
written to the Times, you know, explaining the whole thing--"
"We take the
Daily Chronicle," said Bensington.
"And the Tim=
es
has a long leader on the subject--a very high-class, well-written leader, w=
ith
three pieces of Times Latin--status quo is one--and it reads like the voice=
of
Somebody Impersonal of the Greatest Importance suffering from Influenza
Headache and talking through sheets and sheets of felt without getting any
relief from it whatever. Reading between the lines, you know, it's pretty c=
lear
that the Times considers that it is useless to mince matters, and that
something (indefinite of course) has to be done at once. Otherwise still mo=
re undesirable
consequences--Times English, you know, for more wasps and stings. Thoroughly
statesmanlike article!"
"And meanwhi=
le
this Bigness is spreading in all sorts of ugly ways."
"Precisely.&=
quot;
"I wonder if
Skinner was right about those big rats--"
"Oh no! That
would be too much," said Redwood.
He came and stood=
by
Bensington's chair.
"By-the-bye,=
"
he said, with a slightly lowered voice, "how does she--?"
He indicated the
closed door.
"Cousin Jane?
She simply knows nothing about it. Doesn't connect us with it and won't read
the articles. 'Gigantic wasps!' she says, 'I haven't patience to read the
papers.'"
"That's very
fortunate," said Redwood.
"I suppose--=
Mrs.
Redwood--?"
"No," s=
aid
Redwood, "just at present it happens--she's terribly worried about the
child. You know, he keeps on."
"Growing?&qu=
ot;
"Yes. Put on
forty-one ounces in ten days. Weighs nearly four stone. And only six months
old! Naturally rather alarming."
"Healthy?&qu=
ot;
"Vigorous. H=
is
nurse is leaving because he kicks so forcibly. And everything, of course,
shockingly outgrown. Everything, you know, has had to be made fresh, clothes
and everything. Perambulator--light affair--broke one wheel, and the youngs=
ter
had to be brought home on the milkman's hand-truck. Yes. Quite a crowd.... =
And
we've put Georgina Phyllis back into his cot and put him into the bed of
Georgina Phyllis. His mother--naturally alarmed. Proud at first and incline=
d to
praise Winkles. Not now. Feels the thing can't be wholesome. You know."=
;
"I imagined =
you
were going to put him on diminishing doses."
"I tried
it."
"Didn't it
work?"
"Howls. In t=
he
ordinary way the cry of a child is loud and distressing; it is for the good=
of
the species that this should be so--but since he has been on the
Herakleophorbia treatment---"
"Mm," s=
aid
Bensington, regarding his fingers with more resignation than he had hitherto
displayed.
"Practically=
the
thing must come out. People will hear of this child, connect it up with our
hens and things, and the whole thing will come round to my wife.... How she
will take it I haven't the remotest idea."
"It is
difficult," said Mr. Bensington, "to form any plan--certainly.&qu=
ot;
He removed his
glasses and wiped them carefully.
"It is anoth=
er
instance," he generalised, "of the thing that is continually
happening. We--if indeed I may presume to the adjective--scientific men--we
work of course always for a theoretical result--a purely theoretical result.
But, incidentally, we do set forces in operation--new forces. We mustn't
control them--and nobody else can. Practically, Redwood, the thing is out of
our hands. We supply the material--"
"And they,&q=
uot;
said Redwood, turning to the window, "get the experience."
"So far as t=
his
trouble down in Kent goes I am not disposed to worry further."
"Unless they
worry us."
"Exactly. An=
d if
they like to muddle about with solicitors and pettifoggers and legal
obstructions and weighty considerations of the tomfool order, until they ha=
ve
got a number of new gigantic species of vermin well established--Things alw=
ays
have been in a muddle, Redwood."
Redwood traced a
twisted, tangled line in the air.
"And our real
interest lies at present with your boy."
Redwood turned ab=
out
and came and stared at his collaborator.
"What do you
think of him, Bensington? You can look at this business with a greater
detachment than I can. What am I to do about him?"
"Go on feedi=
ng
him."
"On
Herakleophorbia?"
"On
Herakleophorbia."
"And then he=
'll
grow."
"He'll grow,=
as
far as I can calculate from the hens and the wasps, to the height of about
five-and-thirty feet--with everything in proportion---"
"And then
what'll he do?"
"That,"
said Mr. Bensington, "is just what makes the whole thing so interestin=
g."
"Confound it,
man! Think of his clothes."
"And when he=
's
grown up," said Redwood, "he'll only be one solitary Gulliver in a
pigmy world."
Mr. Bensington's =
eye
over his gold rim was pregnant.
"Why solitar=
y?"
he said, and repeated still more darkly, "Why solitary?"
"But you don=
't
propose---?"
"I said,&quo=
t;
said Mr. Bensington, with the self-complacency of a man who has produced a =
good
significant saying, "Why solitary?"
"Meaning that
one might bring up other children---?"
"Meaning not=
hing
beyond my inquiry."
Redwood began to =
walk
about the room. "Of course," he said, "one might--But still!
What are we coming to?"
Bensington eviden=
tly
enjoyed his line of high intellectual detachment. "The thing that inte=
rests
me most, Redwood, of all this, is to think that his brain at the top of him
will also, so far as my reasoning goes, be five-and-thirty feet or so above=
our
level.... What's the matter?"
Redwood stood at =
the
window and stared at a news placard on a paper-cart that rattled up the str=
eet.
"What's the
matter?" repeated Bensington, rising.
Redwood exclaimed
violently.
"What is
it?" said Bensington.
"Get a
paper," said Redwood, moving doorward.
"Why?"<= o:p>
"Get a paper.
Something--I didn't quite catch--Gigantic rats--!"
"Rats?"=
"Yes, rats.
Skinner was right after all!"
"What do you
mean?"
"How the Deu=
ce
am I to know till I see a paper? Great Rats! Good Lord! I wonder if he's
eaten!"
He glanced for his
hat, and decided to go hatless.
As he rushed down=
stairs
two steps at a time, he could hear along the street the mighty howlings, to=
and
fro of the Hooligan paper-sellers making a Boom.
"'Orrible af=
fair
in Kent--'orrible affair in Kent. Doctor ... eaten by rats. 'Orrible
affair--'orrible affair--rats--eaten by Stchewpendous rats. Full
perticulars--'orrible affair."
III.
Cossar, the
well-known civil engineer, found them in the great doorway of the flat
mansions, Redwood holding out the damp pink paper, and Bensington on tiptoe
reading over his arm. Cossar was a large-bodied man with gaunt inelegant li=
mbs
casually placed at convenient corners of his body, and a face like a carving
abandoned at an early stage as altogether too unpromising for completion. H=
is
nose had been left square, and his lower jaw projected beyond his upper. He
breathed audibly. Few people considered him handsome. His hair was entirely=
tangential,
and his voice, which he used sparingly, was pitched high, and had commonly a
quality of bitter protest. He wore a grey cloth jacket suit and a silk hat =
on
all occasions. He plumbed an abysmal trouser pocket with a vast red hand, p=
aid
his cabman, and came panting resolutely up the steps, a copy of the pink pa=
per
clutched about the middle, like Jove's thunderbolt, in his hand.
"Skinner?&qu=
ot;
Bensington was saying, regardless of his approach.
"Nothing abo=
ut
him," said Redwood. "Bound to be eaten. Both of them. It's too
terrible.... Hullo! Cossar!"
"This your
stuff?" asked Cossar, waving the paper.
"Well, why d=
on't
you stop it?" he demanded.
"Can't be
jiggered!" said Cossar.
"Buy the
place?" he cried. "What nonsense! Burn it! I knew you chaps would
fumble this. What are you to do? Why--what I tell you.
"You? Do? Wh=
y!
Go up the street to the gunsmith's, of course. Why? For guns. Yes--there's =
only
one shop. Get eight guns! Rifles. Not elephant guns--no! Too big. Not army
rifles--too small. Say it's to kill--kill a bull. Say it's to shoot buffalo!
See? Eh? Rats? No! How the deuce are they to understand that? Because we wa=
nt
eight. Get a lot of ammunition. Don't get guns without ammunition--No! Take=
the
lot in a cab to--where's the place? Urshot? Charing Cross, then. There's a =
train---Well,
the first train that starts after two. Think you can do it? All right. Lice=
nse?
Get eight at a post-office, of course. Gun licenses, you know. Not game. Wh=
y?
It's rats, man.
"You--Bensin=
gton.
Got a telephone? Yes. I'll ring up five of my chaps from Ealing. Why five?
Because it's the right number!
"Where you
going, Redwood? Get a hat! Nonsense. Have mine. You want guns, man--not hat=
s.
Got money? Enough? All right. So long.
"Where's the
telephone, Bensington?"
Bensington wheeled
about obediently and led the way.
Cossar used and
replaced the instrument. "Then there's the wasps," he said.
"Sulphur and nitre'll do that. Obviously. Plaster of Paris. You're a
chemist. Where can I get sulphur by the ton in portable sacks? What for? Wh=
y,
Lord bless my heart and soul!--to smoke out the nest, of course! I suppose =
it
must be sulphur, eh? You're a chemist. Sulphur best, eh?"
"Yes, I shou=
ld
think sulphur."
"Nothing
better?"
"Right. That=
's
your job. That's all right. Get as much sulphur as you can--saltpetre to ma=
ke
it burn. Sent? Charing Cross. Right away. See they do it. Follow it up.
Anything?"
He thought a mome=
nt.
"Plaster of
Paris--any sort of plaster--bung up nest--holes--you know. That I'd better
get."
"How much?&q=
uot;
"How much
what?"
"Sulphur.&qu=
ot;
"Ton. See?&q=
uot;
Bensington tighte=
ned
his glasses with a hand tremulous with determination. "Right," he
said, very curtly.
"Money in yo=
ur
pocket?" asked Cossar.
"Hang cheque=
s.
They may not know you. Pay cash. Obviously. Where's your bank? All right. S=
top
on the way and get forty pounds--notes and gold."
Another meditatio=
n.
"If we leave this job for public officials we shall have all Kent in
tatters," said Cossar. "Now is there--anything? No! HI!"
He stretched a va=
st
hand towards a cab that became convulsively eager to serve him ("Cab,
Sir?" said the cabman. "Obviously," said Cossar); and Bensin=
gton,
still hatless, paddled down the steps and prepared to mount.
"I think,&qu=
ot;
he said, with his hand on the cab apron, and a sudden glance up at the wind=
ows
of his flat, "I ought to tell my cousin Jane--"
"More time to
tell her when you come back," said Cossar, thrusting him in with a vast
hand expanded over his back....
"Clever
chaps," remarked Cossar, "but no initiative whatever. Cousin Jane
indeed! I know her. Rot, these Cousin Janes! Country infested with 'em. I
suppose I shall have to spend the whole blessed night, seeing they do what =
they
know perfectly well they ought to do all along. I wonder if it's Research m=
akes
'em like that or Cousin Jane or what?"
He dismissed this
obscure problem, meditated for a space upon his watch, and decided there wo=
uld
be just time to drop into a restaurant and get some lunch before he hunted =
up
the plaster of Paris and took it to Charing Cross.
The train started=
at
five minutes past three, and he arrived at Charing Cross at a quarter to th=
ree,
to find Bensington in heated argument between two policemen and his van-dri=
ver
outside, and Redwood in the luggage office involved in some technical obscu=
rity
about this ammunition. Everybody was pretending not to know anything or to =
have
any authority, in the way dear to South-Eastern officials when they catch y=
ou
in a hurry.
"Pity they c=
an't
shoot all these officials and get a new lot," remarked Cossar with a s=
igh.
But the time was too limited for anything fundamental, and so he swept thro=
ugh
these minor controversies, disinterred what may or may not have been the
station-master from some obscure hiding-place, walked about the premises
holding him and giving orders in his name, and was out of the station with
everybody and everything aboard before that official was fully awake to the
breaches in the most sacred routines and regulations that were being commit=
ted.
"Who was
he?" said the high official, caressing the arm Cossar had gripped, and
smiling with knit brows.
"'E was a
gentleman, Sir," said a porter, "anyhow. 'Im and all 'is party tr=
avelled
first class."
"Well, we got
him and his stuff off pretty sharp--whoever he was," said the high
official, rubbing his arm with something approaching satisfaction.
And as he walked
slowly back, blinking in the unaccustomed daylight, towards that dignified
retirement in which the higher officials at Charing Cross shelter from the
importunity of the vulgar, he smiled still at his unaccustomed energy. It w=
as a
very gratifying revelation of his own possibilities, in spite of the stiffn=
ess
of his arm. He wished some of those confounded arm-chair critics of railway
management could have seen it.
IV.
By five o'clock t=
hat
evening this amazing Cossar, with no appearance of hurry at all, had got all
the stuff for his fight with insurgent Bigness out of Urshot and on the roa=
d to
Hickleybrow. Two barrels of paraffin and a load of dry brushwood he had bou=
ght
in Urshot; plentiful sacks of sulphur, eight big game guns and ammunition,
three light breechloaders, with small-shot ammunition for the wasps, a hatc=
het,
two billhooks, a pick and three spades, two coils of rope, some bottled bee=
r,
soda and whisky, one gross of packets of rat poison, and cold provisions fo=
r three
days, had come down from London. All these things he had sent on in a coal
trolley and a hay waggon in the most business-like way, except the guns and
ammunition, which were stuck under the seat of the Red Lion waggonette
appointed to bring on Redwood and the five picked men who had come up from
Ealing at Cossar's summons.
Cossar conducted =
all
these transactions with an invincible air of commonplace, in spite of the f=
act
that Urshot was in a panic about the rats, and all the drivers had to be
specially paid. All the shops were shut in the place, and scarcely a soul
abroad in the street, and when he banged at a door a window was apt to open=
. He
seemed to consider that the conduct of business from open windows was an
entirely legitimate and obvious method. Finally he and Bensington got the R=
ed
Lion dog-cart and set off with the waggonette, to overtake the baggage. The=
y did
this a little beyond the cross-roads, and so reached Hickleybrow first.
Bensington, with a
gun between his knees, sitting beside Cossar in the dog-cart, developed a l=
ong
germinated amazement. All they were doing was, no doubt, as Cossar insisted,
quite the obvious thing to do, only--! In England one so rarely does the
obvious thing. He glanced from his neighbour's feet to the boldly sketched
hands upon the reins. Cossar had apparently never driven before, and he was
keeping the line of least resistance down the middle of the road by some no
doubt quite obvious but certainly unusual light of his own.
"Why don't we
all do the obvious?" thought Bensington. "How the world would tra=
vel
if one did! I wonder for instance why I don't do such a lot of things I know
would be all right to do--things I want to do. Is everybody like that, or i=
s it
peculiar to me!" He plunged into obscure speculation about the Will. He
thought of the complex organised futilities of the daily life, and in contr=
ast
with them the plain and manifest things to do, the sweet and splendid thing=
s to
do, that some incredible influences will never permit us to do. Cousin Jane?
Cousin Jane he perceived was important in the question, in some subtle and =
difficult
way. Why should we after all eat, drink, and sleep, remain unmarried, go he=
re,
abstain from going there, all out of deference to Cousin Jane? She became
symbolical without ceasing to be incomprehensible!
A stile and a path
across the fields caught his eye and reminded him of that other bright day,=
so
recent in time, so remote in its emotions, when he had walked from Urshot to
the Experimental Farm to see the giant chicks.
Fate plays with u=
s.
"Tcheck,
tcheck," said Cossar. "Get up."
It was a hot midd=
ay
afternoon, not a breath of wind, and the dust was thick in the roads. Few
people were about, but the deer beyond the park palings browsed in profound
tranquillity. They saw a couple of big wasps stripping a gooseberry bush ju=
st
outside Hickleybrow, and another was crawling up and down the front of the
little grocer's shop in the village street trying to find an entry. The gro=
cer
was dimly visible within, with an ancient fowling-piece in hand, watching i=
ts
endeavours. The driver of the waggonette pulled up outside the Jolly Drovers
and informed Redwood that his part of the bargain was done. In this content=
ion
he was presently joined by the drivers of the waggon and the trolley. Not o=
nly
did they maintain this, but they refused to let the horses be taken further=
.
"Them big ra=
ts
is nuts on 'orses," the trolley driver kept on repeating.
Cossar surveyed t=
he
controversy for a moment.
"Get the thi=
ngs
out of that waggonette," he said, and one of his men, a tall, fair, di=
rty
engineer, obeyed.
"Gimme that =
shot
gun," said Cossar.
He placed himself=
between
the drivers. "We don't want you to drive," he said.
"You can say
what you like," he conceded, "but we want these horses."
They began to arg=
ue,
but he continued speaking.
"If you try =
and
assault us I shall, in self-defence, let fly at your legs. The horses are g=
oing
on."
He treated the
incident as closed. "Get up on that waggon, Flack," he said to a
thickset, wiry little man. "Boon, take the trolley."
The two drivers
blustered to Redwood.
"You've done
your duty to your employers," said Redwood. "You stop in this vil=
lage
until we come back. No one will blame you, seeing we've got guns. We've no =
wish
to do anything unjust or violent, but this occasion is pressing. I'll pay if
anything happens to the horses, never fear."
"That's all
right," said Cossar, who rarely promised.
They left the
waggonette behind, and the men who were not driving went afoot. Over each
shoulder sloped a gun. It was the oddest little expedition for an English
country road, more like a Yankee party, trekking west in the good old Indian
days.
They went up the
road, until at the crest by the stile they came into sight of the Experimen=
tal
Farm. They found a little group of men there with a gun or so--the two Fulc=
hers
were among them--and one man, a stranger from Maidstone, stood out before t=
he
others and watched the place through an opera-glass.
These men turned
about and stared at Redwood's party.
"Anything
fresh?" said Cossar.
"The waspses
keeps a comin' and a goin'," said old Fulcher. "Can't see as they
bring anything."
"The canary
creeper's got in among the pine trees now," said the man with the
lorgnette. "It wasn't there this morning. You can see it grow while you
watch it."
He took out a
handkerchief and wiped his object-glasses with careful deliberation.
"I reckon yo=
u're
going down there," ventured Skelmersdale.
"Will you
come?" said Cossar.
Skelmersdale seem=
ed
to hesitate.
"It's an
all-night job."
Skelmersdale deci=
ded
that he wouldn't.
"Rats
about?" asked Cossar.
"One was up =
in
the pines this morning--rabbiting, we reckon."
Cossar slouched o=
n to
overtake his party.
Bensington, regar=
ding
the Experimental Farm under his hand, was able to gauge now the vigour of t=
he
Food. His first impression was that the house was smaller than he had
thought--very much smaller; his second was to perceive that all the vegetat=
ion
between the house and the pine-wood had become extremely large. The roof ov=
er
the well peeped amidst tussocks of grass a good eight feet high, and the ca=
nary
creeper wrapped about the chimney stack and gesticulated with stiff tendril=
s towards
the heavens. Its flowers were vivid yellow splashes, distinctly visible as
separate specks this mile away. A great green cable had writhed across the =
big
wire inclosures of the giant hens' run, and flung twining leaf stems about =
two
outstanding pines. Fully half as tall as these was the grove of nettles run=
ning
round behind the cart-shed. The whole prospect, as they drew nearer, became
more and more suggestive of a raid of pigmies upon a dolls' house that has =
been
left in a neglected corner of some great garden.
There was a busy
coming and going from the wasps' nest, they saw. A swarm of black shapes
interlaced in the air, above the rusty hill-front beyond the pine cluster, =
and
ever and again one of these would dart up into the sky with incredible
swiftness and soar off upon some distant quest. Their humming became audibl=
e at
more than half a mile's distance from the Experimental Farm. Once a
yellow-striped monster dropped towards them and hung for a space watching t=
hem
with its great compound eyes, but at an ineffectual shot from Cossar it dar=
ted
off again. Down in a corner of the field, away to the right, several were
crawling about over some ragged bones that were probably the remains of the
lamb the rats had brought from Huxter's Farm. The horses became very restle=
ss
as they drew near these creatures. None of the party was an expert driver, =
and
they had to put a man to lead each horse and encourage it with the voice.
They could see
nothing of the rats as they came up to the house, and everything seemed
perfectly still except for the rising and falling "whoozzzzzzZZZ,
whoooo-zoo-oo" of the wasps' nest.
They led the hors=
es
into the yard, and one of Cossar's men, seeing the door open--the whole of =
the
middle portion of the door had been gnawed out--walked into the house. Nobo=
dy
missed him for the time, the rest being occupied with the barrels of paraff=
in,
and the first intimation they had of his separation from them was the repor=
t of
his gun and the whizz of his bullet. "Bang, bang," both barrels, =
and
his first bullet it seems went through the cask of sulphur, smashed out a s=
tave
from the further side, and filled the air with yellow dust. Redwood had kept
his gun in hand and let fly at something grey that leapt past him. He had a=
vision
of the broad hind-quarters, the long scaly tail and long soles of the hind-=
feet
of a rat, and fired his second barrel. He saw Bensington drop as the beast
vanished round the corner.
Then for a time
everybody was busy with a gun. For three minutes lives were cheap at the
Experimental Farm, and the banging of guns filled the air. Redwood, careles=
s of
Bensington in his excitement, rushed in pursuit, and was knocked headlong b=
y a
mass of brick fragments, mortar, plaster, and rotten lath splinters that ca=
me
flying out at him as a bullet whacked through the wall.
He found himself
sitting on the ground with blood on his hands and lips, and a great stillne=
ss
brooded over all about him.
Then a flattish v=
oice
from within the house remarked: "Gee-whizz!"
"Hullo!"
said Redwood.
"Hullo
there!" answered the voice.
And then: "D=
id
you chaps get 'im?"
A sense of the du=
ties
of friendship returned to Redwood. "Is Mr. Bensington hurt?" he s=
aid.
The man inside he=
ard
imperfectly. "No one ain't to blame if I ain't," said the voice
inside.
It became clearer=
to
Redwood that he must have shot Bensington. He forgot the cuts upon his face,
arose and came back to find Bensington seated on the ground and rubbing his
shoulder. Bensington looked over his glasses. "We peppered him,
Redwood," he said, and then: "He tried to jump over me, and knock=
ed
me down. But I let him have it with both barrels, and my! how it has hurt my
shoulder, to be sure."
A man appeared in=
the
doorway. "I got him once in the chest and once in the side," he s=
aid.
"Where's the
waggons?" said Cossar, appearing amidst a thicket of gigantic
canary-creeper leaves.
It became evident=
, to
Redwood's amazement, first, that no one had been shot, and, secondly, that =
the
trolley and waggon had shifted fifty yards, and were now standing with
interlocked wheels amidst the tangled distortions of Skinner's kitchen gard=
en.
The horses had stopped their plunging. Half-way towards them, the burst bar=
rel
of sulphur lay in the path with a cloud of sulphur dust above it. He indica=
ted
this to Cossar and walked towards it. "Has any one seen that rat?"
shouted Cossar, following. "I got him in between the ribs once, and on=
ce
in the face as he turned on me."
They were joined =
by
two men, as they worried at the locked wheels.
"I killed th=
at
rat," said one of the men.
"Have they g=
ot
him?" asked Cossar.
"Jim Bates h=
as
found him, beyond the hedge. I got him jest as he came round the corner....
Whack behind the shoulder...."
When things were a
little ship-shape again Redwood went and stared at the huge misshapen corps=
e.
The brute lay on its side, with its body slightly bent. Its rodent teeth
overhanging its receding lower jaw gave its face a look of colossal feeblen=
ess,
of weak avidity. It seemed not in the least ferocious or terrible. Its
fore-paws reminded him of lank emaciated hands. Except for one neat round h=
ole
with a scorched rim on either side of its neck, the creature was absolutely
intact. He meditated over this fact for some time. "There must have be=
en
two rats," he said at last, turning away.
"Yes. And the
one that everybody hit--got away."
"I am certain
that my own shot--"
A canary-creeper =
leaf
tendril, engaged in that mysterious search for a holdfast which constitutes=
a
tendril's career, bent itself engagingly towards his neck and made him step
aside hastily.
"Whoo-z-z
z-z-z-z-Z-Z-Z," from the distant wasps' nest, "whoo oo zoo-oo.&qu=
ot;
V.
This incident left
the party alert but not unstrung.
They got their st=
ores
into the house, which had evidently been ransacked by the rats after the fl=
ight
of Mrs. Skinner, and four of the men took the two horses back to Hickleybro=
w.
They dragged the dead rat through the hedge and into a position commanded by
the windows of the house, and incidentally came upon a cluster of giant ear=
wigs
in the ditch. These creatures dispersed hastily, but Cossar reached out
incalculable limbs and managed to kill several with his boots and gun-butt.
Then two of the men hacked through several of the main stems of the canary
creeper--huge cylinders they were, a couple of feet in diameter, that came =
out
by the sink at the back; and while Cossar set the house in order for the ni=
ght,
Bensington, Redwood, and one of the assistant electricians went cautiously
round by the fowl runs in search of the rat-holes.
They skirted the
giant nettles widely, for these huge weeds threatened them with poison-thor=
ns a
good inch long. Then round beyond the gnawed, dismantled stile they came
abruptly on the huge cavernous throat of the most westerly of the giant
rat-holes, an evil-smelling profundity, that drew them up into a line toget=
her.
"I hope they= 'll come out," said Redwood, with a glance at the pent-house of the well.<= o:p>
"If they
don't--" reflected Bensington.
"They
will," said Redwood.
They meditated.
"We shall ha=
ve
to rig up some sort of flare if we do go in," said Redwood.
They went up a li=
ttle
path of white sand through the pine-wood and halted presently within sight =
of
the wasp-holes.
The sun was setti=
ng
now, and the wasps were coming home for good; their wings in the golden lig=
ht
made twirling haloes about them. The three men peered out from under the
trees--they did not care to go right to the edge of the wood--and watched t=
hese
tremendous insects drop and crawl for a little and enter and disappear.
"They will be still in a couple of hours from now," said Redwood.=
...
"This is like being a boy again."
"We can't mi=
ss
those holes," said Bensington, "even if the night is dark.
By-the-bye--about the light--"
"Full
moon," said the electrician. "I looked it up."
They went back and
consulted with Cossar.
He said that
"obviously" they must get the sulphur, nitre, and plaster of Paris
through the wood before twilight, and for that they broke bulk and carried =
the
sacks. After the necessary shouting of the preliminary directions, never a =
word
was spoken, and as the buzzing of the wasps' nest died away there was scarc=
ely
a sound in the world but the noise of footsteps, the heavy breathing of
burthened men, and the thud of the sacks. They all took turns at that labour
except Mr. Bensington, who was manifestly unfit. He took post in the Skinne=
rs'
bedroom with a rifle, to watch the carcase of the dead rat, and of the othe=
rs,
they took turns to rest from sack-carrying and to keep watch two at a time =
upon
the rat-holes behind the nettle grove. The pollen sacs of the nettles were =
ripe,
and every now and then the vigil would be enlivened by the dehiscence of th=
ese,
the bursting of the sacs sounding exactly like the crack of a pistol, and t=
he
pollen grains as big as buckshot pattered all about them.
Mr. Bensington sa=
t at
his window on a hard horse-hair-stuffed arm-chair, covered by a grubby
antimacassar that had given a touch of social distinction to the Skinners'
sitting-room for many years. His unaccustomed rifle rested on the sill, and=
his
spectacles anon watched the dark bulk of the dead rat in the thickening
twilight, anon wandered about him in curious meditation. There was a faint
smell of paraffin without, for one of the casks leaked, and it mingled with=
a
less unpleasant odour arising from the hacked and crushed creeper.
Within, when he
turned his head, a blend of faint domestic scents, beer, cheese, rotten app=
les,
and old boots as the leading motifs, was full of reminiscences of the vanis=
hed
Skinners. He regarded the dim room for a space. The furniture had been grea=
tly
disordered--perhaps by some inquisitive rat--but a coat upon a clothes-peg =
on
the door, a razor and some dirty scraps of paper, and a piece of soap that =
had
hardened through years of disuse into a horny cube, were redolent of Skinne=
r's distinctive
personality. It came to Bensington's mind with a complete novelty of
realisation that in all probability the man had been killed and eaten, at l=
east
in part, by the monster that now lay dead there in the darkling.
To think of all t=
hat
a harmless-looking discovery in chemistry may lead to!
Here he was in ho=
mely
England and yet in infinite danger, sitting out alone with a gun in a twili=
t,
ruined house, remote from every comfort, his shoulder dreadfully bruised fr=
om a
gun-kick, and--by Jove!
He grasped now how
profoundly the order of the universe had changed for him. He had come right
away to this amazing experience, without even saying a word to his cousin J=
ane!
What must she be
thinking of him?
He tried to imagi= ne it and he could not. He had an extraordinary feeling that she and he were part= ed for ever and would never meet again. He felt he had taken a step and come i= nto a world of new immensities. What other monsters might not those deepening shadows hide? The tips of the giant nettles came out sharp and black against the pale green and amber of the western sky. Everything was very still--very still indeed. He wondered why he could not hear the others away there round= the corner of the house. The shadow in the cart-shed was now an abysmal black.<= o:p>
*
Bang ... Bang ...
Bang.
A sequence of ech=
oes
and a shout.
A long silence.
Bang and a diminu=
endo
of echoes.
Stillness.
Then, thank goodn=
ess!
Redwood and Cossar were coming out of the inaudible darknesses, and Redwood=
was
calling "Bensington!"
"Bensington!
We've bagged another of the rats!"
"Cossar's ba=
gged
another of the rats!"
VI.
When the Expediti=
on
had finished refreshment, the night had fully come. The stars were at their
brightest, and a growing pallor towards Hankey heralded the moon. The watch=
on
the rat-holes had been maintained, but the watchers had shifted to the hill
slope above the holes, feeling this a safer firing-point. They squatted the=
re
in a rather abundant dew, fighting the damp with whisky. The others rested =
in
the house, and the three leaders discussed the night's work with the men. T=
he
moon rose towards midnight, and as soon as it was clear of the downs, every=
one
except the rat-hole sentinels started off in single file, led by Cossar, to=
wards
the wasps' nest.
So far as the was=
ps'
nest went, they found their task exceptionally easy--astonishingly easy. Ex=
cept
that it was a longer labour, it was no graver affair than any common wasps'
nest might have been. Danger there was, no doubt, danger to life, but it ne=
ver
so much as thrust its head out of that portentous hillside. They stuffed in=
the
sulphur and nitre, they bunged the holes soundly, and fired their trains. T=
hen
with a common impulse all the party but Cossar turned and ran athwart the l=
ong shadows
of the pines, and, finding Cossar had stayed behind, came to a halt togethe=
r in
a knot, a hundred yards away, convenient to a ditch that offered cover. Just
for a minute or two the moonlit night, all black and white, was heavy with a
suffocated buzz, that rose and mingled to a roar, a deep abundant note, and
culminated and died, and then almost incredibly the night was still.
"By Jove!&qu=
ot;
said Bensington, almost in a whisper, "it's done!"
All stood intent.=
The
hillside above the black point-lace of the pine shadows seemed as bright as=
day
and as colourless as snow. The setting plaster in the holes positively shon=
e.
Cossar's loose framework moved towards them.
"So far--&qu=
ot;
said Cossar.
Crack--bang!
A shot from near =
the
house and then--stillness.
"What's
that?" said Bensington.
"One of the =
rats
put its head out," suggested one of the men.
"By-the-bye,=
we
left our guns up there," said Redwood.
"By the
sacks."
Every one began to
walk towards the hill again.
"That must be
the rats," said Bensington.
"Obviously,&=
quot;
said Cossar, gnawing his finger nails.
Bang!
"Hullo?"
said one of the men.
Then abruptly cam=
e a
shout, two shots, a loud shout that was almost a scream, three shots in rap=
id
succession and a splintering of wood. All these sounds were very clear and =
very
small in the immense stillness of the night. Then for some moments nothing =
but
a minute muffled confusion from the direction of the rat-holes, and then ag=
ain
a wild yell ... Each man found himself running hard for the guns.
Two shots.
Bensington found
himself, gun in hand, going hard through the pine trees after a number of
receding backs. It is curious that the thought uppermost in his mind at that
moment was the wish that his cousin Jane could see him. His bulbous slashed
boots flew out in wild strides, and his face was distorted into a permanent
grin, because that wrinkled his nose and kept his glasses in place. Also he
held the muzzle of his gun projecting straight before him as he flew through
the chequered moonlight. The man who had run away met them full tilt--he had
dropped his gun.
"Hullo,"
said Cossar, and caught him in his arms. "What's this?"
"They came o=
ut
together," said the man.
"The rats?&q=
uot;
"Yes, six of
them."
"Where's
Flack?"
"Down."=
"What's he
say?" panted Bensington, coming up, unheeded.
"Flack's
down?"
"He fell
down."
"They came o=
ut
one after the other."
"What?"=
"Made a rush=
. I
fired both barrels first."
"You left
Flack?"
"They were o=
n to
us."
"Come on,&qu=
ot;
said Cossar. "You come with us. Where's Flack? Show us."
The whole party m=
oved
forward. Further details of the engagement dropped from the man who had run
away. The others clustered about him, except Cossar, who led.
"Where are
they?"
"Back in the=
ir
holes, perhaps. I cleared. They made a rush for their holes."
"What do you
mean? Did you get behind them?"
"We got down=
by
their holes. Saw 'em come out, you know, and tried to cut 'em off. They
lolloped out--like rabbits. We ran down and let fly. They ran about wild af=
ter
our first shot and suddenly came at us. Went for us."
"How many?&q=
uot;
"Six or
seven."
Cossar led the wa=
y to
the edge of the pine-wood and halted.
"D'yer mean =
they
got Flack?" asked some one.
"One of 'em =
was
on to him."
"Didn't you
shoot?"
"How could I=
?"
"Every one
loaded?" said Cossar over his shoulder.
There was a
confirmatory movement.
"But
Flack--" said one.
"D'yer
mean--Flack--" said another.
"There's no =
time
to lose," said Cossar, and shouted "Flack!" as he led the wa=
y.
The whole force advanced towards the rat-holes, the man who had run away a
little to the rear. They went forward through the rank exaggerated weeds and
skirted the body of the second dead rat. They were extended in a bunchy lin=
e,
each man with his gun pointing forward, and they peered about them in the c=
lear
moonlight for some crumpled, ominous shape, some crouching form. They found=
the
gun of the man who had run away very speedily.
"Flack!"
cried Cossar. "Flack!"
"He ran past=
the
nettles and fell down," volunteered the man who ran away.
"Where?"=
;
"Round about
there."
"Where did he
fall?"
He hesitated and =
led
them athwart the long black shadows for a space and turned judicially.
"About here, I think."
"Well, he's =
not
here now."
"But his
gun---?"
"Confound
it!" swore Cossar, "where's everything got to?" He strode a =
step
towards the black shadows on the hillside that masked the holes and stood
staring. Then he swore again. "If they have dragged him in---!"
So they hung for a
space tossing each other the fragments of thoughts. Bensington's glasses
flashed like diamonds as he looked from one to the other. The men's faces
changed from cold clearness to mysterious obscurity as they turned them to =
or
from the moon. Every one spoke, no one completed a sentence. Then abruptly
Cossar chose his line. He flapped limbs this way and that and expelled orde=
rs
in pellets. It was obvious he wanted lamps. Every one except Cossar was mov=
ing
towards the house.
"You're going
into the holes?" asked Redwood.
"Obviously,&=
quot;
said Cossar.
He made it clear =
once
more that the lamps of the cart and trolley were to be got and brought to h=
im.
Bensington, grasp=
ing
this, started off along the path by the well. He glanced over his shoulder,=
and
saw Cossar's gigantic figure standing out as if he were regarding the holes
pensively. At the sight Bensington halted for a moment and half turned. They
were all leaving Cossar---!
Cossar was able to
take care of himself, of course!
Suddenly Bensingt=
on
saw something that made him shout a windless "HI!" In a second th=
ree
rats had projected themselves from the dark tangle of the creeper towards
Cossar. For three seconds Cossar stood unaware of them, and then he had bec=
ome
the most active thing in the world. He didn't fire his gun. Apparently he h=
ad
no time to aim, or to think of aiming; he ducked a leaping rat, Bensington =
saw,
and then smashed at the back of its head with the butt of his gun. The mons=
ter
gave one leap and fell over itself.
Cossar's form went
right down out of sight among the reedy grass, and then he rose again, runn=
ing
towards another of the rats and whirling his gun overhead. A faint shout ca=
me
to Bensington's ears, and then he perceived the remaining two rats bolting
divergently, and Cossar in pursuit towards the holes.
The whole thing w=
as
an affair of misty shadows; all three fighting monsters were exaggerated and
made unreal by the delusive clearness of the light. At moments Cossar was
colossal, at moments invisible. The rats flashed athwart the eye in sudden
unexpected leaps, or ran with a movement of the feet so swift, they seemed =
to
run on wheels. It was all over in half a minute. No one saw it but Bensingt=
on.
He could hear the others behind him still receding towards the house. He
shouted something inarticulate and then ran back towards Cossar, while the =
rats
vanished. He came up to him outside the holes. In the moonlight the
distribution of shadows that constituted Cossar's visage intimated calm.
"Hullo," said Cossar, "back already? Where's the lamps? They=
're
all back now in their holes. One I broke the neck of as it ran past me ... =
See?
There!" And he pointed a gaunt finger.
Bensington was too
astonished for conversation ...
The lamps seemed =
an
interminable time in coming. At last they appeared, first one unwinking
luminous eye, preceded by a swaying yellow glare, and then, winking now and
then, and then shining out again, two others. About them came little figures
with little voices, and then enormous shadows. This group made as it were a
spot of inflammation upon the gigantic dreamland of moonshine.
"Flack,"
said the voices. "Flack."
An illuminating
sentence floated up. "Locked himself in the attic."
Cossar was
continually more wonderful. He produced great handfuls of cotton wool and
stuffed them in his ears--Bensington wondered why. Then he loaded his gun w=
ith
a quarter charge of powder. Who else could have thought of that? Wonderland
culminated with the disappearance of Cossar's twin realms of boot sole up t=
he
central hole.
Cossar was on all
fours with two guns, one trailing on each side from a string under his chin,
and his most trusted assistant, a little dark man with a grave face, was to=
go
in stooping behind him, holding a lantern over his head. Everything had been
made as sane and obvious and proper as a lunatic's dream. The wool, it seem=
s,
was on account of the concussion of the rifle; the man had some too. Obviou=
sly!
So long as the rats turned tail on Cossar no harm could come to him, and
directly they headed for him he would see their eyes and fire between them.
Since they would have to come down the cylinder of the hole, Cossar could h=
ardly
fail to hit them. It was, Cossar insisted, the obvious method, a little ted=
ious
perhaps, but absolutely certain. As the assistant stooped to enter, Bensing=
ton
saw that the end of a ball of twine had been tied to the tail of his coat. =
By
this he was to draw in the rope if it should be needed to drag out the bodi=
es
of the rats.
Bensington percei=
ved
that the object he held in his hand was Cossar's silk hat.
How had it got th=
ere?
It would be somet=
hing
to remember him by, anyhow.
At each of the
adjacent holes stood a little group with a lantern on the ground shining up=
the
hole, and with one man kneeling and aiming at the round void before him,
waiting for anything that might emerge.
There was an inte=
rminable
suspense.
Then they heard
Cossar's first shot, like an explosion in a mine....
Every one's nerves
and muscles tightened at that, and bang! bang! bang! the rats had tried a b=
olt,
and two more were dead. Then the man who held the ball of twine reported a
twitching. "He's killed one in there," said Bensington, "and=
he
wants the rope."
He watched the ro=
pe
creep into the hole, and it seemed as though it had become animated by a
serpentine intelligence--for the darkness made the twine invisible. At last=
it
stopped crawling, and there was a long pause. Then what seemed to Bensington
the queerest monster of all crept slowly from the hole, and resolved itself
into the little engineer emerging backwards. After him, and ploughing deep
furrows, Cossar's boots thrust out, and then came his lantern-illuminated
back....
Only one rat was =
left
alive now, and this poor, doomed wretch cowered in the inmost recesses until
Cossar and the lantern went in again and slew it, and finally Cossar, that
human ferret, went through all the runs to make sure.
"We got
'em," he said to his nearly awe-stricken company at last. "And if=
I
hadn't been a mud-headed mucker I should have stripped to the waist. Obviou=
sly.
Feel my sleeves, Bensington! I'm wet through with perspiration. Jolly hard =
to
think of everything. Only a halfway-up of whisky can save me from a cold.&q=
uot;
VII.
There were moments
during that wonderful night when it seemed to Bensington that he was planne=
d by
nature for a life of fantastic adventure. This was particularly the case fo=
r an
hour or so after he had taken a stiff whisky. "Shan't go back to Sloane
Street," he confided to the tall, fair, dirty engineer.
"You won't,
eh?"
"No fear,&qu=
ot;
said Bensington, nodding darkly.
The exertion of
dragging the seven dead rats to the funeral pyre by the nettle grove left h=
im
bathed in perspiration, and Cossar pointed out the obvious physical reactio=
n of
whisky to save him from the otherwise inevitable chill. There was a sort of
brigand's supper in the old bricked kitchen, with the row of dead rats lyin=
g in
the moonlight against the hen-runs outside, and after thirty minutes or so =
of
rest, Cossar roused them all to the labours that were still to do. "Ob=
viously,"
as he said, they had to "wipe the place out. No litter--no scandal.
See?" He stirred them up to the idea of making destruction complete. T=
hey
smashed and splintered every fragment of wood in the house; they built trai=
ls
of chopped wood wherever big vegetation was springing; they made a pyre for=
the
rat bodies and soaked them in paraffin.
Bensington worked
like a conscientious navvy. He had a sort of climax of exhilaration and ene=
rgy
towards two o'clock. When in the work of destruction he wielded an axe the
bravest fled his neighbourhood. Afterwards he was a little sobered by the
temporary loss of his spectacles, which were found for him at last in his s=
ide
coat-pocket.
Men went to and f=
ro
about him--grimy, energetic men. Cossar moved amongst them like a god.
Bensington drank =
that
delight of human fellowship that comes to happy armies, to sturdy
expeditions--never to those who live the life of the sober citizen in citie=
s.
After Cossar had taken his axe away and set him to carry wood he went to and
fro, saying they were all "good fellows." He kept on--long after =
he
was aware of fatigue.
At last all was
ready, and the broaching of the paraffin began. The moon, robbed now of all=
its
meagre night retinue of stars, shone high above the dawn.
"Burn
everything," said Cossar, going to and fro--"burn the ground and =
make
a clean sweep of it. See?"
Bensington became
aware of him, looking now very gaunt and horrible in the pale beginnings of=
the
daylight, hurrying past with his lower jaw projected and a flaring torch of
touchwood in his hand.
"Come
away!" said some one, pulling Bensington's arm.
The still dawn--no
birds were singing there--was suddenly full of a tumultuous crackling; a li=
ttle
dull red flame ran about the base of the pyre, changed to blue upon the gro=
und,
and set out to clamber, leaf by leaf, up the stem of a giant nettle. A sing=
ing
sound mingled with the crackling....
They snatched the=
ir
guns from the corner of the Skinners' living-room, and then every one was
running. Cossar came after them with heavy strides....
Then they were
standing looking back at the Experimental Farm. It was boiling up; the smoke
and flames poured out like a crowd in a panic, from doors and windows and f=
rom
a thousand cracks and crevices in the roof. Trust Cossar to build a fire! A
great column of smoke, shot with blood-red tongues and darting flashes, rus=
hed
up into the sky. It was like some huge giant suddenly standing up, straining
upward and abruptly spreading his great arms out across the sky. It cast the
night back upon them, utterly hiding and obliterating the incandescence of =
the
sun that rose behind it. All Hickleybrow was soon aware of that stupendous
pillar of smoke, and came out upon the crest, in various deshabille, to wat=
ch them
coming.
Behind, like some
fantastic fungus, this smoke pillar swayed and fluctuated, up, up, into the
sky--making the Downs seem low and all other objects petty, and in the
foreground, led by Cossar, the makers of this mischief followed the path, e=
ight
little black figures coming wearily, guns shouldered, across the meadow.
As Bensington loo=
ked
back there came into his jaded brain, and echoed there, a familiar formula.
What was it? "You have lit to-day--? You have lit to-day--?" Then=
he
remembered Latimer's words: "We have lit this day such a candle in Eng=
land
as no man may ever put out again--"
What a man Cossar
was, to be sure! He admired his back view for a space, and was proud to have
held that hat. Proud! Although he was an eminent investigator and Cossar on=
ly
engaged in applied science.
Suddenly he fell
shivering and yawning enormously and wishing he was warmly tucked away in b=
ed
in his little flat that looked out upon Sloane Street. (It didn't do even to
think of Cousin Jane.) His legs became cotton strands, his feet lead. He
wondered if any one would get them coffee in Hickleybrow. He had never been=
up
all night for three-and-thirty years.
VIII.
And while these e=
ight
adventurers fought with rats about the Experimental Farm, nine miles away, =
in
the village of Cheasing Eyebright, an old lady with an excessive nose strug=
gled
with great difficulties by the light of a flickering candle. She gripped a
sardine tin opener in one gnarled hand, and in the other she held a tin of =
Herakleophorbia,
which she had resolved to open or die. She struggled indefatigably, gruntin=
g at
each fresh effort, while through the flimsy partition the voice of the Cadd=
les
infant wailed.
"Bless 'is p=
oor
'art," said Mrs. Skinner; and then, with her solitary tooth biting her=
lip
in an ecstasy of determination, "Come up!"
And presently,
"Jab!" a fresh supply of the Food of the Gods was let loose to wr=
eak
its powers of giantry upon the world.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH - THE
GIANT CHILDREN.
I.
For a time at lea=
st
the spreading circle of residual consequences about the Experimental Farm m=
ust
pass out of the focus of our narrative--how for a long time a power of bign=
ess,
in fungus and toadstool, in grass and weed, radiated from that charred but =
not
absolutely obliterated centre. Nor can we tell here at any length how these
mournful spinsters, the two surviving hens, made a wonder of and a show, sp=
ent
their remaining years in eggless celebrity. The reader who is hungry for fu=
ller
details in these matters is referred to the newspapers of the period--to the
voluminous, indiscriminate files of the modern Recording Angel. Our business
lies with Mr. Bensington at the focus of the disturbance.
He had come back =
to
London to find himself a quite terribly famous man. In a night the whole wo=
rld
had changed with respect to him. Everybody understood. Cousin Jane, it seem=
ed,
knew all about it; the people in the streets knew all about it; the newspap=
ers
all and more. To meet Cousin Jane was terrible, of course, but when it was =
over
not so terrible after all. The good woman had limits even to her power over
facts; it was clear that she had communed with herself and accepted the Foo=
d as
something in the nature of things.
She took the line=
of
huffy dutifulness. She disapproved highly, it was evident, but she did not
prohibit. The flight of Bensington, as she must have considered it, may have
shaken her, and her worst was to treat him with bitter persistence for a co=
ld
he had not caught and fatigue he had long since forgotten, and to buy him a=
new
sort of hygienic all-wool combination underwear that was apt to get involved
and turned partially inside out and partially not, and as difficult to get =
into
for an absent-minded man, as--Society. And so for a space, and as far as th=
is convenience
left him leisure, he still continued to participate in the development of t=
his
new element in human history, the Food of the Gods.
The public mind,
following its own mysterious laws of selection, had chosen him as the one a=
nd
only responsible Inventor and Promoter of this new wonder; it would hear
nothing of Redwood, and without a protest it allowed Cossar to follow his
natural impulse into a terribly prolific obscurity. Before he was aware of =
the
drift of these things, Mr. Bensington was, so to speak, stark and dissected
upon the hoardings. His baldness, his curious general pinkness, and his gol=
den
spectacles had become a national possession. Resolute young men with large =
expensive-looking
cameras and a general air of complete authorisation took possession of the =
flat
for brief but fruitful periods, let off flash lights in it that filled it f=
or
days with dense, intolerable vapour, and retired to fill the pages of the
syndicated magazines with their admirable photographs of Mr. Bensington
complete and at home in his second-best jacket and his slashed shoes. Other
resolute-mannered persons of various ages and sexes dropped in and told him
things about Boomfood--it was Punch first called the stuff
"Boomfood"--and afterwards reproduced what they had said as his o=
wn
original contribution to the Interview. The thing became quite an obsession
with Broadbeam, the Popular Humourist. He scented another confounded thing =
he could
not understand, and he fretted dreadfully in his efforts to "laugh the
thing down." One saw him in clubs, a great clumsy presence with the ev=
idences
of his midnight oil burning manifest upon his large unwholesome face,
explaining to every one he could buttonhole: "These Scientific chaps, =
you
know, haven't a Sense of Humour, you know. That's what it is. This
Science--kills it." His jests at Bensington became malignant libels...=
.
An enterprising
press-cutting agency sent Bensington a long article about himself from a
sixpenny weekly, entitled "A New Terror," and offered to supply o=
ne
hundred such disturbances for a guinea, and two extremely charming young
ladies, totally unknown to him, called, and, to the speechless indignation =
of
Cousin Jane, had tea with him and afterwards sent him their birthday books =
for
his signature. He was speedily quite hardened to seeing his name associated
with the most incongruous ideas in the public press, and to discover in the
reviews articles written about Boomfood and himself in a tone of the utmost=
intimacy
by people he had never heard of. And whatever delusions he may have cherish=
ed
in the days of his obscurity about the pleasantness of Fame were dispelled
utterly and for ever.
At first--except =
for
Broadbeam--the tone of the public mind was quite free from any touch of
hostility. It did not seem to occur to the public mind as anything but a me=
re
playful supposition that any more Herakleophorbia was going to escape again.
And it did not seem to occur to the public mind that the growing little ban=
d of
babies now being fed on the food would presently be growing more "up&q=
uot;
than most of us ever grow. The sort of thing that pleased the public mind w=
as
caricatures of eminent politicians after a course of Boom-feeding, uses of =
the
idea on hoardings, and such edifying exhibitions as the dead wasps that had=
escaped
the fire and the remaining hens.
Beyond that the
public did not care to look, until very strenuous efforts were made to turn=
its
eyes to the remoter consequences, and even then for a while its enthusiasm =
for
action was partial. "There's always somethin' New," said the
public--a public so glutted with novelty that it would hear of the earth be=
ing
split as one splits an apple without surprise, and, "I wonder what the=
y'll
do next."
But there were on= e or two people outside the public, as it were, who did already take that further glance, and some it seems were frightened by what they saw there. There was young Caterham, for example, cousin of the Earl of Pewterstone, and one of = the most promising of English politicians, who, taking the risk of being though= t a faddist, wrote a long article in the Nineteenth Century and After to suggest its total suppression. And--in certain of his moods, there was Bensington.<= o:p>
"They don't =
seem
to realise--" he said to Cossar.
"No, they
don't."
"And do we?
Sometimes, when I think of what it means--This poor child of Redwood's--And=
, of
course, your three... Forty feet high, perhaps! After all, ought we to go on
with it?"
"Go on with
it!" cried Cossar, convulsed with inelegant astonishment and pitching =
his
note higher than ever. "Of course you'll go on with it! What d'you thi=
nk
you were made for? Just to loaf about between meal-times?
"Serious
consequences," he screamed, "of course! Enormous. Obviously. Ob-v=
iously.
Why, man, it's the only chance you'll ever get of a serious consequence! And
you want to shirk it!" For a moment his indignation was speechless,
"It's downright Wicked!" he said at last, and repeated explosivel=
y,
"Wicked!"
But Bensington wo=
rked
in his laboratory now with more emotion than zest. He couldn't, tell whethe=
r he
wanted serious consequences to his life or not; he was a man of quiet taste=
s.
It was a marvellous discovery, of course, quite marvellous--but--He had alr=
eady
become the proprietor of several acres of scorched, discredited property ne=
ar
Hickleybrow, at a price of nearly £90 an acre, and at times he was
disposed to think this as serious a consequence of speculative chemistry as=
any
unambitious man, could wish. Of course he was Famous--terribly Famous. More
than satisfying, altogether more than satisfying, was the Fame he had attai=
ned.
But the habit of
Research was strong in him....
And at moments, r=
are
moments in the laboratory chiefly, he would find something else than habit =
and
Cossar's arguments to urge him to his work. This little spectacled man, poi=
sed
perhaps with his slashed shoes wrapped about the legs of his high stool and=
his
hand upon the tweezer of his balance weights, would have again a flash of t=
hat
adolescent vision, would have a momentary perception of the eternal unfoldi=
ng
of the seed that had been sown in his brain, would see as it were in the sk=
y,
behind the grotesque shapes and accidents of the present, the coming world =
of
giants and all the mighty things the future has in store--vague and splendi=
d,
like some glittering palace seen suddenly in the passing of a sunbeam far
away.... And presently it would be with him as though that distant splendour
had never shone upon his brain, and he would perceive nothing ahead but
sinister shadows, vast declivities and darknesses, inhospitable immensities,
cold, wild, and terrible things.
II.
Amidst the complex
and confused happenings, the impacts from the great outer world that
constituted Mr. Bensington's fame, a shining and active figure presently be=
came
conspicuous--became almost, as it were, a leader and marshal of these
externalities in Mr. Bensington's eyes. This was Dr. Winkles, that convinci=
ng
young practitioner, who has already appeared in this story as the means whe=
reby
Redwood was able to convey the Food to his son. Even before the great outbr=
eak,
it was evident that the mysterious powders Redwood had given him had awaken=
ed
this gentleman's interest immensely, and so soon as the first wasps came he=
was
putting two and two together.
He was the sort of
doctor that is in manners, in morals, in methods and appearance, most
succinctly and finally expressed by the word "rising." He was lar=
ge
and fair, with a hard, alert, superficial, aluminium-coloured eye, and hair
like chalk mud, even-featured and muscular about the clean-shaven mouth, er=
ect
in figure and energetic in movement, quick and spinning on the heel, and he
wore long frock coats, black silk ties and plain gold studs and chains and =
his
silk hats had a special shape and brim that made him look wiser and better =
than
anybody. He looked as young or old as anybody grown up. And after that firs=
t wonderful
outbreak he took to Bensington and Redwood and the Food of the Gods with su=
ch a
convincing air of proprietorship, that at times, in spite of the testimony =
of
the Press to the contrary, Bensington was disposed to regard him as the
original inventor of the whole affair.
"These
accidents," said Winkles, when Bensington hinted at the dangers of fur=
ther
escapes, "are nothing. Nothing. The discovery is everything. Properly
developed, suitably handled, sanely controlled, we have--we have something =
very
portentous indeed in this food of ours.... We must keep our eye on it ... We
mustn't let it out of control again, and--we mustn't let it rest."
He certainly did =
not
mean to do that. He was at Bensington's now almost every day. Bensington,
glancing from the window, would see the faultless equipage come spanking up
Sloane Street and after an incredibly brief interval Winkles would enter the
room with a light, strong motion, and pervade it, and protrude some newspap=
er
and supply information and make remarks.
"Well,"=
he
would say, rubbing his hands, "how are we getting on?" and so pas=
s to
the current discussion about it.
"Do you
see," he would say, for example, "that Caterham has been talking =
about
our stuff at the Church Association?"
"Dear me!&qu=
ot;
said Bensington, "that's a cousin of the Prime Minister, isn't it?&quo=
t;
"Yes," =
said
Winkles, "a very able young man--very able. Quite wrong-headed; you kn=
ow,
violently reactionary--but thoroughly able. And he's evidently disposed to =
make
capital out of this stuff of ours. Takes a very emphatic line. Talks of our
proposal to use it in the elementary schools---"
"Our proposa=
l to
use it in the elementary schools!"
"I said
something about that the other day--quite in passing--little affair at a
Polytechnic. Trying to make it clear the stuff was really highly beneficial.
Not in the slightest degree dangerous, in spite of those first little
accidents. Which cannot possibly occur again.... You know it would be rather
good stuff--But he's taken it up."
"What did you
say?"
"Mere obvious
nothings. But as you see---! Takes it up with perfect gravity. Treats the t=
hing
as an attack. Says there is already a sufficient waste of public money in
elementary schools without this. Tells the old stories about piano lessons
again--you know. No one; he says, wishes to prevent the children of the low=
er
classes obtaining an education suited to their condition, but to give them a
food of this sort will be to destroy their sense of proportion utterly. Exp=
ands
the topic. What Good will it do, he asks, to make poor people six-and-thirt=
y feet
high? He really believes, you know, that they will be thirty-six feet
high."
"So they wou=
ld
be," said Bensington, "if you gave them our food at all regularly.
But nobody said anything---"
"I said
something."
"But, my dear
Winkles--!"
"They'll be
Bigger, of course," interrupted Winkles, with an air of knowing all ab=
out
it, and discouraging the crude ideas of Bensington. "Bigger indisputab=
ly.
But listen to what he says! Will it make them happier? That's his point.
Curious, isn't it? Will it make them better? Will they be more respectful to
properly constituted authority? Is it fair to the children themselves?? Cur=
ious
how anxious his sort are for justice--so far as any future arrangements go.
Even nowadays, he says, the cost, of feeding and clothing children is more =
than
many of their parents can contrive, and if this sort of thing is to be
permitted--! Eh?
"You see he
makes my mere passing suggestion into a positive proposal. And then he
calculates how much a pair of breeches for a growing lad of twenty feet hig=
h or
so will cost. Just as though he really believed--Ten pounds, he reckons, for
the merest decency. Curious this Caterham! So concrete! The honest, and
struggling ratepayer will have to contribute to that, he says. He says we h=
ave
to consider the Rights of the Parent. It's all here. Two columns. Every Par=
ent
has a right to have, his children brought up in his own Size....
"Then comes =
the
question of school accommodation, cost of enlarged desks and forms for our
already too greatly burthened National Schools. And to get what?--a proleta=
riat
of hungry giants. Winds up with a very serious passage, says even if this w=
ild
suggestion--mere passing fancy of mine, you know, and misinterpreted at
that--this wild suggestion about the schools comes to nothing, that doesn't=
end
the matter. This is a strange food, so strange as to seem to him almost wic=
ked.
It has been scattered recklessly--so he says--and it may be scattered again.
Once you've taken it, it's poison unless you go on with it. 'So it is,' said
Bensington. And in short he proposes the formation of a National Society for
the Preservation of the Proper Proportions of Things. Odd? Eh? People are h=
anging
on to the idea like anything."
"But what do
they propose to do?"
Winkles shrugged =
his
shoulders and threw out his hands. "Form a Society," he said,
"and fuss. They want to make it illegal to manufacture this
Herakleophorbia--or at any rate to circulate the knowledge of it. I've writ=
ten
about a bit to show that Caterham's idea of the stuff is very much
exaggerated--very much exaggerated indeed, but that doesn't seem to check i=
t.
Curious how people are turning against it. And the National Temperance
Association, by-the-bye, has founded a branch for Temperance in Growth.&quo=
t;
"Mm," s=
aid
Bensington and stroked his nose.
"After all t=
hat
has happened there's bound to be this uproar. On the face of it the
thing's--startling."
Winkles walked ab=
out
the room for a time, hesitated, and departed.
It became evident
there was something at the back of his mind, some aspect of crucial importa=
nce to
him, that he waited to display. One day, when Redwood and Bensington were at
the flat together he gave them a glimpse of this something in reserve.
"How's it all
going?" he said; rubbing his hands together.
"We're getti=
ng
together a sort of report."
"For the Roy=
al
Society?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Hm," s=
aid.
Winkles, very profoundly, and walked to the hearth-rug. "Hm. But--Here=
's
the point. Ought you?"
"Ought
we--what?"
"Ought you to
publish?"
"We're not in
the Middle Ages," said Redwood.
"I know.&quo=
t;
"As Cossar s=
ays,
swapping wisdom--that's the true scientific method."
"In most cas=
es,
certainly. But--This is exceptional."
"We shall put
the whole thing before the Royal Society in the proper way," said Redw=
ood.
Winkles returned =
to
that on a later occasion.
"It's in many
ways an Exceptional discovery."
"That doesn't
matter," said Redwood.
"It's the so=
rt
of knowledge that could easily be subject to grave abuse--grave dangers, as
Caterham puts it."
Redwood said noth=
ing.
"Even
carelessness, you know--"
"If we were =
to
form a committee of trustworthy people to control the manufacture of
Boomfood--Herakleophorbia, I should say--we might--"
He paused, and
Redwood, with a certain private discomfort, pretended that he did not see a=
ny
sort of interrogation....
Outside the
apartments of Redwood and Bensington, Winkle, in spite of the incompletenes=
s of
his instructions, became a leading authority upon Boomfood. He wrote letters
defending its use; he made notes and articles explaining its possibilities;=
he
jumped up irrelevantly at the meetings of the scientific and medical
associations to talk about it; he identified himself with it. He published a
pamphlet called "The Truth about Boomfood," in which he minimised=
the
whole of the Hickleybrow affair almost to nothing. He said that it was absu=
rd
to say Boomfood would make people thirty-seven feet high. That was
"obviously exaggerated." It would make them Bigger, of course, but
that was all....
Within that intim=
ate
circle of two it was chiefly evident that Winkles was extremely anxious to =
help
in the making of Herakleophorbia, help in correcting any proofs there might=
be
of any paper there might be in preparation upon the subject--do anything in=
deed
that might lead up to his participation in the details of the making of Her=
akleophorbia.
He was continually telling them both that he felt it was a Big Thing, that =
it
had big possibilities. If only they were--"safeguarded in some way.&qu=
ot; And
at last one day he asked outright to be told just how it was made.
"I've been
thinking over what you said," said Redwood.
"Well?"
said Winkles brightly.
"It's the so=
rt
of knowledge that could easily be subject to grave abuse," said Redwoo=
d.
"But I don't=
see
how that applies," said Winkles.
"It does,&qu=
ot;
said Redwood.
Winkles thought it
over for a day or so. Then he came to Redwood and said that he doubted if he
ought to give powders about which he knew nothing to Redwood's little boy; =
it
seemed to him it was uncommonly like taking responsibility in the dark. That
made Redwood thoughtful.
"You've seen
that the Society for the Total Suppression of Boomfood claims to have sever=
al
thousand members," said Winkles, changing the subject. "They've
drafted a Bill," said Winkles. "They've got young Caterham to tak=
e it
up--readily enough. They're in earnest. They're forming local committees to
influence candidates. They want to make it penal to prepare and store
Herakleophorbia without special license, and felony--matter of imprisonment
without option--to administer Boomfood--that's what they call it, you know-=
-to
any person under one-and-twenty. But there's collateral societies, you know.
All sorts of people. The Society for the Preservation of Ancient Statures is
going to have Mr. Frederic Harrison on the council, they say. You know he's=
written
an essay about it; says it is vulgar, and entirely inharmonious with that
Revelation of Humanity that is found in the teachings of Comte. It is the s=
ort
of thing the Eighteenth Century couldn't have produced even in its worst
moments. The idea of the Food never entered the head of Comte--which shows =
how
wicked it really is. No one, he says, who really understood Comte...."=
"But you don=
't
mean to say--" said Redwood, alarmed out of his disdain for Winkles.
"They'll not=
do
all that," said Winkles. "But public opinion is public opinion, a=
nd
votes are votes. Everybody can see you are up to a disturbing thing. And the
human instinct is all against disturbance, you know. Nobody seems to believe
Caterham's idea of people thirty-seven feet high, who won't be able to get =
inside
a church, or a meeting-house, or any social or human institution. But for a=
ll
that they're not so easy in their minds about it. They see there's
something--something more than a common discovery--"
"There is,&q=
uot;
said Redwood, "in every discovery."
"Anyhow, the=
y're
getting--restive. Caterham keeps harping on what may happen if it gets loose
again. I say over and over again, it won't, and it can't. But--there it
is!"
And he bounced ab=
out
the room for a little while as if he meant to reopen the topic of the secre=
t,
and then thought better of it and went.
The two scientific
men looked at one another. For a space only their eyes spoke.
"If the worst
comes to the worst," said Redwood at last, in a strenuously calm voice,
"I shall give the Food to my little Teddy with my own hands."
III.
It was only a few
days after this that Redwood opened his paper to find that the Prime Minist=
er
had promised a Royal Commission on Boomfood. This sent him, newspaper in ha=
nd,
round to Bensington's flat.
"Winkles, I
believe, is making mischief for the stuff. He plays into the hands of Cater=
ham.
He keeps on talking about it, and what it is going to do, and alarming peop=
le.
If he goes on, I really believe he'll hamper our inquiries. Even as it is--=
with
this trouble about my little boy--"
Bensington wished
Winkles wouldn't.
"Do you noti=
ce
how he has dropped into the way of calling it Boomfood?"
"I don't like
that name," said Bensington, with a glance over his glasses.
"It is just =
so
exactly what it is--to Winkles."
"Why does he
keep on about it? It isn't his!"
"It's someth=
ing
called Booming," said Redwood. "I don't understand. If it isn't h=
is,
everybody is getting to think it is. Not that that matters."
"In the even=
t of
this ignorant, this ridiculous agitation becoming--Serious," began
Bensington.
"My little b=
oy
can't get on without the stuff," said Redwood. "I don't see how I=
can
help myself now. If the worst comes to the worst--"
A slight bouncing
noise proclaimed the presence of Winkles. He became visible in the middle of
the room rubbing his hands together.
"I wish you'd
knock," said Bensington, looking vicious over the gold rims.
Winkles was
apologetic. Then he turned to Redwood. "I'm glad to find you here,&quo=
t;
he began; "the fact is--"
"Have you se=
en
about this Royal Commission?" interrupted Redwood.
"Yes," =
said
Winkles, thrown out. "Yes."
"What do you
think of it?"
"Excellent
thing," said Winkles. "Bound to stop most of this clamour. Ventil=
ate
the whole affair. Shut up Caterham. But that's not what I came round for,
Redwood. The fact is--"
"I don't like
this Royal Commission," said Bensington.
"I can assure
you it will be all right. I may say--I don't think it's a breach of
confidence--that very possibly I may have a place on the Commission--"=
"Oom," =
said
Redwood, looking into the fire.
"I can put t=
he
whole thing right. I can make it perfectly clear, first, that the stuff is
controllable, and, secondly, that nothing short of a miracle is needed befo=
re
anything like that catastrophe at Hickleybrow can possibly happen again. Th=
at
is just what is wanted, an authoritative assurance. Of course, I could speak
with more confidence if I knew--But that's quite by the way. And just at
present there's something else, another little matter, upon which I'm wanti=
ng
to consult you. Ahem. The fact is--Well--I happen to be in a slight difficu=
lty,
and you can help me out."
Redwood raised his
eyebrows, and was secretly glad.
"The matter
is--highly confidential."
"Go on,"
said Redwood. "Don't worry about that."
"I have rece=
ntly
been entrusted with a child--the child of--of an Exalted Personage."
Winkles coughed.<= o:p>
"You're gett=
ing
on," said Redwood.
"I must conf=
ess
it's largely your powders--and the reputation of my success with your little
boy--There is, I cannot disguise, a strong feeling against its use. And yet=
I
find that among the more intelligent--One must go quietly in these things, =
you
know--little by little. Still, in the case of Her Serene High--I mean this =
new
little patient of mine. As a matter of fact--the suggestion came from the p=
arent.
Or I should never--"
He struck Redwood=
as
being embarrassed.
"I thought y=
ou
had a doubt of the advisability of using these powders," said Redwood.=
"Merely a
passing doubt."
"You don't
propose to discontinue--"
"In the case=
of
your little boy? Certainly not!"
"So far as I=
can
see, it would be murder."
"I wouldn't =
do
it for the world."
"You shall h=
ave
the powders," said Redwood.
"I suppose y=
ou
couldn't--"
"No fear,&qu=
ot;
said Redwood. "There isn't a recipe. It's no good, Winkles, if you'll
pardon my frankness. I'll make you the powders myself."
"Just as wel=
l,
perhaps," said Winkles, after a momentary hard stare at Redwood--"=
;just
as well." And then: "I can assure you I really don't mind in the
least."
IV.
When Winkles had =
gone
Bensington came and stood on the hearth-rug and looked down at Redwood.
"Her Serene
Highness!" he remarked.
"Her Serene
Highness!" said Redwood.
"It's the
Princess of Weser Dreiburg!"
"No further =
than
a third cousin."
"Redwood,&qu=
ot;
said Bensington; "it's a curious thing to say, I know, but--do you thi=
nk
Winkles understands?"
"What?"=
"Just what i=
t is
we have made.
"Does he rea=
lly
understand," said Bensington, dropping his voice and keeping his eye
doorward, "that in the Family--the Family of his new patient--"
"Go on,"
said Redwood.
"Who have al=
ways
been if anything a little under--under--"
"The
Average?"
"Yes. And so
very tactfully undistinguished in any way, he is going to produce a royal
personage--an outsize royal personage--of that size. You know, Redwood, I'm=
not
sure whether there is not something almost--treasonable ..."
He transferred his
eyes from the door to Redwood.
Redwood flung a
momentary gesture--index finger erect--at the fire. "By Jove!" he
said, "he doesn't know!"
"That man,&q=
uot;
said Redwood, "doesn't know anything. That was his most exasperating
quality as a student. Nothing. He passed all his examinations, he had all h=
is
facts--and he had just as much knowledge--as a rotating bookshelf containing
the Times Encyclopedia. And he doesn't know anything now. He's Winkles, and
incapable of really assimilating anything not immediately and directly rela=
ted
to his superficial self. He is utterly void of imagination and, as a conseq=
uence,
incapable of knowledge. No one could possibly pass so many examinations and=
be
so well dressed, so well done, and so successful as a doctor without that
precise incapacity. That's it. And in spite of all he's seen and heard and =
been
told, there he is--he has no idea whatever of what he has set going. He has=
got
a Boom on, he's working it well on Boomfood, and some one has let him in to
this new Royal Baby--and that's Boomier than ever! And the fact that Weser
Dreiburg will presently have to face the gigantic problem of a thirty-odd-f=
oot
Princess not only hasn't entered his head, but couldn't--it couldn't!"=
"There'll be=
a
fearful row," said Bensington.
"In a year or
so."
"So soon as =
they
really see she is going on growing."
"Unless after
their fashion--they hush it up."
"It's a lot =
to
hush up."
"Rather!&quo=
t;
"I wonder wh=
at
they'll do?"
"They never =
do
anything--Royal tact."
"They're bou=
nd
to do something."
"Perhaps she
will."
"O Lord!
Yes."
"They'll
suppress her. Such things have been known."
Redwood burst into
desperate laughter. "The redundant royalty--the bouncing babe in the I=
ron
Mask!" he said. "They'll have to put her in the tallest tower of =
the
old Weser Dreiburg castle and make holes in the ceilings as she grows from
floor to floor! Well, I'm in the very same pickle. And Cossar and his three
boys. And--Well, well."
"There'll be=
a
fearful row," Bensington repeated, not joining in the laughter. "A
fearful row."
"I
suppose," he argued, "you've really thought it out thoroughly, Re=
dwood.
You're quite sure it wouldn't be wiser to warn Winkles, wean your little boy
gradually, and--and rely upon the Theoretical Triumph?"
"I wish to
goodness you'd spend half an hour in my nursery when the Food's a little
late," said Redwood, with a note of exasperation in his voice; "t=
hen
you wouldn't talk like that, Bensington. Besides--Fancy warning Winkles... =
No!
The tide of this thing has caught us unawares, and whether we're frightened=
or
whether we're not--we've got to swim!"
"I suppose we
have," said Bensington, staring at his toes. "Yes. We've got to s=
wim.
And your boy will have to swim, and Cossar's boys--he's given it to all thr=
ee
of them. Nothing partial about Cossar--all or nothing! And Her Serene Highn=
ess.
And everything. We are going on making the Food. Cossar also. We're only ju=
st
in the dawn of the beginning, Redwood. It's evident all sorts of things are=
to
follow. Monstrous great things. But I can't imagine them, Redwood.
Except--"
He scanned his fi=
nger
nails. He looked up at Redwood with eyes bland through his glasses.
"I've half a
mind," he adventured, "that Caterham is right. At times. It's goi=
ng
to destroy the Proportions of Things. It's going to dislocate--What isn't it
going to dislocate?"
"Whatever it
dislocates," said Redwood, "my little boy must have the Food.&quo=
t;
They heard some o=
ne
falling rapidly upstairs. Then Cossar put his head into the fiat.
"Hullo!" he said at their expressions, and entering, "Well?&=
quot;
They told him abo=
ut
the Princess.
"Difficult
question!" he remarked. "Not a bit of it. She'll grow. Your boy'll
grow. All the others you give it to 'll grow. Everything. Like anything. Wh=
at's
difficult about that? That's all right. A child could tell you that. Where's
the bother?"
They tried to mak=
e it
clear to him.
"Not go on w=
ith
it!" he shrieked. "But--! You can't help yourselves now. It's what
you're for. It's what Winkles is for. It's all right. Often wondered what
Winkles was for. Now it's obvious. What's the trouble?
"Disturbance?
Obviously. Upset things? Upset everything. Finally--upset every human conce=
rn.
Plain as a pikestaff. They're going to try and stop it, but they're too lat=
e.
It's their way to be too late. You go on and start as much of it as you can.
Thank God He has a use for you!"
"But the
conflict!" said Bensington, "the stress! I don't know if you have
imagined--"
"You ought to
have been some sort of little vegetable, Bensington," said Cossar--&qu=
ot;that's
what you ought to have been. Something growing over a rockery. Here you are,
fearfully and wonderfully made, and all you think you're made for is just to
sit about and take your vittles. D'you think this world was made for old wo=
men
to mop about in? Well, anyhow, you can't help yourselves now--you've got to=
go
on."
"I suppose we
must," said Redwood. "Slowly--"
"No!" s=
aid
Cossar, in a huge shout. "No! Make as much as you can and as soon as y=
ou
can. Spread it about!"
He was inspired t=
o a
stroke of wit. He parodied one of Redwood's curves with a vast upward sweep=
of
his arm.
"Redwood!&qu=
ot;
he said, to point the allusion, "make it SO!"
V.
There is, it seem=
s,
an upward limit to the pride of maternity, and this in the case of Mrs. Red=
wood
was reached when her offspring completed his sixth month of terrestrial
existence, broke down his high-class bassinet-perambulator, and was brought
home, bawling, in the milk-truck. Young Redwood at that time weighed fifty-=
nine
and a half pounds, measured forty-eight inches in height, and gripped about
sixty pounds. He was carried upstairs to the nursery by the cook and housem=
aid.
After that, discovery was only a question of days. One afternoon Redwood ca=
me home
from his laboratory to find his unfortunate wife deep in the fascinating pa=
ges
of The Mighty Atom, and at the sight of him she put the book aside and ran
violently forward and burst into tears on his shoulder.
"Tell me what
you have done to him," she wailed. "Tell me what you have done.&q=
uot;
Redwood took her hand and led her to the sofa, while he tried to think of a
satisfactory line of defence.
"It's all ri=
ght,
my dear," he said; "it's all right. You're only a little overwrou=
ght.
It's that cheap perambulator. I've arranged for a bath-chair man to come ro=
und
with something stouter to-morrow--"
Mrs. Redwood look=
ed
at him tearfully over the top of her handkerchief.
"A baby in a
bath-chair?" she sobbed.
"Well, why
not?"
"It's like a
cripple."
"It's like a
young giant, my dear, and you've no cause to be ashamed of him."
"You've done
something to him, Dandy," she said. "I can see it in your face.&q=
uot;
"Well, it ha=
sn't
stopped his growth, anyhow," said Redwood heartlessly.
"I knew,&quo=
t;
said Mrs. Redwood, and clenched her pocket-handkerchief ball fashion in one
hand. She looked at him with a sudden change to severity. "What have y=
ou
done to our child, Dandy?"
"What's wrong
with him?"
"He's so big.
He's a monster."
"Nonsense. H=
e's
as straight and clean a baby as ever a woman had. What's wrong with him?&qu=
ot;
"Look at his
size."
"That's all
right. Look at the puny little brutes about us! He's the finest baby--"=
;
"He's too
fine," said Mrs. Redwood.
"It won't go
on," said Redwood reassuringly; "it's just a start he's taken.&qu=
ot;
But he knew perfe=
ctly
well it would go on. And it did. By the time this baby was twelve months ol=
d he
tottered just one inch under five feet high and scaled eight stone three; he
was as big in fact as a St. Peter's in Vaticano cherub, and his affectionate
clutch at the hair and features of visitors became the talk of West Kensing=
ton.
They had an invalid's chair to carry him up and down to his nursery, and his
special nurse, a muscular young person just out of training, used to take h=
im for
his airings in a Panhard 8 h.p. hill-climbing perambulator specially made to
meet his requirement. It was lucky in every way that Redwood had his expert
witness connection in addition to his professorship.
When one got over=
the
shock of little Redwood's enormous size, he was, I am told by people who us=
ed
to see him almost daily teufteufing slowly about Hyde Park, a singularly br=
ight
and pretty baby. He rarely cried or needed a comforter. Commonly he clutche=
d a
big rattle, and sometimes he went along hailing the bus-drivers and policem=
en
along the road outside the railings as "Dadda!" and
"Babba!" in a sociable, democratic way.
"There goes =
that
there great Boomfood baby," the bus-driver used to say.
"Looks
'ealthy," the forward passenger would remark.
"Bottle
fed," the bus-driver would explain. "They say it 'olds a gallon a=
nd
'ad to be specially made for 'im."
"Very 'ealthy
child any'ow," the forward passenger would conclude.
When Mrs. Redwood
realized that his growth was indeed going on indefinitely and logically--and
this she really did for the first time when the motor-perambulator arrived-=
-she
gave way to a passion of grief. She declared she never wished to enter her
nursery again, wished she was dead, wished the child was dead, wished every=
body
was dead, wished she had never married Redwood, wished no one ever married
anybody, Ajaxed a little, and retired to her own room, where she lived almo=
st
exclusively on chicken broth for three days. When Redwood came to remonstra=
te
with her, she banged pillows about and wept and tangled her hair.
"He's all
right," said Redwood. "He's all the better for being big. You
wouldn't like him smaller than other people's children."
"I want him =
to
be like other children, neither smaller nor bigger. I wanted him to be a ni=
ce
little boy, just as Georgina Phyllis is a nice little girl, and I wanted to
bring him up nicely in a nice way, and here he is"--and the unfortunate
woman's voice broke--"wearing number four grown-up shoes and being whe=
eled
about by--booboo!--Petroleum!
"I can never
love him," she wailed, "never! He's too much for me! I can never =
be a
mother to him, such as I meant to be!"
But at last, they
contrived to get her into the nursery, and there was Edward Monson Redwood
("Pantagruel" was only a later nickname) swinging in a specially
strengthened rocking-chair and smiling and talking "goo" and
"wow." And the heart of Mrs. Redwood warmed again to her child, a=
nd she
went and held him in her arms and wept.
"They've done
something to you," she sobbed, "and you'll grow and grow, dear; b=
ut
whatever I can do to bring you up nice I'll do for you, whatever your father
may say."
And Redwood, who =
had
helped to bring her to the door, went down the passage much relieved. (Eh! =
but
it's a base job this being a man--with women as they are!)
VI.
Before the year w=
as
out there were, in addition to Redwood's pioneer vehicle, quite a number of
motor-perambulators to be seen in the west of London. I am told there were =
as
many as eleven; but the most careful inquiries yield trustworthy evidence of
only six within the Metropolitan area at that time. It would seem the stuff
acted differently upon different types of constitution. At first
Herakleophorbia was not adapted to injection, and there can be no doubt that
quite a considerable proportion of human beings are incapable of absorbing =
this
substance in the normal course of digestion. It was given, for example, to
Winkles' youngest boy; but he seems to have been as incapable of growth as,=
if
Redwood was right, his father was incapable of knowledge. Others again,
according to the Society for the Total Suppression of Boomfood, became in s=
ome
inexplicable way corrupted by it, and perished at the onset of infantile
disorders. The Cossar boys took to it with amazing avidity.
Of course a thing=
of
this kind never comes with absolute simplicity of application into the life=
of
man; growth in particular is a complex thing, and all generalisations must
needs be a little inaccurate. But the general law of the Food would seem to=
be
this, that when it could be taken into the system in any way it stimulated =
it
in very nearly the same degree in all cases. It increased the amount of gro=
wth
from six to seven times, and it did not go beyond that, whatever amount of =
the
Food in excess was taken. Excess of Herakleophorbia indeed beyond the neces=
sary
minimum led, it was found, to morbid disturbances of nutrition, to cancer a=
nd
tumours, ossifications, and the like. And once growth upon the large scale =
had
begun, it was soon evident that it could only continue upon that scale, and
that the continuous administration of Herakleophorbia in small but sufficie=
nt
doses was imperative.
If it was
discontinued while growth was still going on, there was first a vague
restlessness and distress, then a period of voracity--as in the case of the
young rats at Hankey--and then the growing creature had a sort of exaggerat=
ed
anaemia and sickened and died. Plants suffered in a similar way. This, howe=
ver,
applied only to the growth period. So soon as adolescence was attained--in
plants this was represented by the formation of the first flower-buds--the =
need
and appetite for Herakleophorbia diminished, and so soon as the plant or an=
imal
was fully adult, it became altogether independent of any further supply of =
the food.
It was, as it were, completely established on the new scale. It was so
completely established on the new scale that, as the thistles about Hickley=
brow
and the grass of the down side already demonstrated, its seed produced giant
offspring after its kind.
And presently lit=
tle
Redwood, pioneer of the new race, first child of all who ate the food, was
crawling about his nursery, smashing furniture, biting like a horse, pinchi=
ng
like a vice, and bawling gigantic baby talk at his "Nanny" and
"Mammy" and the rather scared and awe-stricken "Daddy,"=
who
had set this mischief going.
The child was born
with good intentions. "Padda be good, be good," he used to say as=
the
breakables flew before him. "Padda" was his rendering of Pantagru=
el,
the nickname Redwood imposed on him. And Cossar, disregarding certain Ancie=
nt
Lights that presently led to trouble, did, after a conflict with the local
building regulations, get building on a vacant piece of ground adjacent to
Redwood's home, a comfortable well-lit playroom, schoolroom, and nursery for
their four boys--sixty feet square about this room was, and forty feet high=
.
Redwood fell in l= ove with that great nursery as he and Cossar built it, and his interest in curv= es faded, as he had never dreamt it could fade, before the pressing needs of h= is son. "There is much," he said, "in fitting a nursery. Much.<= o:p>
"The walls, =
the
things in it, they will all speak to this new mind of ours, a little more, a
little less eloquently, and teach it, or fail to teach it a thousand
things."
"Obviously,&=
quot;
said Cossar, reaching hastily for his hat.
They worked toget=
her
harmoniously, but Redwood supplied most of the educational theory required =
...
They had the walls
and woodwork painted with a cheerful vigour; for the most part a slightly
warmed white prevailed, but there were bands of bright clean colour to enfo=
rce
the simple lines of construction. "Clean colours we must have," s=
aid
Redwood, and in one place had a neat horizontal band of squares, in which
crimson and purple, orange and lemon, blues and greens, in many hues and ma=
ny
shades, did themselves honour. These squares the giant children should arra=
nge
and rearrange to their pleasure. "Decorations must follow," said
Redwood; "let them first get the range of all the tints, and then this=
may
go away. There is no reason why one should bias them in favour of any
particular colour or design."
Then, "The p=
lace
must be full of interest," said Redwood. "Interest is food for a
child, and blankness torture and starvation. He must have pictures
galore." There were no pictures hung about the room for any permanent
service, however, but blank frames were provided into which new pictures wo=
uld
come and pass thence into a portfolio so soon as their fresh interest had
passed. There was one window that looked down the length of a street, and in
addition, for an added interest, Redwood had contrived above the roof of the
nursery a camera obscura that watched the Kensington High Street and not a
little of the Gardens.
In one corner that
most worthy implement, an Abacus, four feet square, a specially strengthened
piece of ironmongery with rounded corners, awaited the young giants' incipi=
ent
computations. There were few woolly lambs and such-like idols, but instead
Cossar, without explanation, had brought one day in three four-wheelers a g=
reat
number of toys (all just too big for the coming children to swallow) that c=
ould
be piled up, arranged in rows, rolled about, bitten, made to flap and rattl=
e,
smacked together, felt over, pulled out, opened, closed, and mauled and exp=
erimented
with to an interminable extent. There were many bricks of wood in diverse
colours, oblong and cuboid, bricks of polished china, bricks of transparent
glass and bricks of india-rubber; there were slabs and slates; there were
cones, truncated cones, and cylinders; there were oblate and prolate sphero=
ids,
balls of varied substances, solid and hollow, many boxes of diverse size and
shape, with hinged lids and screw lids and fitting lids, and one or two to
catch and lock; there were bands of elastic and leather, and a number of ro=
ugh
and sturdy little objects of a size together that could stand up steadily a=
nd
suggest the shape of a man. "Give 'em these," said Cossar. "=
One
at a time."
These things Redw=
ood
arranged in a locker in one corner. Along one side of the room, at a conven=
ient
height for a six-or eight-foot child, there was a blackboard, on which the
youngsters might flourish in white and coloured chalk, and near by a sort of
drawing block, from which sheet after sheet might be torn, and on which they
could draw in charcoal, and a little desk there was, furnished with great
carpenter's pencils of varying hardness and a copious supply of paper, on w=
hich
the boys might first scribble and then draw more neatly. And moreover Redwo=
od
gave orders, so far ahead did his imagination go, for specially large tubes=
of
liquid paint and boxes of pastels against the time when they should be need=
ed.
He laid in a cask or so of plasticine and modelling clay. "At first he=
and
his tutor shall model together," he said, "and when he is more
skilful he shall copy casts and perhaps animals. And that reminds me, I must
also have made for him a box of tools!
"Then books.=
I
shall have to look out a lot of books to put in his way, and they'll have t=
o be
big type. Now what sort of books will he need? There is his imagination to =
be
fed. That, after all, is the crown of every education. The crown--as sound
habits of mind and conduct are the throne. No imagination at all is brutali=
ty;
a base imagination is lust and cowardice; but a noble imagination is God
walking the earth again. He must dream too of a dainty fairy-land and of all
the quaint little things of life, in due time. But he must feed chiefly on =
the
splendid real; he shall have stories of travel through all the world, trave=
ls
and adventures and how the world was won; he shall have stories of beasts, =
great
books splendidly and clearly done of animals and birds and plants and creep=
ing
things, great books about the deeps of the sky and the mystery of the sea; =
he
shall have histories and maps of all the empires the world has seen, pictur=
es
and stories of all the tribes and habits and customs of men. And he must ha=
ve
books and pictures to quicken his sense of beauty, subtle Japanese pictures=
to
make him love the subtler beauties of bird and tendril and falling flower, =
and
western pictures too, pictures of gracious men and women, sweet groupings, =
and
broad views of land and sea. He shall have books on the building of houses =
and palaces;
he shall plan rooms and invent cities--
"I think I m=
ust
give him a little theatre.
"Then there =
is
music!"
Redwood thought t=
hat
over, and decided that his son might best begin with a very pure-sounding
harmonicon of one octave, to which afterwards there could be an extension.
"He shall play with this first, sing to it and give names to the
notes," said Redwood, "and afterwards--?"
He stared up at t=
he
window-sill overhead and measured the size of the room with his eye.
"They'll hav= e to build his piano in here," he said. "Bring it in in pieces."<= o:p>
He hovered about
amidst his preparations, a pensive, dark, little figure. If you could have =
seen
him there he would have looked to you like a ten-inch man amidst common nur=
sery
things. A great rug--indeed it was a Turkey carpet--four hundred square fee=
t of
it, upon which young Redwood was soon to crawl--stretched to the grill-guar=
ded
electric radiator that was to warm the whole place. A man from Cossar's hun=
g amidst
scaffolding overhead, fixing the great frame that was to hold the transitory
pictures. A blotting-paper book for plant specimens as big as a house door
leant against the wall, and from it projected a gigantic stalk, a leaf edge=
or
so and one flower of chickweed, all of that gigantic size that was soon to =
make
Urshot famous throughout the botanical world ...
A sort of incredu=
lity
came to Redwood as he stood among these things.
"If it reall=
y is
going on--" said Redwood, staring up at the remote ceiling.
From far away cam=
e a
sound like the bellowing of a Mafficking bull, almost as if in answer.
"It's going =
on
all right," said Redwood. "Evidently."
There followed
resounding blows upon a table, followed by a vast crowing shout, "Gool=
oo!
Boozoo! Bzz ..."
"The best th=
ing
I can do," said Redwood, following out some divergent line of thought,
"is to teach him myself."
That beating beca=
me
more insistent. For a moment it seemed to Redwood that it caught the rhythm=
of
an engine's throbbing--the engine he could have imagined of some great trai=
n of
events that bore down upon him. Then a descendant flight of sharper beats b=
roke
up that effect, and were repeated.
"Come in,&qu=
ot;
he cried, perceiving that some one rapped, and the door that was big enough=
for
a cathedral opened slowly a little way. The new winch ceased to creak, and
Bensington appeared in the crack, gleaming benevolently under his protruded
baldness and over his glasses.
"I've ventur=
ed
round to see," he whispered in a confidentially furtive manner.
"Come in,&qu=
ot;
said Redwood, and he did, shutting the door behind him.
He walked forward,
hands behind his back, advanced a few steps, and peered up with a bird-like
movement at the dimensions about him. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Every time I
come in," he said, with a subdued note in his voice, "it strikes =
me
as--'Big.'"
"Yes," =
said
Redwood, surveying it all again also, as if in an endeavour to keep hold of=
the
visible impression. "Yes. They're going to be big too, you know."=
"I know,&quo=
t;
said Bensington, with a note that was nearly awe. "Very big."
They looked at one
another, almost, as it were, apprehensively.
"Very big
indeed," said Bensington, stroking the bridge of his nose, and with one
eye that watched Redwood doubtfully for a confirmatory expression. "Al=
l of
them, you know--fearfully big. I don't seem able to imagine--even with
this--just how big they're all going to be."
CHAPTER THE FIFTH - THE
MINIMIFICENCE OF MR. BENSINGTON.
I.
It was while the
Royal Commission on Boomfood was preparing its report that Herakleophorbia
really began to demonstrate its capacity for leakage. And the earliness of =
this
second outbreak was the more unfortunate, from the point of view of Cossar =
at
any rate, since the draft report still in existence shows that the Commissi=
on
had, under the tutelage of that most able member, Doctor Stephen Winkles
(F.R.S. M.D. F.R.C.P. D. Sc. J.P. D.L. etc.), already quite made up its mind
that accidental leakages were impossible, and was prepared to recommend tha=
t to
entrust the preparation of Boomfood to a qualified committee (Winkles chief=
ly),
with an entire control over its sale, was quite enough to satisfy all
reasonable objections to its free diffusion. This committee was to have an
absolute monopoly. And it is, no doubt, to be considered as a part of the i=
rony
of life that the first and most alarming of this second series of leakages
occurred within fifty yards of a little cottage at Keston occupied during t=
he
summer months by Doctor Winkles.
There can be litt=
le
doubt now that Redwood's refusal to acquaint Winkles with the composition of
Herakleophorbia IV. had aroused in that gentleman a novel and intense desire
towards analytical chemistry. He was not a very expert manipulator, and for
that reason probably he saw fit to do his work not in the excellently equip=
ped
laboratories that were at his disposal in London, but without consulting any
one, and almost with an air of secrecy, in a rough little garden laboratory=
at the
Keston establishment. He does not seem to have shown either very great ener=
gy
or very great ability in this quest; indeed one gathers he dropped the inqu=
iry
after working at it intermittently for about a month.
This garden
laboratory, in which the work was done, was very roughly equipped, supplied=
by
a standpipe tap with water, and draining into a pipe that ran down into a
swampy rush-bordered pool under an alder tree in a secluded corner of the
common just outside the garden hedge. The pipe was cracked, and the residuu=
m of
the Food of the Gods escaped through the crack into a little puddle amidst
clumps of rushes, just in time for the spring awakening.
Everything was as=
tir
with life in that scummy little corner. There was frog spawn adrift, tremul=
ous
with tadpoles just bursting their gelatinous envelopes; there were little p=
ond
snails creeping out into life, and under the green skin of the rush stems t=
he
larvae of a big Water Beetle were struggling out of their egg cases. I doub=
t if
the reader knows the larva of the beetle called (I know not why) Dytiscus. =
It
is a jointed, queer-looking thing, very muscular and sudden in its movement=
s,
and given to swimming head downward with its tail out of water; the length =
of a
man's top thumb joint it is, and more--two inches, that is for those who ha=
ve
not eaten the Food--and it has two sharp jaws that meet in front of its
head--tubular jaws with sharp points--through which its habit is to suck its
victim's blood ...
The first things =
to
get at the drifting grains of the Food were the little tadpoles and the lit=
tle
water snails; the little wriggling tadpoles in particular, once they had the
taste of it, took to it with zest. But scarcely did one of them begin to gr=
ow
into a conspicuous position in that little tadpole world and try a smaller
brother or so as an aid to a vegetarian dietary, when nip! one of the Beetle
larva had its curved bloodsucking prongs gripping into his heart, and with =
that
red stream went Herakleophorbia IV, in a state of solution, into the being =
of a
new client. The only thing that had a chance with these monsters to get any
share of the Food were the rushes and slimy green scum in the water and the
seedling weeds in the mud at the bottom. A clean up of the study presently
washed a fresh spate of the Food into the puddle, and overflowed it, and
carried all this sinister expansion of the struggle for life into the adjac=
ent
pool under the roots of the alder...
The first person =
to
discover what was going on was a Mr. Lukey Carrington, a special science
teacher under the London Education Board, and, in his leisure, a specialist=
in
fresh-water algae, and he is certainly not to be envied his discovery. He h=
ad
come down to Keston Common for the day to fill a number of specimen tubes f=
or
subsequent examination, and he came, with a dozen or so of corked tubes
clanking faintly in his pocket, over the sandy crest and down towards the p=
ool,
spiked walking stick in hand. A garden lad standing on the top of the kitch=
en
steps clipping Doctor Winkles' hedge saw him in this unfrequented corner, a=
nd
found him and his occupation sufficiently inexplicable and interesting to w=
atch
him pretty closely.
He saw Mr. Carrin=
gton
stoop down by the side of the pool, with his hand against the old alder ste=
m,
and peer into the water, but of course he could not appreciate the surprise=
and
pleasure with which Mr. Carrington beheld the big unfamiliar-looking blobs =
and
threads of the algal scum at the bottom. There were no tadpoles visible--th=
ey
had all been killed by that time--and it would seem Mr. Carrington saw noth=
ing
at all unusual except the excessive vegetation. He bared his arm to the elb=
ow,
leant forward, and dipped deep in pursuit of a specimen. His seeking hand w=
ent down.
Instantly there flashed out of the cool shadow under the tree roots somethi=
ng--
Flash! It had bur=
ied
its fangs deep into his arm--a bizarre shape it was, a foot long and more,
brown and jointed like a scorpion.
Its ugly appariti=
on
and the sharp amazing painfulness of its bite were too much for Mr.
Carrington's equilibrium. He felt himself going, and yelled aloud. Over he
toppled, face foremost, splash! into the pool.
The boy saw him
vanish, and heard the splashing of his struggle in the water. The unfortuna=
te
man emerged again into the boy's field of vision, hatless and streaming with
water, and screaming!
Never before had =
the
boy heard screams from a man.
This astonishing
stranger appeared to be tearing at something on the side of his face. There
appeared streaks of blood there. He flung out his arms as if in despair, le=
apt
in the air like a frantic creature, ran violently ten or twelve yards, and =
then
fell and rolled on the ground and over and out of sight of the boy. The lad=
was
down the steps and through the hedge in a trice--happily with the garden sh=
ears
still in hand. As he came crashing through the gorse bushes, he says he was
half minded to turn back, fearing he had to deal with a lunatic, but the po=
ssession
of the shears reassured him. "I could 'ave jabbed his eyes," he
explained, "anyhow." Directly Mr. Carrington caught sight of him,=
his
demeanour became at once that of a sane but desperate man. He struggled to =
his
feet, stumbled, stood up, and came to meet the boy.
"Look!"=
he
cried, "I can't get 'em off!"
And with a qualm =
of
horror the boy saw that, attached to Mr. Carrington's cheek, to his bare ar=
m,
and to his thigh, and lashing furiously with their lithe brown muscular bod=
ies,
were three of these horrible larvae, their great jaws buried deep in his fl=
esh
and sucking for dear life. They had the grip of bulldogs, and Mr. Carringto=
n's efforts
to detach the monsters from his face had only served to lacerate the flesh =
to
which it had attached itself, and streak face and neck and coat with living
scarlet.
"I'll cut
'im," cried the boy; "'old on, Sir."
And with the zest=
of
his age in such proceedings, he severed one by one the heads from the bodie=
s of
Mr. Carrington's assailants. "Yup," said the boy with a wincing f=
ace
as each one fell before him. Even then, so tough and determined was their g=
rip
that the severed heads remained for a space, still fiercely biting home and
still sucking, with the blood streaming out of their necks behind. But the =
boy
stopped that with a few more slashes of his scissors--in one of which Mr.
Carrington was implicated.
"I couldn't =
get
'em off!" repeated Carrington, and stood for a space, swaying and blee=
ding
profusely. He dabbed feeble hands at his injuries and examined the result u=
pon
his palms. Then he gave way at the knees and fell headlong in a dead faint =
at
the boy's feet, between the still leaping bodies of his defeated foes. Very
luckily it didn't occur to the boy to splash water on his face--for there w=
ere
still more of these horrors under the alder roots--and instead he passed ba=
ck
by the pond and went into the garden with the intention of calling assistan=
ce.
And there he met the gardener coachman and told him of the whole affair.
When they got bac=
k to
Mr. Carrington he was sitting up, dazed and weak, but able to warn them aga=
inst
the danger in the pool.
II.
Such were the
circumstances by which the world had its first notification that the Food w=
as
loose again. In another week Keston Common was in full operation as what
naturalists call a centre of distribution. This time there were no wasps or
rats, no earwigs and no nettles, but there were at least three water-spider=
s,
several dragon-fly larvae which presently became dragon-flies, dazzling all
Kent with their hovering sapphire bodies, and a nasty gelatinous, scummy gr=
owth
that swelled over the pond margin, and sent its slimy green masses surging =
halfway
up the garden path to Doctor Winkles's house. And there began a growth of
rushes and equisetum and potamogeton that ended only with the drying of the
pond.
It speedily became
evident to the public mind that this time there was not simply one centre of
distribution, but quite a number of centres. There was one at Ealing--there=
can
be no doubt now--and from that came the plague of flies and red spider; the=
re
was one at Sunbury, productive of ferocious great eels, that could come ash=
ore
and kill sheep; and there was one in Bloomsbury that gave the world a new
strain of cockroaches of a quite terrible sort--an old house it was in
Bloomsbury, and much inhabited by undesirable things. Abruptly the world fo=
und itself
confronted with the Hickleybrow experiences all over again, with all sorts =
of
queer exaggerations of familiar monsters in the place of the giant hens and
rats and wasps. Each centre burst out with its own characteristic local fau=
na
and flora....
We know now that
every one of these centres corresponded to one of the patients of Doctor
Winkles, but that was by no means apparent at the time. Doctor Winkles was =
the
last person to incur any odium in the matter. There was a panic quite
naturally, a passionate indignation, but it was indignation not against Doc=
tor
Winkles but against the Food, and not so much against the Food as against t=
he
unfortunate Bensington, whom from the very first the popular imagination had
insisted upon regarding as the sole and only person responsible for this new
thing.
The attempt to ly=
nch
him that followed is just one of those explosive events that bulk largely in
history and are in reality the least significant of occurrences.
The history of the
outbreak is a mystery. The nucleus of the crowd certainly came from an
Anti-Boomfood meeting in Hyde Park organised by extremists of the Caterham
party, but there seems no one in the world who actually first proposed, no =
one
who ever first hinted a suggestion of the outrage at which so many people
assisted. It is a problem for M. Gustave le Bon--a mystery in the psycholog=
y of
crowds. The fact emerges that about three o'clock on Sunday afternoon a
remarkably big and ugly London crowd, entirely out of hand, came rolling do=
wn
Thursday Street intent on Bensington's exemplary death as a warning to all
scientific investigators, and that it came nearer accomplishing its object =
than
any London crowd has ever come since the Hyde Park railings came down in re=
mote
middle Victorian times. This crowd came so close to its object indeed, that=
for
the space of an hour or more a word would have settled the unfortunate
gentleman's fate.
The first intimat=
ion
he had of the thing was the noise of the people outside. He went to the win=
dow
and peered, realising nothing of what impended. For a minute perhaps he wat=
ched
them seething about the entrance, disposing of an ineffectual dozen of
policemen who barred their way, before he fully realised his own importance=
in
the affair. It came upon him in a flash--that that roaring, swaying multitu=
de
was after him. He was all alone in the flat--fortunately perhaps--his cousin
Jane having gone down to Ealing to have tea with a relation on her mother's=
side,
and he had no more idea of how to behave under such circumstances than he h=
ad
of the etiquette of the Day of Judgment. He was still dashing about the flat
asking his furniture what he should do, turning keys in locks and then unlo=
cking
them again, making darts at door and window and bedroom--when the floor cle=
rk
came to him.
"There isn't=
a
moment, Sir," he said. "They've got your number from the board in=
the
hall! They're coming straight up!"
He ran Mr. Bensin=
gton
out into the passage, already echoing with the approaching tumult from the
great staircase, locked the door behind them, and led the way into the oppo=
site
flat by means of his duplicate key.
"It's our on=
ly
chance now," he said.
He flung up a win=
dow
which opened on a ventilating shaft, and showed that the wall was set with =
iron
staples that made the rudest and most perilous of wall ladders to serve as a
fire escape from the upper flats. He shoved Mr. Bensington out of the windo=
w,
showed him how to cling on, and pursued him up the ladder, goading and jabb=
ing
his legs with a bunch of keys whenever he desisted from climbing. It seemed=
to
Bensington at times that he must climb that vertical ladder for evermore.
Above, the parapet was inaccessibly remote, a mile perhaps, below--He did n=
ot
care to think of things below.
"Steady
on!" cried the clerk, and gripped his ankle. It was quite horrible hav=
ing
his ankle gripped like that, and Mr. Bensington tightened his hold on the i=
ron
staple above to a drowning clutch, and gave a faint squeal of terror.
It became evident=
the
clerk had broken a window, and then it seemed he had leapt a vast distance
sideways, and there came the noise of a window-frame sliding in its sash. He
was bawling things.
Mr. Bensington mo=
ved
his head round cautiously until he could see the clerk. "Come down six
steps," the clerk commanded.
All this moving a=
bout
seemed very foolish, but very, very cautiously Mr. Bensington lowered a foo=
t.
"Don't pull
me!" he cried, as the clerk made to help him from the open window.
It seemed to him =
that
to reach the window from the ladder would be a very respectable feat for a
flying fox, and it was rather with the idea of a decent suicide than in any
hope of accomplishing it that he made the step at last, and quite ruthlessly
the clerk pulled him in. "You'll have to stop here," said the cle=
rk;
"my keys are no good here. It's an American lock. I'll get out and slam
the door behind me and see if I can find the man of this floor. You'll be
locked in. Don't go to the window, that's all. It's the ugliest crowd I've =
ever
seen. If only they think you're out they'll probably content themselves by
breaking up your stuff--"
"The indicat=
or
said In," said Bensington.
"The devil it
did! Well, anyhow, I'd better not be found--"
He vanished with a
slam of the door.
Bensington was le=
ft
to his own initiative again.
It took him under=
the
bed.
There presently he
was found by Cossar.
Bensington was al=
most
comatose with terror when he was found, for Cossar had burst the door in wi=
th
his shoulder by jumping at it across the breadth of the passage.
"Come out of=
it,
Bensington," he said. "It's all right. It's me. We've got to get =
out
of this. They're setting the place on fire. The porters are all clearing ou=
t.
The servants are gone. It's lucky I caught the man who knew.
"Look
here!"
Bensington, peeri=
ng
from under the bed, became aware of some unaccountable garments on Cossar's
arm, and, of all things, a black bonnet in his hand!
"They're hav=
ing
a clear out," said Cossar, "If they don't set the place on fire
they'll come here. Troops may not be here for an hour yet. Fifty per cent.
Hooligans in the crowd, and the more furnished flats they go into the better
they'll like it. Obviously.... They mean a clear out. You put this skirt and
bonnet on, Bensington, and clear out with me."
"D'you
mean--?" began Bensington, protruding a head, tortoise fashion.
"I mean, put=
'em
on and come! Obviously," And with a sudden vehemence he dragged Bensin=
gton
from under the bed, and began to dress him for his new impersonation of an
elderly woman of the people.
He rolled up his trousers and made him kick off his slippers, took off his collar and tie and coat and vest, slipped a black skirt over his head, and put on a red flannel bodice and a body over the same. He made him take off his all too characteristic spectacles, and clapped the bonnet on his head. "You mi= ght have been born an old woman," he said as he tied the strings. Then came the spring-side boots--a terrible wrench for corns--and the shawl, and the = disguise was complete. "Up and down," said Cossar, and Bensington obeyed.<= o:p>
"You'll
do," said Cossar.
And in this guise=
it
was, stumbling awkwardly over his unaccustomed skirts, shouting womanly
imprecations upon his own head in a weird falsetto to sustain his part, and=
to
the roaring note of a crowd bent upon lynching him, that the original
discoverer of Herakleophorbia IV. proceeded down the corridor of Chesterfie=
ld
Mansions, mingled with that inflamed disorderly multitude, and passed out
altogether from the thread of events that constitutes our story.
Never once after =
that
escape did he meddle again with the stupendous development of the Food of t=
he
Gods he of all men had done most to begin.
III.
This little man w=
ho
started the whole thing passes out of the story, and after a time he passed
altogether out of the world of things, visible and tellable. But because he
started the whole thing it is seemly to give his exit an intercalary page of
attention. One may picture him in his later days as Tunbridge Wells came to
know him. For it was at Tunbridge Wells he reappeared after a temporary
obscurity, so soon as he fully realised how transitory, how quite exception=
al
and unmeaning that fury of rioting was. He reappeared under the wing of Cou=
sin
Jane, treating himself for nervous shock to the exclusion of all other inte=
rests,
and totally indifferent, as it seemed, to the battles that were raging then
about those new centres of distribution, and about the baby Children of the
Food.
He took up his
quarters at the Mount Glory Hydrotherapeutic Hotel, where there are quite
extraordinary facilities for baths, Carbonated Baths, Creosote Baths, Galva=
nic
and Faradic Treatment, Massage, Pine Baths, Starch and Hemlock Baths, Radium
Baths, Light Baths, Heat Baths, Bran and Needle Baths, Tar and Birdsdown
Baths,--all sorts of baths; and he devoted his mind to the development of t=
hat
system of curative treatment that was still imperfect when he died. And
sometimes he would go down in a hired vehicle and a sealskin trimmed coat, =
and
sometimes, when his feet permitted, he would walk to the Pantiles, and ther=
e he
would sip chalybeate water under the eye of his cousin Jane.
His stooping
shoulders, his pink appearance, his beaming glasses, became a
"feature" of Tunbridge Wells. No one was the least bit unkind to =
him,
and indeed the place and the Hotel seemed very glad to have the distinction=
of
his presence. Nothing could rob him of that distinction now. And though he
preferred not to follow the development of his great invention in the daily
papers, yet when he crossed the Lounge of the Hotel or walked down the Pant=
iles
and heard the whisper, "There he is! That's him!" it was not
dissatisfaction that softened his mouth and gleamed for a moment in his eye=
.
This little figur=
e,
this minute little figure, launched the Food of the Gods upon the world! One
does not know which is the most amazing, the greatness or the littleness of
these scientific and philosophical men. You figure him there on the Pantile=
s,
in the overcoat trimmed with fur. He stands under that chinaware window whe=
re
the spring spouts, and holds and sips the glass of chalybeate water in his
hand. One bright eye over the gilt rim is fixed, with an expression of
inscrutable severity, on Cousin Jane, "Mm," he says, and sips.
So we make our
souvenir, so we focus and photograph this discoverer of ours for the last t=
ime,
and leave him, a mere dot in our foreground, and pass to the greater picture
that, has developed about him, to the story of his Food, how the scattered
Giant Children grew up day by day into a world that was all too small for t=
hem,
and how the net of Boomfood Laws and Boomfood Conventions, which the Boomfo=
od
Commission was weaving even then, drew closer and closer upon them with eve=
ry
year of their growth, Until--
BOOK II - THE FOOD IN THE
VILLAGE.
CHAPTER THE FIRST - THE
COMING OF THE FOOD.
I.
Our theme, which
began so compactly in Mr. Bensington's study, has already spread and branch=
ed,
until it points this way and that, and henceforth our whole story is one of
dissemination. To follow the Food of the Gods further is to trace the
ramifications of a perpetually branching tree; in a little while, in the
quarter of a lifetime, the Food had trickled and increased from its first
spring in the little farm near Hickleybrow until it had spread,--it and the
report and shadow of its power,--throughout the world. It spread beyond Eng=
land
very speedily. Soon in America, all over the continent of Europe, in Japan,=
in
Australia, at last all over the world, the thing was working towards its
appointed end. Always it worked slowly, by indirect courses and against
resistance. It was bigness insurgent. In spite of prejudice, in spite of law
and regulation, in spite of all that obstinate conservatism that lies at the
base of the formal order of mankind, the Food of the Gods, once it had been=
set
going, pursued its subtle and invincible progress.
The children of t=
he
Food grew steadily through all these years; that was the cardinal fact of t=
he
time. But it is the leakages make history. The children who had eaten grew,=
and
soon there were other children growing; and all the best intentions in the
world could not stop further leakages and still further leakages. The Food
insisted on escaping with the pertinacity of a thing alive. Flour treated w=
ith
the stuff crumbled in dry weather almost as if by intention into an impalpa=
ble
powder, and would lift and travel before the lightest breeze. Now it would =
be
some fresh insect won its way to a temporary fatal new development, now som=
e fresh
outbreak from the sewers of rats and such-like vermin. For some days the
village of Pangbourne in Berkshire fought with giant ants. Three men were
bitten and died. There would be a panic, there would be a struggle, and the
salient evil would be fought down again, leaving always something behind, in
the obscurer things of life--changed for ever. Then again another acute and
startling outbreak, a swift upgrowth of monstrous weedy thickets, a drifting
dissemination about the world of inhumanly growing thistles, of cockroaches=
men
fought with shot guns, or a plague of mighty flies.
There were some
strange and desperate struggles in obscure places. The Food begot heroes in=
the
cause of littleness ...
And men took such
happenings into their lives, and met them by the expedients of the moment, =
and
told one another there was "no change in the essential order of
things." After the first great panic, Caterham, in spite of his power =
of
eloquence, became a secondary figure in the political world, remained in me=
n's
minds as the exponent of an extreme view.
Only slowly did he
win a way towards a central position in affairs. "There was no change =
in
the essential order of things,"--that eminent leader of modern thought,
Doctor Winkles, was very clear upon this,--and the exponents of what was ca=
lled
in those days Progressive Liberalism grew quite sentimental upon the essent=
ial
insincerity of their progress. Their dreams, it would appear, ran wholly on
little nations, little languages, little households, each self-supported on=
its
little farm. A fashion for the small and neat set in. To be big was to be
"vulgar," and dainty, neat, mignon, miniature, "minutely
perfect," became the key-words of critical approval....
Meanwhile, quietl=
y,
taking their time as children must, the children of the Food, growing into a
world that changed to receive them, gathered strength and stature and
knowledge, became individual and purposeful, rose slowly towards the dimens=
ions
of their destiny. Presently they seemed a natural part of the world; all th=
ese
stirrings of bigness seemed a natural part of the world, and men wondered h=
ow
things had been before their time. There came to men's ears stories of thin=
gs
the giant boys could do, and they said "Wonderful!"--without a sp=
ark
of wonder. The popular papers would tell of the three sons of Cossar, and h=
ow
these amazing children would lift great cannons, hurl masses of iron for hu=
ndreds
of yards, and leap two hundred feet. They were said to be digging a well,
deeper than any well or mine that man had ever made, seeking, it was said, =
for
treasures hidden in the earth since ever the earth began.
These Children, s=
aid
the popular magazines, will level mountains, bridge seas, tunnel your earth=
to
a honeycomb. "Wonderful!" said the little folks, "isn't it? =
What
a lot of conveniences we shall have!" and went about their business as
though there was no such thing as the Food of the Gods on earth. And indeed
these things were no more than the first hints and promises of the powers of
the Children of the Food. It was still no more than child's play with them,=
no
more than the first use of a strength in which no purpose had arisen. They =
did
not know themselves for what they were. They were children--slow-growing
children of a new race. The giant strength grew day by day--the giant will =
had
still to grow into purpose and an aim.
Looking at it in a
shortened perspective of time, those years of transition have the quality o=
f a
single consecutive occurrence; but indeed no one saw the coming of Bigness =
in
the world, as no one in all the world till centuries had passed saw, as one
happening, the Decline and Fall of Rome. They who lived in those days were =
too
much among these developments to see them together as a single thing. It se=
emed
even to wise men that the Food was giving the world nothing but a crop of u=
nmanageable,
disconnected irrelevancies, that might shake and trouble indeed, but could =
do
no more to the established order and fabric of mankind.
To one observer at
least the most wonderful thing throughout that period of accumulating stres=
s is
the invincible inertia of the great mass of people, their quiet persistence=
in
all that ignored the enormous presences, the promise of still more enormous
things, that grew among them. Just as many a stream will be at its smoothes=
t,
will look most tranquil, running deep and strong, at the very verge of a
cataract, so all that is most conservative in man seemed settling quietly i=
nto
a serene ascendency during these latter days. Reaction became popular: there
was talk of the bankruptcy of science, of the dying of Progress, of the adv=
ent
of the Mandarins,--talk of such things amidst the echoing footsteps of the
Children of the Food. The fussy pointless Revolutions of the old time, a va=
st
crowd of silly little people chasing some silly little monarch and the like,
had indeed died out and passed away; but Change had not died out. It was on=
ly
Change that had changed. The New was coming in its own fashion and beyond t=
he
common understanding of the world.
To tell fully of =
its
coming would be to write a great history, but everywhere there was a parall=
el
chain of happenings. To tell therefore of the manner of its coming in one p=
lace
is to tell something of the whole. It chanced one stray seed of Immensity f=
ell
into the pretty, petty village of Cheasing Eyebright in Kent, and from the
story of its queer germination there and of the tragic futility that ensued,
one may attempt--following one thread, as it were--to show the direction in=
which
the whole great interwoven fabric of the thing rolled off the loom of Time.=
II.
Cheasing Eyebright
had of course a Vicar. There are vicars and vicars, and of all sorts I love=
an
innovating vicar--a piebald progressive professional reactionary--the least.
But the Vicar of Cheasing Eyebright was one of the least innovating of vica=
rs,
a most worthy, plump, ripe, and conservative-minded little man. It is becom=
ing
to go back a little in our story to tell of him. He matched his village, and
one may figure them best together as they used to be, on the sunset evening
when Mrs. Skinner--you will remember her flight!--brought the Food with her=
all
unsuspected into these rustic serenities.
The village was
looking its very best just then, under that western light. It lay down along
the valley beneath the beechwoods of the Hanger, a beading of thatched and
red-tiled cottages--cottages with trellised porches and pyracanthus-lined
faces, that clustered closer and closer as the road dropped from the yew tr=
ees
by the church towards the bridge. The vicarage peeped not too ostentatiously
between the trees beyond the inn, an early Georgian front ripened by time, =
and
the spire of the church rose happily in the depression made by the valley in
the outline of the hills. A winding stream, a thin intermittency of sky blu=
e and
foam, glittered amidst a thick margin of reeds and loosestrife and overhang=
ing
willows, along the centre of a sinuous pennant of meadow. The whole prospect
had that curiously English quality of ripened cultivation--that look of sti=
ll
completeness--that apes perfection, under the sunset warmth.
And the Vicar too
looked mellow. He looked habitually and essentially mellow, as though he had
been a mellow baby born into a mellow class, a ripe and juicy little boy. O=
ne
could see, even before he mentioned it, that he had gone to an ivy-clad pub=
lic
school in its anecdotage, with magnificent traditions, aristocratic
associations, and no chemical laboratories, and proceeded thence to a vener=
able
college in the very ripest Gothic. Few books he had younger than a thousand=
years;
of these, Yarrow and Ellis and good pre-Methodist sermons made the bulk. He=
was
a man of moderate height, a little shortened in appearance by his equatorial
dimensions, and a face that had been mellow from the first was now
climacterically ripe. The beard of a David hid his redundancy of chin; he w=
ore
no watch chain out of refinements and his modest clerical garments were mad=
e by
a West End tailor.... And he sat with a hand on either shin, blinking at his
village in beatific approval. He waved a plump palm towards it. His burthen
sang out again. What more could any one desire?
"We are
fortunately situated," he said, putting the thing tamely.
"We are in a
fastness of the hills," he expanded.
He explained hims=
elf
at length. "We are out of it all."
For they had been
talking, he and his friend, of the Horrors of the Age, of Democracy, and
Secular Education, and Sky Scrapers, and Motor Cars, and the American Invas=
ion,
the Scrappy Reading of the Public, and the disappearance of any Taste at al=
l.
"We are out =
of
it all," he repeated, and even as he spoke the footsteps of some one
coming smote upon his ear, and he rolled over and regarded her.
You figure the old
woman's steadfastly tremulous advance, the bundle clutched in her gnarled l=
ank
hand, her nose (which was her countenance) wrinkled with breathless resolut=
ion.
You see the poppies nodding fatefully on her bonnet, and the dust-white
spring-sided boots beneath her skimpy skirts, pointing with an irrevocable =
slow
alternation east and west. Beneath her arm, a restive captive, waggled and
slipped a scarcely valuable umbrella. What was there to tell the Vicar that
this grotesque old figure was--so far as his village was concerned at any r=
ate--no
less than Fruitful Chance and the Unforeseen, the Hag weak men call Fate. B=
ut
for us, you understand, no more than Mrs. Skinner.
As she was too mu=
ch
encumbered for a curtsey, she pretended not to see him and his friend at al=
l,
and so passed, flip-flop, within three yards of them, onward down towards t=
he
village. The Vicar watched her slow transit in silence, and ripened a remark
the while....
The incident seem=
ed
to him of no importance whatever. Old womankind, aere perennius, has carried
bundles since the world began. What difference has it made?
"We are out =
of
it all," said the Vicar. "We live in an atmosphere of simple and
permanent things, Birth and Toil, simple seed-time and simple harvest. The
Uproar passes us by." He was always very great upon what he called the
permanent things. "Things change," he would say, "but Humani=
ty--aere
perennius."
Thus the Vicar. He
loved a classical quotation subtly misapplied. Below, Mrs. Skinner, inelega=
nt
but resolute, had involved herself curiously with Wilmerding's stile.
III.
No one knows what the Vicar made of=
the
Giant Puff-Balls.
No doubt he was a=
mong
the first to discover them. They were scattered at intervals up and down the
path between the near down and the village end--a path he frequented daily =
in
his constitutional round. Altogether, of these abnormal fungi there were, f=
rom
first to last, quite thirty. The Vicar seems to have stared at each several=
ly,
and to have prodded most of them with his stick once or twice. One he attem=
pted
to measure with his arms, but it burst at his Ixion embrace.
He spoke to sever=
al people
about them, and said they were "marvellous!" and he related to at
least seven different persons the well-known story of the flagstone that was
lifted from the cellar floor by a growth of fungi beneath. He looked up his
Sowerby to see if it was Lycoperdon coelatum or giganteum--like all his kind
since Gilbert White became famous, he Gilbert-Whited. He cherished a theory
that giganteum is unfairly named.
One does not know=
if
he observed that those white spheres lay in the very track that old woman o=
f yesterday
had followed, or if he noted that the last of the series swelled not a scor=
e of
yards from the gate of the Caddles' cottage. If he observed these things, he
made no attempt to place his observation on record. His observation in matt=
ers
botanical was what the inferior sort of scientific people call a "trai=
ned observation"--you
look for certain definite things and neglect everything else. And he did
nothing to link this phenomenon with the remarkable expansion of the Caddle=
s'
baby that had been going on now for some weeks, indeed ever since Caddles
walked over one Sunday afternoon a month or more ago to see his mother-in-l=
aw
and hear Mr. Skinner (since defunct) brag about his management of hens.
IV.
The growth of the
puff-balls following on the expansion of the Caddles' baby really ought to =
have
opened the Vicar's eyes. The latter fact had already come right into his ar=
ms
at the christening--almost over-poweringly....
The youngster baw=
led
with deafening violence when the cold water that sealed its divine inherita=
nce
and its right to the name of "Albert Edward Caddles" fell upon its
brow. It was already beyond maternal porterage, and Caddles, staggering ind=
eed,
but grinning triumphantly at quantitatively inferior parents, bore it back =
to
the free-sitting occupied by his party.
"I never saw
such a child!" said the Vicar. This was the first public intimation th=
at
the Caddles' baby, which had begun its earthly career a little under seven
pounds, did after all intend to be a credit to its parents. Very soon it was
clear it meant to be not only a credit but a glory. And within a month their
glory shone so brightly as to be, in connection with people in the Caddles'
position, improper.
The butcher weigh=
ed
the infant eleven times. He was a man of few words, and he soon got through
with them. The first time he said, "E's a good un;" the next time=
he
said, "My word!" the third time he said, "Well, mum," a=
nd
after that he simply blew enormously each time, scratched his head, and loo=
ked
at his scales with an unprecedented mistrust. Every one came to see the Big
Baby--so it was called by universal consent--and most of them said, "E=
's a
Bouncer," and almost all remarked to him, "Did they?" Miss
Fletcher came and said she "never did," which was perfectly true.=
Lady Wondershoot,=
the
village tyrant, arrived the day after the third weighing, and inspected the
phenomenon narrowly through glasses that filled it with howling terror.
"It's an unusually Big child," she told its mother, in a loud
instructive voice. "You ought to take unusual care of it, Caddles. Of
course it won't go on like this, being bottle fed, but we must do what we c=
an
for it. I'll send you down some more flannel."
The doctor came a=
nd
measured the child with a tape, and put the figures in a notebook, and old =
Mr.
Drift-hassock, who fanned by Up Marden, brought a manure traveller two miles
out of their way to look at it. The traveller asked the child's age three t=
imes
over, and said finally that he was blowed. He left it to be inferred how and
why he was blowed; apparently it was the child's size blowed him. He also s=
aid
it ought to be put into a baby show. And all day long, out of school hours,
little children kept coming and saying, "Please, Mrs. Caddles, mum, ma=
y we
have a look at your baby, please, mum?" until Mrs. Caddles had to put a
stop to it. And amidst all these scenes of amazement came Mrs. Skinner, and=
stood
and smiled, standing somewhat in the background, with each sharp elbow in a
lank gnarled hand, and smiling, smiling under and about her nose, with a sm=
ile
of infinite profundity.
"It makes ev=
en
that old wretch of a grandmother look quite pleasant," said Lady
Wondershoot. "Though I'm sorry she's come back to the village."
Of course, as with
almost all cottagers' babies, the eleemosynary element had already come in,=
but
the child soon made it clear by colossal bawling, that so far as the fillin=
g of
its bottle went, it hadn't come in yet nearly enough.
The baby was enti=
tled
to a nine days' wonder, and every one wondered happily over its amazing gro=
wth
for twice that time and more. And then you know, instead of its dropping in=
to
the background and giving place to other marvels, it went on growing more t=
han
ever!
Lady Wondershoot
heard Mrs. Greenfield, her housekeeper, with infinite amazement.
"Caddles
downstairs again. No food for the child! My dear Greenfield, it's impossibl=
e.
The creature eats like a hippopotamus! I'm sure it can't be true."
"I'm sure I =
hope
you're not being imposed upon, my lady," said Mrs. Greenfield.
"It's so
difficult to tell with these people," said Lady Wondershoot. "Now=
I
do wish, my good Greenfield, that you'd just go down there yourself this
afternoon and see--see it have its bottle. Big as it is, I cannot imagine t=
hat
it needs more than six pints a day."
"It hasn't no
business to, my lady," said Mrs. Greenfield.
The hand of Lady
Wondershoot quivered, with that C.O.S. sort of emotion, that suspicious rage
that stirs in all true aristocrats, at the thought that possibly the meaner
classes are after all--as mean as their betters, and--where the sting
lies--scoring points in the game.
But Mrs. Greenfie=
ld
could observe no evidence of peculation, and the order for an increasing da=
ily
supply to the Caddles' nursery was issued. Scarcely had the first instalment
gone, when Caddles was back again at the great house in a state abjectly
apologetic.
"We took the
greates' care of 'em, Mrs. Greenfield, I do assure you, mum, but he's regul=
ar
bust 'em! They flew with such vilence, mum, that one button broke a pane of=
the
window, mum, and one hit me a regular stinger jest 'ere, mum."
Lady Wondershoot,
when she heard that this amazing child had positively burst out of its
beautiful charity clothes, decided that she must speak to Caddles herself. =
He
appeared in her presence with his hair hastily wetted and smoothed by hand,
breathless, and clinging to his hat brim as though it was a life-belt, and =
he
stumbled at the carpet edge out of sheer distress of mind.
Lady Wondershoot
liked bullying Caddles. Caddles was her ideal lower-class person, dishonest,
faithful, abject, industrious, and inconceivably incapable of responsibilit=
y.
She told him it was a serious matter, the way his child was going on.
"It's 'is appetite, my ladyship," said Caddles, with a rising not=
e.
"Check 'im, =
my
ladyship, you can't," said Caddles. "There 'e lies, my ladyship, =
and
kicks out 'e does, and 'owls, that distressin'. We 'aven't the 'eart, my
ladyship. If we 'ad--the neighbours would interfere...."
Lady Wondershoot
consulted the parish doctor.
"What I want=
to
know," said Lady Wondershoot, "is it right this child should have
such an extraordinary quantity of milk?"
"The proper
allowance for a child of that age," said the parish doctor, "is a
pint and a half to two pints in the twenty-four hours. I don't see that you=
are
called upon to provide more. If you do, it is your own generosity. Of cours=
e we
might try the legitimate quantity for a few days. But the child, I must adm=
it,
seems for some reason to be physiologically different. Possibly what is cal=
led
a Sport. A case of General Hypertrophy."
"It isn't fa=
ir
to the other parish children," said Lady Wondershoot. "I am certa=
in
we shall have complaints if this goes on."
"I don't see
that any one can be expected to give more than the recognised allowance. We
might insist on its doing with that, or if it wouldn't, send it as a case i=
nto
the Infirmary."
"I
suppose," said Lady Wondershoot, reflecting, "that apart from the=
size
and the appetite, you don't find anything else abnormal--nothing monstrous?=
"
"No. No, I d=
on't.
But no doubt if this growth goes on, we shall find grave moral and intellec=
tual
deficiencies. One might almost prophesy that from Max Nordau's law. A most
gifted and celebrated philosopher, Lady Wondershoot. He discovered that the
abnormal is--abnormal, a most valuable discovery, and well worth bearing in
mind. I find it of the utmost help in practice. When I come upon anything
abnormal, I say at once, This is abnormal." His eyes became profound, =
his
voice dropped, his manner verged upon the intimately confidential. He raised
one hand stiffly. "And I treat it in that spirit," he said.
V.
"Tut, tut!&q=
uot;
said the Vicar to his breakfast things--the day after the coming of Mrs.
Skinner. "Tut, tut! what's this?" and poised his glasses at his p=
aper
with a general air of remonstrance.
"Giant wasps!
What's the world coming to? American journalists, I suppose! Hang these
Novelties! Giant gooseberries are good enough for me.
"Nonsense!&q=
uot;
said the Vicar, and drank off his coffee at a gulp, eyes steadfast on the p=
aper,
and smacked his lips incredulously.
"Bosh!"
said the Vicar, rejecting the hint altogether.
But the next day
there was more of it, and the light came.
Not all at once,
however. When he went for his constitutional that day he was still chucklin=
g at
the absurd story his paper would have had him believe. Wasps indeed--killin=
g a
dog! Incidentally as he passed by the site of that first crop of puff-balls=
he
remarked that the grass was growing very rank there, but he did not connect
that in any way with the matter of his amusement. "We should certainly
have heard something of it," he said; "Whitstable can't be twenty
miles from here."
Beyond he found
another puff-ball, one of the second crop, rising like a roc's egg out of t=
he
abnormally coarsened turf.
The thing came up=
on
him in a flash.
He did not take h=
is
usual round that morning. Instead he turned aside by the second stile and c=
ame
round to the Caddles' cottage. "Where's that baby?" he demanded, =
and
at the sight of it, "Goodness me!"
He went up the vi=
llage
blessing his heart, and met the doctor full tilt coming down. He grasped his
arm. "What does this mean?" he said. "Have you seen the paper
these last few days?"
The doctor said he
had.
"Well, what's
the matter with that child? What's the matter with everything--wasps,
puff-balls, babies, eh? What's making them grow so big? This is most
unexpected. In Kent too! If it was America now--"
"It's a litt=
le
difficult to say just what it is," said the doctor. "So far as I =
can
grasp the symptoms--"
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"It's
Hypertrophy--General Hypertrophy."
"Hypertrophy=
?"
"Yes.
General--affecting all the bodily structures--all the organism. I may say t=
hat
in my own mind, between ourselves, I'm very nearly convinced it's that.... =
But
one has to be careful."
"Ah," s=
aid
the Vicar, a good deal relieved to find the doctor equal to the situation.
"But how is it it's breaking out in this fashion, all over the
place?"
"That
again," said the doctor, "is difficult to say."
"Urshot. Her=
e.
It's a pretty clear case of spreading."
"Yes," =
said
the doctor. "Yes. I think so. It has a strong resemblance at any rate =
to
some sort of epidemic. Probably Epidemic Hypertrophy will meet the case.&qu=
ot;
"Epidemic!&q=
uot;
said the Vicar. "You don't mean it's contagious?"
The doctor smiled
gently and rubbed one hand against the other. "That I couldn't say,&qu=
ot;
he said.
"But---!&quo=
t;
cried the Vicar, round-eyed. "If it's catching--it--it affects us!&quo=
t;
He made a stride =
up
the road and turned about.
"I've just b=
een
there," he cried. "Hadn't I better---? I'll go home at once and h=
ave
a bath and fumigate my clothes."
The doctor regard=
ed
his retreating back for a moment, and then turned about and went towards his
own house....
But on the way he
reflected that one case had been in the village a month without any one
catching the disease, and after a pause of hesitation decided to be as brav=
e as
a doctor should be and take the risks like a man.
And indeed he was
well advised by his second thoughts. Growth was the last thing that could e=
ver
happen to him again. He could have eaten--and the Vicar could have
eaten--Herakleophorbia by the truckful. For growth had done with them. Grow=
th
had done with these two gentlemen for evermore.
VI.
It was a day or so
after this conversation--a day or so, that is, after the burning of the
Experimental Farm--that Winkles came to Redwood and showed him an insulting
letter. It was an anonymous letter, and an author should respect his
character's secrets. "You are only taking credit for a natural
phenomenon," said the letter, "and trying to advertise yourself by
your letter to the Times. You and your Boomfood! Let me tell you, this absu=
rdly
named food of yours has only the most accidental connection with those big
wasps and rats. The plain fact is there is an epidemic of Hypertrophy--Cont=
agious
Hypertrophy--which you have about as much claim to control as you have to
control the solar system. The thing is as old as the hills. There was
Hypertrophy in the family of Anak. Quite outside your range, at Cheasing
Eyebright, at the present time there is a baby--"
"Shaky up and
down writing. Old gentleman apparently," said Redwood. "But it's =
odd
a baby--"
He read a few lin=
es
further, and had an inspiration.
"By Jove!&qu=
ot;
said he. "That's my missing Mrs. Skinner!"
He descended upon=
her
suddenly in the afternoon of the following day.
She was engaged in
pulling onions in the little garden before her daughter's cottage when she =
saw
him coming through the garden gate. She stood for a moment
"consternated," as the country folks say, and then folded her arm=
s,
and with the little bunch of onions held defensively under her left elbow,
awaited his approach. Her mouth opened and shut several times; she mumbled =
her
remaining tooth, and once quite suddenly she curtsied, like the blink of an
arc-light.
"I thought I
should find you," said Redwood.
"I thought y=
ou
might, sir," she said, without joy.
"Where's
Skinner?"
"'E ain't ne=
ver
written to me, Sir, not once, nor come nigh of me since I came here. Sir.&q=
uot;
"Don't you k=
now
what's become of him?"
"Him not hav=
ing
written, no, Sir," and she edged a step towards the left with an imper=
fect
idea of cutting off Redwood from the barn door.
"No one knows
what has become of him," said Redwood.
"I dessay 'e
knows," said Mrs. Skinner.
"He doesn't
tell."
"He was alwa=
ys a
great one for looking after 'imself and leaving them that was near and dear=
to
'im in trouble, was Skinner. Though clever as could be," said Mrs.
Skinner....
"Where's this
child?" asked Redwood abruptly.
She begged his
pardon.
"This child I
hear about, the child you've been giving our stuff to--the child that weighs
two stone."
Mrs. Skinner's ha=
nds
worked, and she dropped the onions. "Reely, Sir," she protested,
"I don't hardly know, Sir, what you mean. My daughter, Sir, Mrs. Caddl=
es,
'as a baby, Sir." And she made an agitated curtsey and tried to look
innocently inquiring by tilting her nose to one side.
"You'd better
let me see that baby, Mrs. Skinner," said Redwood.
Mrs. Skinner unma=
sked
an eye at him as she led the way towards the barn. "Of course, Sir, th=
ere
may 'ave been a little, in a little can of Nicey I give his father to bring
over from the farm, or a little perhaps what I happened to bring about with=
me,
so to speak. Me packing in a hurry and all ..."
"Um!" s=
aid
Redwood, after he had cluckered to the infant for a space. "Oom!"=
He told Mrs. Cadd=
les
the baby was a very fine child indeed, a thing that was getting well home to
her intelligence--and he ignored her altogether after that. Presently she l=
eft
the barn--through sheer insignificance.
"Now you've
started him, you'll have to keep on with him, you know," he said to Mr=
s.
Skinner.
He turned on her
abruptly. "Don't splash it about this time," he said.
"Splash it
about, Sir?"
"Oh! you
know."
She indicated
knowledge by convulsive gestures.
"You haven't
told these people here? The parents, the squire and so on at the big house,=
the
doctor, no one?"
Mrs. Skinner shook
her head.
"I
wouldn't," said Redwood....
He went to the do=
or
of the barn and surveyed the world about him. The door of the barn looked
between the end of the cottage and some disused piggeries through a five-ba=
rred
gate upon the highroad. Beyond was a high, red brick-wall rich with ivy and
wallflower and pennywort, and set along the top with broken glass. Beyond t=
he corner
of the wall, a sunlit notice-board amidst green and yellow branches reared
itself above the rich tones of the first fallen leaves and announced that
"Trespassers in these Woods will be Prosecuted." The dark shadow =
of a
gap in the hedge threw a stretch of barbed wire into relief.
"Um," s=
aid
Redwood, then in a deeper note, "Oom!"
There came a clat=
ter
of horses and the sound of wheels, and Lady Wondershoot's greys came into v=
iew.
He marked the faces of coachman and footman as the equipage approached. The
coachman was a very fine specimen, full and fruity, and he drove with a sor=
t of
sacramental dignity. Others might doubt their calling and position in the
world, he at any rate was sure--he drove her ladyship. The footman sat besi=
de
him with folded arms and a face of inflexible certainties. Then the great l=
ady
herself became visible, in a hat and mantle disdainfully inelegant, peering
through her glasses. Two young ladies protruded necks and peered also.
The Vicar passing=
on
the other side swept off the hat from his David's brow unheeded....
Redwood remained
standing in the doorway for a long time after the carriage had passed, his
hands folded behind him. His eyes went to the green, grey upland of down, a=
nd
into the cloud-curdled sky, and came back to the glass-set wall. He turned =
upon
the cool shadows within, and amidst spots and blurs of colour regarded the
giant child amidst that Rembrandtesque gloom, naked except for a swathing of
flannel, seated upon a huge truss of straw and playing with its toes.
"I begin to =
see
what we have done," he said.
He mused, and you=
ng
Caddles and his own child and Cossar's brood mingled in his musing.
He laughed abrupt=
ly.
"Good Lord!" he said at some passing thought.
He roused himself
presently and addressed Mrs. Skinner. "Anyhow he mustn't be tortured b=
y a
break in his food. That at least we can prevent. I shall send you a can eve=
ry
six months. That ought to do for him all right."
Mrs. Skinner mumb=
led
something about "if you think so, Sir," and "probably got pa=
cked
by mistake.... Thought no harm in giving him a little," and so by the =
aid
of various aspen gestures indicated that she understood.
So the child went=
on
growing.
And growing.
"Practically=
,"
said Lady Wondershoot, "he's eaten up every calf in the place. If I ha=
ve
any more of this sort of thing from that man Caddles--"
VII.
But even so seclu=
ded
a place as Cheasing Eyebright could not rest for long in the theory of
Hypertrophy--Contagious or not--in view of the growing hubbub about the Foo=
d.
In a little while there were painful explanations for Mrs.
Skinner--explanations that reduced her to speechless mumblings of her remai=
ning
tooth--explanations that probed her and ransacked her and exposed her--unti=
l at
last she was driven to take refuge from a universal convergence of blame in=
the
dignity of inconsolable widowhood. She turned her eye--which she constraine=
d to
be watery--upon the angry Lady of the Manor, and wiped suds from her hands.=
"You forget,=
my
lady, what I'm bearing up under."
And she followed =
up this
warning note with a slightly defiant:
"It's 'IM I
think of, my lady, night and day."
She compressed her lips, and her voice flattened and faltered: "Bein' et, my lady."<= o:p>
And having
established herself on these grounds, she repeated the affirmation her lady=
ship
had refused before. "I 'ad no more idea what I was giving the child, my
lady, than any one could 'ave...."
Her ladyship turn=
ed
her mind in more hopeful directions, wigging Caddles of course tremendously=
by
the way. Emissaries, full of diplomatic threatenings, entered the whirling
lives of Bensington and Redwood. They presented themselves as Parish
Councillors, stolid and clinging phonographically to prearranged statements.
"We hold you responsible, Mister Bensington, for the injury inflicted =
upon
our parish, Sir. We hold you responsible."
A firm of solicit=
ors,
with a snake of a style--Banghurst, Brown, Flapp, Codlin, Brown, Tedder, and
Snoxton, they called themselves, and appeared invariably in the form of a s=
mall
rufous cunning-looking gentleman with a pointed nose--said vague things abo=
ut
damages, and there was a polished personage, her ladyship's agent, who came=
in
suddenly upon Redwood one day and asked, "Well, Sir, and what do you
propose to do?"
To which Redwood
answered that he proposed to discontinue supplying the food for the child, =
if
he or Bensington were bothered any further about the matter. "I give it
for nothing as it is," he said, "and the child will yell your vil=
lage
to ruins before it dies if you don't let it have the stuff. The child's on =
your
hands, and you have to keep it. Lady Wondershoot can't always be Lady Bount=
iful
and Earthly Providence of her parish without sometimes meeting a
responsibility, you know."
"The mischie=
f's
done," Lady Wondershoot decided when they told her--with expurgations-=
-what
Redwood had said.
"The mischie=
f's
done," echoed the Vicar.
Though indeed as a
matter of fact the mischief was only beginning.
CHAPTER THE SECOND - THE =
BRAT
GIGANTIC.
I.
The giant child w=
as
ugly--the Vicar would insist. "He always had been ugly--as all excessi=
ve
things must be." The Vicar's views had carried him out of sight of just
judgment in this matter. The child was much subjected to snapshots even in =
that
rustic retirement, and their net testimony is against the Vicar, testifying
that the young monster was at first almost pretty, with a copious curl of h=
air
reaching to his brow and a great readiness to smile. Usually Caddles, who w=
as
slightly built, stands smiling behind the baby, perspective emphasising his
relative smallness.
After the second =
year
the good looks of the child became more subtle and more contestable. He beg=
an
to grow, as his unfortunate grandfather would no doubt have put it,
"rank." He lost colour and developed an increasing effect of being
somehow, albeit colossal, yet slight. He was vastly delicate. His eyes and
something about his face grew finer--grew, as people say,
"interesting." His hair, after one cutting, began to tangle into a
mat. "It's the degenerate strain coming out in him," said the par=
ish
doctor, marking these things, but just how far he was right in that, and ju=
st
how far the youngster's lapse from ideal healthfulness was the result of li=
ving
entirely in a whitewashed barn upon Lady Wondershoot's sense of charity
tempered by justice, is open to question.
The photographs of
him that present him from three to six show him developing into a round-eye=
d,
flaxen-haired youngster with a truncated nose and a friendly stare. There l=
urks
about his lips that never very remote promise of a smile that all the
photographs of the early giant children display. In summer he wears loose
garments of ticking tacked together with string; there is usually one of th=
ose
straw baskets upon his head that workmen use for their tools, and he is
barefooted. In one picture he grins broadly and holds a bitten melon in his
hand.
The winter pictur=
es
are less numerous and satisfactory. He wears huge sabots--no doubt of
beechwoods and (as fragments of the inscription "John Stickells,
Iping," show) sacks for socks, and his trousers and jacket are
unmistakably cut from the remains of a gaily patterned carpet. Underneath t=
hat
there were rude swathings of flannel; five or six yards of flannel are tied
comforter-fashion about his neck. The thing on his head is probably another=
sack.
He stares, sometimes smiling, sometimes a little ruefully, at the camera. E=
ven
when he was only five years old, one sees that half whimsical wrinkling over
his soft brown eyes that characterised his face.
He was from the
first, the Vicar always declared, a terrible nuisance about the village. He
seems to have had a proportionate impulse to play, much curiosity and
sociability, and in addition there was a certain craving within him--I grie=
ve
to say--for more to eat. In spite of what Mrs. Greenfield called an
"excessively generous" allowance of food from Lady Wondershoot, he
displayed what the doctor perceived at once was the "Criminal
Appetite." It carries out only too completely Lady Wondershoot's worst
experiences of the lower classes--that in spite of an allowance of nourishm=
ent
inordinately beyond what is known to be the maximum necessity even of an ad=
ult
human being, the creature was found to steal. And what he stole he ate with=
an
inelegant voracity. His great hand would come over garden walls; he would c=
ovet
the very bread in the bakers' carts. Cheeses went from Marlow's store loft,=
and
never a pig trough was safe from him. Some farmer walking over his field of
swedes would find the great spoor of his feet and the evidence of his nibbl=
ing hunger--a
root picked here, a root picked there, and the holes, with childish cunning,
heavily erased. He ate a swede as one devours a radish. He would stand and =
eat
apples from a tree, if no one was about, as normal children eat blackberries
from a bush. In one way at any rate this shortness of provisions was good f=
or
the peace of Cheasing Eyebright--for many years he ate up every grain very
nearly of the Food of the Gods that was given him....
Indisputably the
child was troublesome and out of place, "He was always about," the
Vicar used to say. He could not go to school; he could not go to church by
virtue of the obvious limitations of its cubical content. There was some
attempt to satisfy the spirit of that "most foolish and destructive
law"--I quote the Vicar--the Elementary Education Act of 1870, by gett=
ing
him to sit outside the open window while instruction was going on within. B=
ut
his presence there destroyed the discipline of the other children. They were
always popping up and peering at him, and every time he spoke they laughed
together. His voice was so odd! So they let him stay away.
Nor did they pers=
ist
in pressing him to come to church, for his vast proportions were of little =
help
to devotion. Yet there they might have had an easier task; there are good
reasons for guessing there were the germs of religious feeling somewhere in
that big carcase. The music perhaps drew him. He was often in the churchyar=
d on
a Sunday morning, picking his way softly among the graves after the
congregation had gone in, and he would sit the whole service out beside the
porch, listening as one listens outside a hive of bees.
At first he showe=
d a
certain want of tact; the people inside would hear his great feet crunch
restlessly round their place of worship, or become aware of his dim face
peering in through the stained glass, half curious, half envious, and at ti=
mes
some simple hymn would catch him unawares, and he would howl lugubriously i=
n a
gigantic attempt at unison. Whereupon little Sloppet, who was organ-blower =
and
verger and beadle and sexton and bell-ringer on Sundays, besides being post=
man
and chimney-sweep all the week, would go out very briskly and valiantly and=
send
him mournfully away. Sloppet, I am glad to say, felt it--in his more though=
tful
moments at any rate. It was like sending a dog home when you start out for a
walk, he told me.
But the intellect=
ual
and moral training of young Caddles, though fragmentary, was explicit. From=
the
first, Vicar, mother, and all the world, combined to make it clear to him t=
hat
his giant strength was not for use. It was a misfortune that he had to make=
the
best of. He had to mind what was told him, do what was set him, be careful
never to break anything nor hurt anything. Particularly he must not go trea=
ding
on things or jostling against things or jumping about. He had to salute the=
gentlefolks
respectful and be grateful for the food and clothing they spared him out of
their riches. And he learnt all these things submissively, being by nature =
and
habit a teachable creature and only by food and accident gigantic.
For Lady Wondersh=
oot,
in these early days, he displayed the profoundest awe. She found she could =
talk
to him best when she was in short skirts and had her dog-whip, and she
gesticulated with that and was always a little contemptuous and shrill. But
sometimes the Vicar played master--a minute, middle-aged, rather breathless
David pelting a childish Goliath with reproof and reproach and dictatorial
command. The monster was now so big that it seems it was impossible for any=
one
to remember he was after all only a child of seven, with all a child's desi=
re
for notice and amusement and fresh experience, with all a child's craving f=
or response,
attention and affection, and all a child's capacity for dependence and
unrestricted dulness and misery.
The Vicar, walking
down the village road some sunlit morning, would encounter an ungainly eigh=
teen
feet of the Inexplicable, as fantastic and unpleasant to him as some new fo=
rm
of Dissent, as it padded fitfully along with craning neck, seeking, always
seeking the two primary needs of childhood--something to eat and something =
with
which to play.
There would come a
look of furtive respect into the creature's eyes and an attempt to touch the
matted forelock.
In a limited way =
the
Vicar had an imagination--at any rate, the remains of one--and with young
Caddles it took the line of developing the huge possibilities of personal
injury such vast muscles must possess. Suppose a sudden madness--! Suppose a
mere lapse into disrespect--! However, the truly brave man is not the man w=
ho
does not feel fear but the man who overcomes it. Every time and always the
Vicar got his imagination under. And he used always to address young Caddles
stoutly in a good clear service tenor.
"Being a good
boy, Albert Edward?"
And the young gia=
nt,
edging closer to the wall and blushing deeply, would answer,
"Yessir--trying."
"Mind you
do," said the Vicar, and would go past him with at most a slight
acceleration of his breathing. And out of respect for his manhood he made i=
t a
rule, whatever he might fancy, never to look back at the danger, when once =
it
was passed.
In a fitful manner
the Vicar would give young Caddles private tuition. He never taught the mon=
ster
to read--it was not needed; but he taught him the more important points of =
the
Catechism--his duty to his neighbour for example, and of that Deity who wou=
ld
punish Caddles with extreme vindictiveness if ever he ventured to disobey t=
he
Vicar and Lady Wondershoot. The lessons would go on in the Vicar's yard, and
passers-by would hear that great cranky childish voice droning out the
essential teachings of the Established Church.
"To onner 'n
'bey the King and allooer put 'nthority under 'im. To s'bmit meself t'all my
gov'ners, teachers, spir'shall pastors an' masters. To order myself lowly 'n
rev'rently t'all my betters--"
Presently it beca=
me
evident that the effect of the growing giant on unaccustomed horses was like
that of a camel, and he was told to keep off the highroad, not only near the
shrubbery (where the oafish smile over the wall had exasperated her ladyship
extremely), but altogether. That law he never completely obeyed, because of=
the
vast interest the highroad had for him. But it turned what had been his
constant resort into a stolen pleasure. He was limited at last almost entir=
ely
to old pasture and the Downs.
I do not know wha=
t he
would have done if it had not been for the Downs. There there were spaces w=
here
he might wander for miles, and over these spaces he wandered. He would pick
branches from trees and make insane vast nosegays there until he was forbid=
den,
take up sheep and put them in neat rows, from which they immediately wander=
ed
(at this he invariably laughed very heartily), until he was forbidden, dig =
away
the turf, great wanton holes, until he was forbidden....
He would wander o=
ver
the Downs as far as the hill above Wreckstone, but not farther, because the=
re
he came upon cultivated land, and the people, by reason of his depredations
upon their root-crops, and inspired moreover by a sort of hostile timidity =
his
big unkempt appearance frequently evoked, always came out against him with
yapping dogs to drive him away. They would threaten him and lash at him with
cart whips. I have heard that they would sometimes fire at him with shot gu=
ns.
And in the other direction he ranged within sight of Hickleybrow. From abov=
e Thursley
Hanger he could get a glimpse of the London, Chatham, and Dover railway, but
ploughed fields and a suspicious hamlet prevented his nearer access.
And after a time
there came boards--great boards with red letters that barred him in every
direction. He could not read what the letters said: "Out of Bounds,&qu=
ot;
but in a little while he understood. He was often to be seen in those days,=
by
the railway passengers, sitting, chin on knees, perched up on the Down hard=
by
the Thursley chalk pits, where afterwards he was set working. The train see=
med
to inspire a dim emotion of friendliness in him, and sometimes he would wav=
e an
enormous hand at it, and sometimes give it a rustic incoherent hail.
"Big," =
the
peering passenger would say. "One of these Boom children. They say, Si=
r,
quite unable to do anything for itself--little better than an idiot in fact,
and a great burden on the locality."
"Parents qui=
te
poor, I'm told."
"Lives on the
charity of the local gentry."
Every one would s=
tare
intelligently at that distant squatting monstrous figure for a space.
"Good thing =
that
was put a stop to," some spacious thinking mind would suggest. "N=
ice
to 'ave a few thousand of them on the rates, eh?"
And usually there=
was
some one wise enough to tell this philosopher: "You're about Right the=
re,
Sir," in hearty tones.
II.
He had his bad da=
ys.
There was, for
example, that trouble with the river.
He made little bo=
ats
out of whole newspapers, an art he learnt by watching the Spender boy, and =
he
set them sailing down the stream--great paper cocked-hats. When they vanish=
ed
under the bridge which marks the boundary of the strictly private grounds a=
bout
Eyebright House, he would give a great shout and run round and across Torma=
t's
new field--Lord! how Tormat's pigs did scamper, to be sure, and turn their =
good
fat into lean muscle!--and so to meet his boats by the ford. Right across t=
he
nearer lawns these paper boats of his used to go, right in front of Eyebrig=
ht
House, right under Lady Wondershoot's eyes! Disorganising folded newspapers=
! A
pretty thing!
Gathering enterpr=
ise
from impunity, he began babyish hydraulic engineering. He delved a huge port
for his paper fleets with an old shed door that served him as a spade, and,=
no
one chancing to observe his operations just then, he devised an ingenious c=
anal
that incidentally flooded Lady Wondershoot's ice-house, and finally he damm=
ed
the river. He dammed it right across with a few vigorous doorfuls of earth-=
-he
must have worked like an avalanche--and down came a most amazing spate thro=
ugh
the shrubbery and washed away Miss Spinks and her easel and the most promis=
ing
water-colour sketch she had ever begun, or, at any rate, it washed away her
easel and left her wet to the knees and dismally tucked up in flight to the
house, and thence the waters rushed through the kitchen garden, and so by t=
he
green door into the lane and down into the riverbed again by Short's ditch.=
Meanwhile, the Vi=
car,
interrupted in conversation with the blacksmith, was amazed to see distress=
ful
stranded fish leaping out of a few residual pools, and heaped green weed in=
the
bed of the stream, where ten minutes before there had been eight feet and m=
ore
of clear cool water.
After that, horri= fied at his own consequences, young Caddles fled his home for two days and night= s. He returned only at the insistent call of hunger, to bear with stoical calm= an amount of violent scolding that was more in proportion to his size than anything else that had ever before fallen to his lot in the Happy Village.<= o:p>
III.
Immediately after
that affair Lady Wondershoot, casting about for exemplary additions to the
abuse and fastings she had inflicted, issued a Ukase. She issued it first to
her butler, and very suddenly, so that she made him jump. He was clearing a=
way
the breakfast things, and she was staring out of the tall window on the ter=
race
where the fawns would come to be fed. "Jobbet," she said, in her =
most
imperial voice--"Jobbet, this Thing must work for its living."
And she made it q=
uite
clear not only to Jobbet (which was easy), but to every one else in the
village, including young Caddles, that in this matter, as in all things, she
meant what she said.
"Keep him
employed," said Lady Wondershoot. "That's the tip for Master Cadd=
les."
"It's the Ti=
p, I
fancy, for all Humanity," said the Vicar. "The simple duties, the
modest round, seed-time and harvest--"
"Exactly,&qu=
ot;
said Lady Wondershoot. "What I always say. Satan finds some mischief s=
till
for idle hands to do. At any rate among the labouring classes. We bring up =
our
under-housemaids on that principle, always. What shall we set him to do?&qu=
ot;
That was a little
difficult. They thought of many things, and meanwhile they broke him in to
labour a bit by using him instead of a horse messenger to carry telegrams a=
nd
notes when extra speed was needed, and he also carried luggage and
packing-cases and things of that sort very conveniently in a big net they f=
ound
for him. He seemed to like employment, regarding it as a sort of game, and
Kinkle, Lady Wondershoot's agent, seeing him shift a rockery for her one da=
y,
was struck by the brilliant idea of putting him into her chalk quarry at Th=
ursley
Hanger, hard by Hickleybrow. This idea was carried out, and it seemed they =
had
settled his problem.
He worked in the
chalk pit, at first with the zest of a playing child, and afterwards with an
effect of habit--delving, loading, doing all the haulage of the trucks, run=
ning
the full ones down the lines towards the siding, and hauling the empty ones=
up
by the wire of a great windlass--working the entire quarry at last
single-handed.
I am told that Ki=
nkle
made a very good thing indeed out of him for Lady Wondershoot, consuming as=
he
did scarcely anything but his food, though that never restrained her
denunciation of "the Creature" as a gigantic parasite upon her
charity....
At that time he u=
sed
to wear a sort of smock of sacking, trousers of patched leather, and iron-s=
hod
sabots. Over his head was sometimes a queer thing--a worn-out beehive straw
chair it was, but usually he went bareheaded. He would be moving about the =
pit
with a powerful deliberation, and the Vicar on his constitutional round wou=
ld
get there about midday to find him shamefully eating his vast need of food =
with
his back to all the world.
His food was brou=
ght
to him every day, a mess of grain in the husk, in a truck--a small railway
truck, like one of the trucks he was perpetually filling with chalk, and th=
is
load he used to char in an old limekiln and then devour. Sometimes he would=
mix
with it a bag of sugar. Sometimes he would sit licking a lump of such salt =
as
is given to cows, or eating a huge lump of dates, stones and all, such as o=
ne
sees in London on barrows. For drink he walked to the rivulet beyond the
burnt-out site of the Experimental Farm at Hickleybrow and put down his fac=
e to
the stream. It was from his drinking in that way after eating that the Food=
of
the Gods did at last get loose, spreading first of all in huge weeds from t=
he
river-side, then in big frogs, bigger trout and stranding carp, and at last=
in
a fantastic exuberance of vegetation all over the little valley.
And after a year = or so the queer monstrous grub things in the field before the blacksmith's gre= w so big and developed into such frightful skipjacks and cockchafers--motor cockchafers the boys called them--that they drove Lady Wondershoot abroad.<= o:p>
IV.
But soon the Food=
was
to enter upon a new phase of its work in him. In spite of the simple
instructions of the Vicar--instructions intended to round off the modest
natural life befitting a giant peasant, in the most complete and final
manner--he began to ask questions, to inquire into things, to think. As he =
grew
from boyhood to adolescence it became increasingly evident that his mind had
processes of its own--out of the Vicar's control. The Vicar did his best to
ignore this distressing phenomenon, but still--he could feel it there.
The young giant's
material for thought lay about him. Quite involuntarily, with his spacious
views, his constant overlooking of things, he must have seen a good deal of
human life, and as it grew clearer to him that he too, save for this clumsy
greatness of his, was also human, he must have come to realise more and more
just how much was shut against him by his melancholy distinction. The socia=
ble
hum of the school, the mystery of religion that was partaken in such finery,
and which exhaled so sweet a strain of melody, the jovial chorusing from th=
e Inn,
the warmly glowing rooms, candle-lit and fire-lit, into which he peered out=
of
the darkness, or again the shouting excitement, the vigour of flannelled
exercise upon some imperfectly understood issue that centred about the
cricket-field--all these things must have cried aloud to his companionable
heart. It would seem that as his adolescence crept upon him, he began to ta=
ke a
very considerable interest in the proceedings of lovers, in those preferenc=
es
and pairings, those close intimacies that are so cardinal in life.
One Sunday, just
about that hour when the stars and the bats and the passions of rural life =
come
out, there chanced to be a young couple "kissing each other a bit"=
; in
Love Lane, the deep hedged lane that runs out back towards the Upper Lodge.
They were giving their little emotions play, as secure in the warm still
twilight as any lovers could be. The only conceivable interruption they tho=
ught
possible must come pacing visibly up the lane; the twelve-foot hedge towards
the silent Downs seemed to them an absolute guarantee.
Then
suddenly--incredibly--they were lifted and drawn apart.
They discovered
themselves held up, each with a finger and thumb under the armpits, and with
the perplexed brown eyes of young Caddles scanning their warm flushed faces.
They were naturally dumb with the emotions of their situation.
"Why do you =
like
doing that?" asked young Caddles.
I gather the
embarrassment continued until the swain remembering his manhood, vehemently,
with loud shouts, threats, and virile blasphemies, such as became the occas=
ion,
bade young Caddles under penalties put them down. Whereupon young Caddles,
remembering his manners, did put them down politely and very carefully, and
conveniently near for a resumption of their embraces, and having hesitated
above them for a while, vanished again into the twilight ...
"But I felt
precious silly," the swain confided to me. "We couldn't 'ardly lo=
ok
at one another--bein' caught like that.
"Kissing we
was--you know.
"And the cur=
'ous
thing is, she blamed it all on to me," said the swain.
"Flew out
something outrageous, and wouldn't 'ardly speak to me all the way
'ome...."
The giant was
embarking upon investigations, there could be no doubt. His mind, it became
manifest, was throwing up questions. He put them to few people as yet, but =
they
troubled him. His mother, one gathers, sometimes came in for cross-examinat=
ion.
He used to come i=
nto
the yard behind his mother's cottage, and, after a careful inspection of the
ground for hens and chicks, he would sit down slowly with his back against =
the
barn. In a minute the chicks, who liked him, would be pecking all over him =
at
the mossy chalk-mud in the seams of his clothing, and if it was blowing up =
for
wet, Mrs. Caddles' kitten, who never lost her confidence in him, would assu=
me a
sinuous form and start scampering into the cottage, up to the kitchen fende=
r,
round, out, up his leg, up his body, right up to his shoulder, meditative
moment, and then scat! back again, and so on. Sometimes she would stick her=
claws
in his face out of sheer gaiety of heart, but he never dared to touch her
because of the uncertain weight of his hand upon a creature so frail. Besid=
es,
he rather liked to be tickled. And after a time he would put some clumsy
questions to his mother.
"Mother,&quo=
t;
he would say, "if it's good to work, why doesn't every one work?"=
His mother would =
look
up at him and answer, "It's good for the likes of us."
He would meditate,
"Why?"
And going unanswe=
red,
"What's work for, mother? Why do I cut chalk and you wash clothes, day
after day, while Lady Wondershoot goes about in her carriage, mother, and
travels off to those beautiful foreign countries you and I mustn't see,
mother?"
"She's a
lady," said Mrs. Caddles.
"Oh," s=
aid
young Caddles, and meditated profoundly.
"If there wa=
sn't
gentlefolks to make work for us to do," said Mrs. Caddles, "how
should we poor people get a living?"
This had to be
digested.
"Mother,&quo=
t;
he tried again; "if there wasn't any gentlefolks, wouldn't things belo=
ng
to people like me and you, and if they did--"
"Lord sakes =
and
drat the Boy!" Mrs. Caddles would say--she had with the help of a good
memory become quite a florid and vigorous individuality since Mrs. Skinner
died. "Since your poor dear grandma was took, there's no abiding you.
Don't you arst no questions and you won't be told no lies. If once I was to
start out answerin' you serious, y'r father 'd 'ave to go' and arst some one
else for 'is supper--let alone finishing the washin'."
"All right,
mother," he would say, after a wondering stare at her. "I didn't =
mean
to worry."
And he would go on
thinking.
V.
He was thinking t=
oo
four years after, when the Vicar, now no longer ripe but over-ripe, saw him=
for
the last time of all. You figure the old gentleman visibly a little older n=
ow,
slacker in his girth, a little coarsened and a little weakened in his thoug=
ht
and speech, with a quivering shakiness in his hand and a quivering shakines=
s in
his convictions, but his eye still bright and merry for all the trouble the=
Food
had caused his village and himself. He had been frightened at times and
disturbed, but was he not alive still and the same still? and fifteen long
years--a fair sample of eternity--had turned the trouble into use and wont.=
"It was a
disturbance, I admit," he would say, "and things are different--d=
ifferent
in many ways. There was a time when a boy could weed, but now a man must go=
out
with axe and crowbar--in some places down by the thickets at least. And it'=
s a
little strange still to us old-fashioned people for all this valley, even w=
hat
used to be the river bed before they irrigated, to be under wheat--as it is
this year--twenty-five feet high. They used the old-fashioned scythe here t=
wenty
years ago, and they would bring home the harvest on a wain--rejoicing--in a
simple honest fashion. A little simple drunkenness, a little frank love-mak=
ing,
to conclude ... poor dear Lady Wondershoot--she didn't like these Innovatio=
ns.
Very conservative, poor dear lady! A touch of the eighteenth century about =
her,
I always Said. Her language for example ... Bluff vigour ...
"She died
comparatively poor. These big weeds got into her garden. She was not one of
these gardening women, but she liked her garden in order--things growing wh=
ere
they were planted and as they were planted--under control ... The way things
grew was unexpected--upset her ideas ... She didn't like the perpetual inva=
sion
of this young monster--at last she began to fancy he was always gaping at h=
er
over her wall ... She didn't like his being nearly as high as her house ...=
Jarred
with her sense of proportion. Poor dear lady! I had hoped she would last my
time. It was the big cockchafers we had for a year or so that decided her. =
They
came from the giant larvae--nasty things as big as rats--in the valley turf=
...
"And the ant=
s no
doubt weighed with her also.
"Since
everything was upset and there was no peace and quietness anywhere now, she
said she thought she might just as well be at Monte Carlo as anywhere else.=
And
she went.
"She played
pretty boldly, I'm told. Died in a hotel there. Very sad end... Exile...
Not--not what one considers meet... A natural leader of our English people.=
..
Uprooted. So I...
"Yet after
all," harped the Vicar, "it comes to very little. A nuisance of
course. Children cannot run about so freely as they used to do, what with a=
nt
bites and so forth. Perhaps it's as well ... There used to be talk--as thou=
gh
this stuff would revolutionise everything ... But there is something that
defies all these forces of the New ... I don't know of course. I'm not one =
of
your modern philosophers--explain everything with ether and atoms. Evolutio=
n.
Rubbish like that. What I mean is something the 'Ologies don't include. Mat=
ter
of reason--not understanding. Ripe wisdom. Human nature. Aere perennius. ...
Call it what you will."
And so at last it
came to the last time.
The Vicar had no
intimation of what lay so close upon him. He did his customary walk, over by
Farthing Down, as he had done it for more than a score of years, and so to =
the
place whence he would watch young Caddles. He did the rise over by the
chalk-pit crest a little puffily--he had long since lost the Muscular Chris=
tian
stride of early days; but Caddles was not at his work, and then, as he skir=
ted
the thicket of giant bracken that was beginning to obscure and overshadow t=
he
Hanger, he came upon the monster's huge form seated on the hill--brooding a=
s it
were upon the world. Caddles' knees were drawn up, his cheek was on his han=
d, his
head a little aslant. He sat with his shoulder towards the Vicar, so that t=
hose
perplexed eyes could not be seen. He must have been thinking very intently-=
-at
any rate he was sitting very still ...
He never turned
round. He never knew that the Vicar, who had played so large a part in shap=
ing
his life, looked then at him for the very last of innumerable times--did not
know even that he was there. (So it is so many partings happen.) The Vicar =
was
struck at the time by the fact that, after all, no one on earth had the
slightest idea of what this great monster thought about when he saw fit to =
rest
from his labours. But he was too indolent to follow up that new theme that =
day;
he fell back from its suggestion into his older grooves of thought.
"Aere-perenn=
ius,"
he whispered, walking slowly homeward by a path that no longer ran straight
athwart the turf after its former fashion, but wound circuitously to avoid =
new
sprung tussocks of giant grass. "No! nothing is changed. Dimensions are
nothing. The simple round, the common way--"
And that night, q=
uite
painlessly, and all unknowing, he himself went the common way--out of this
Mystery of Change he had spent his life in denying.
They buried him in
the churchyard of Cheasing Eyebright, near to the largest yew, and the mode=
st
tombstone bearing his epitaph--it ended with: Ut in Principio, nunc est et
semper--was almost immediately hidden from the eye of man by a spread of gi=
ant,
grey tasselled grass too stout for scythe or sheep, that came sweeping like=
a
fog over the village out of the germinating moisture of the valley meadows =
in
which the Food of the Gods had been working.
CHAPTER THE FIRST - THE
ALTERED WORLD.
I.
Change played in =
its
new fashion with the world for twenty years. To most men the new things came
little by little and day by day, remarkably enough, but not so abruptly as =
to
overwhelm. But to one man at least the full accumulation of those two decad=
es
of the Food's work was to be revealed suddenly and amazingly in one day. For
our purpose it is convenient to take him for that one day and to tell somet=
hing
of the things he saw. This man was a convict, a prisoner for life--his crim=
e is
no concern of ours--whom the law saw fit to pardon after twenty years. One
summer morning this poor wretch, who had left the world a young man of
three-and-twenty, found himself thrust out again from the grey simplicity of
toil and discipline, that had become his life, into a dazzling freedom. They
had put unaccustomed clothes upon him; his hair had been growing for some
weeks, and he had parted it now for some days, and there he stood, in a sor=
t of
shabby and clumsy newness of body and mind, blinking with his eyes and blin=
king
indeed with his soul, outside again, trying to realise one incredible thing,
that after all he was again for a little while in the world of life, and for
all other incredible things, totally unprepared. He was so fortunate as to =
have
a brother who cared enough for their distant common memories to come and me=
et
him and clasp his hand--a brother he had left a little lad, and who was now=
a
bearded prosperous man--whose very eyes were unfamiliar. And together he and
this stranger from his kindred came down into the town of Dover, saying lit=
tle
to one another and feeling many things.
They sat for a sp=
ace
in a public-house, the one answering the questions of the other about this
person and that, reviving queer old points of view, brushing aside endless =
new
aspects and new perspectives, and then it was time to go to the station and
take the London train. Their names and the personal things they had to talk=
of
do not matter to our story, but only the changes and all the strangeness th=
at
this poor returning soul found in the once familiar world.
In Dover itself he
remarked little except the goodness of beer from pewter--never before had t=
here
been such a draught of beer, and it brought tears of gratitude to his eyes.
"Beer's as good as ever," said he, believing it infinitely better=
....
It was only as the
train rattled them past Folkestone that he could look out beyond his more
immediate emotions, to see what had happened to the world. He peered out of=
the
window. "It's sunny," he said for the twelfth time. "I could=
n't
ha' had better weather." And then for the first time it dawned upon him
that there were novel disproportions in the world. "Lord sakes," =
he
cried, sitting up and looking animated for the first time, "but them's
mortal great thissels growing out there on the bank by that broom. If so be
they be thissels? Or 'ave I been forgetting?" But they were thistles, =
and
what he took for tall bushes of broom was the new grass, and amidst these
things a company of British soldiers--red-coated as ever--was skirmishing in
accordance with the directions of the drill book that had been partially
revised after the Boer War. Then whack! into a tunnel, and then into Sandli=
ng
Junction, which was now embedded and dark--its lamps were all alight--in a
great thicket of rhododendron that had crept out of some adjacent gardens a=
nd grown
enormously up the valley. There was a train of trucks on the Sandgate siding
piled high with rhododendron logs, and here it was the returning citizen he=
ard
first of Boomfood.
As they sped out =
into
a country again that seemed absolutely unchanged, the two brothers were har=
d at
their explanations. The one was full of eager, dull questions; the other had
never thought, had never troubled to see the thing as a single fact, and he=
was
allusive and difficult to follow. "It's this here Boomfood stuff,"=
; he
said, touching his bottom rock of knowledge. "Don't you know? 'Aven't =
they
told you--any of 'em? Boomfood! You know--Boomfood. What all the election's=
about.
Scientific sort of stuff. 'Asn't no one ever told you?"
He thought prison=
had
made his brother a fearful duffer not to know that.
They made wide sh=
ots
at each other by way of question and answer. Between these scraps of talk w=
ere
intervals of window-gazing. At first the man's interest in things was vague=
and
general. His imagination had been busy with what old so-and-so would say, h=
ow
so-and-so would look, how he would say to all and sundry certain things that
would present his "putting away" in a mitigated light. This Boomf=
ood
came in at first as it were a thing in an odd paragraph of the newspapers, =
then
as a source of intellectual difficulty with his brother. But it came to him=
presently
that Boomfood was persistently coming in upon any topic he began.
In those days the
world was a patchwork of transition, so that this great new fact came to hi=
m in
a series of shocks of contrast. The process of change had not been uniform;=
it
had spread from one centre of distribution here and another centre there. T=
he
country was in patches: great areas where the Food was still to come, and a=
reas
where it was already in the soil and in the air, sporadic and contagious. It
was a bold new motif creeping in among ancient and venerable airs.
The contrast was =
very
vivid indeed along the line from Dover to London at that time. For a space =
they
traversed just such a country-side as he had known since his childhood, the
small oblongs of field, hedge-lined, of a size for pigmy horses to plough, =
the
little roads three cart-widths wide, the elms and oaks and poplars dotting
these fields about, little thickets of willow beside the streams; ricks of =
hay
no higher than a giant's knees, dolls' cottages with diamond panes,
brickfields, and straggling village streets, the larger houses of the petty
great, flower-grown railway banks, garden-set stations, and all the little =
things
of the vanished nineteenth century still holding out against Immensity. Here
and there would be a patch of wind-sown, wind-tattered giant thistle defyin=
g the
axe; here and there a ten-foot puff-ball or the ashen stems of some burnt-o=
ut
patch of monster grass; but that was all there was to hint at the coming of=
the
Food.
For a couple of s= core of miles there was nothing else to foreshadow in any way the strange bignes= s of the wheat and of the weeds that were hidden from him not a dozen miles from= his route just over the hills in the Cheasing Eyebright valley. And then presen= tly the traces of the Food would begin. The first striking thing was the great = new viaduct at Tonbridge, where the swamp of the choked Medway (due to a giant variety of Chara) began in those days. Then again the little country, and t= hen, as the petty multitudinous immensity of London spread out under its haze, t= he traces of man's fight to keep out greatness became abundant and incessant.<= o:p>
In that south-eas=
tern
region of London at that time, and all about where Cossar and his children
lived, the Food had become mysteriously insurgent at a hundred points; the
little life went on amidst daily portents that only the deliberation of the=
ir
increase, the slow parallel growth of usage to their presence, had robbed of
their warning. But this returning citizen peered out to see for the first t=
ime
the facts of the Food strange and predominant, scarred and blackened areas,=
big
unsightly defences and preparations, barracks and arsenals that this subtle=
, persistent
influence had forced into the life of men.
Here, on an ampler
scale, the experience of the first Experimental Farm had been repeated time=
and
again. It had been in the inferior and accidental things of life--under foot
and in waste places, irregularly and irrelevantly--that the coming of a new
force and new issues had first declared itself. There were great evil-smell=
ing
yards and enclosures where some invincible jungle of weed furnished fuel fo=
r gigantic
machinery (little cockneys came to stare at its clangorous oiliness and tip=
the
men a sixpence); there were roads and tracks for big motors and vehicles--r=
oads
made of the interwoven fibres of hypertrophied hemp; there were towers
containing steam sirens that could yell at once and warn the world against =
any
new insurgence of vermin, or, what was queerer, venerable church towers
conspicuously fitted with a mechanical scream. There were little red-painted
refuge huts and garrison shelters, each with its 300-yard rifle range, where
the riflemen practised daily with soft-nosed ammunition at targets in the s=
hape
of monstrous rats.
Six times since t=
he
day of the Skinners there had been outbreaks of giant rats--each time from =
the
south-west London sewers, and now they were as much an accepted fact there =
as
tigers in the delta by Calcutta....
The man's brother=
had
bought a paper in a heedless sort of way at Sandling, and at last this chan=
ced
to catch the eye of the released man. He opened the unfamiliar sheets--they
seemed to him to be smaller, more numerous, and different in type from the
papers of the times before--and he found himself confronted with innumerable
pictures about things so strange as to be uninteresting, and with tall colu=
mns
of printed matter whose headings, for the most part, were as unmeaning as
though they had been written in a foreign tongue--"Great Speech by Mr.
Caterham"; "The Boomfood Laws."
"Who's this =
here
Caterham?" he asked, in an attempt to make conversation.
"He's all
right," said his brother.
"Ah! Sort of
politician, eh?"
"Goin' to tu=
rn
out the Government. Jolly well time he did."
"Ah!" He
reflected. "I suppose all the lot I used to know--Chamberlain,
Rosebery--all that lot--What?"
His brother had
grasped his wrist and pointed out of the window.
"That's the
Cossars!" The eyes of the released prisoner followed the finger's
direction and saw--
"My Gawd!&qu=
ot;
he cried, for the first time really overcome with amazement. The paper drop=
ped
into final forgottenness between his feet. Through the trees he could see v=
ery
distinctly, standing in an easy attitude, the legs wide apart and the hand
grasping a ball as if about to throw it, a gigantic human figure a good for=
ty
feet high. The figure glittered in the sunlight, clad in a suit of woven wh=
ite
metal and belted with a broad belt of steel. For a moment it focussed all
attention, and then the eye was wrested to another more distant Giant who s=
tood
prepared to catch, and it became apparent that the whole area of that great=
bay
in the hills just north of Sevenoaks had been scarred to gigantic ends.
A hugely banked
entrenchment overhung the chalk pit, in which stood the house, a monstrous
squat Egyptian shape that Cossar had built for his sons when the Giant Nurs=
ery
had served its turn, and behind was a great dark shed that might have cover=
ed a
cathedral, in which a spluttering incandescence came and went, and from out=
of
which came a Titanic hammering to beat upon the ear. Then the attention lea=
pt
back to the giant as the great ball of iron-bound timber soared up out of h=
is
hand.
The two men stood=
up
and stared. The ball seemed as big as a cask.
"Caught!&quo=
t;
cried the man from prison, as a tree blotted out the thrower.
The train looked =
on
these things only for the fraction of a minute and then passed behind trees
into the Chislehurst tunnel. "My Gawd!" said the man from prison
again, as the darkness closed about them. "Why! that chap was as 'igh =
as a
'ouse."
"That's them
young Cossars," said his brother, jerking his head allusively--"w=
hat
all this trouble's about...."
They emerged agai=
n to
discover more siren-surmounted towers, more red huts, and then the clusteri=
ng
villas of the outer suburbs. The art of bill-sticking had lost nothing in t=
he
interval, and from countless tall hoardings, from house ends, from palings,=
and
a hundred such points of vantage came the polychromatic appeals of the great
Boomfood election. "Caterham," "Boomfood," and "Ja=
ck
the Giant-killer" again and again and again, and monstrous caricatures=
and
distortions--a hundred varieties of misrepresentations of those great and
shining figures they had passed so nearly only a few minutes before....
II.
It had been the
purpose of the younger brother to do a very magnificent thing, to celebrate
this return to life by a dinner at some restaurant of indisputable quality,=
a
dinner that should be followed by all that glittering succession of impress=
ions
the Music Halls of those days were so capable of giving. It was a worthy pl=
an
to wipe off the more superficial stains of the prison house by this display=
of
free indulgence; but so far as the second item went the plan was changed. T=
he dinner
stood, but there was a desire already more powerful than the appetite for
shows, already more efficient in turning the man's mind away from his grim
prepossession with his past than any theatre could be, and that was an enor=
mous
curiosity and perplexity about this Boomfood and these Boom children--this =
new
portentous giantry that seemed to dominate the world. "I 'aven't the '=
ang
of 'em," he said. "They disturve me."
His brother had t=
hat
fineness of mind that can even set aside a contemplated hospitality. "=
It's
your evening, dear old boy," he said. "We'll try to get into the =
mass
meeting at the People's Palace."
And at last the m=
an
from prison had the luck to find himself wedged into a packed multitude and
staring from afar at a little brightly lit platform under an organ and a
gallery. The organist had been playing something that had set boots trampin=
g as
the people swarmed in; but that was over now.
Hardly had the man
from prison settled into place and done his quarrel with an importunate
stranger who elbowed, before Caterham came. He walked out of a shadow towar=
ds
the middle of the platform, the most insignificant little pigmy, away there=
in
the distance, a little black figure with a pink dab for a face,--in profile=
one
saw his quite distinctive aquiline nose--a little figure that trailed after=
it
most inexplicably--a cheer. A cheer it was that began away there and grew a=
nd spread.
A little spluttering of voices about the platform at first that suddenly le=
apt
up into a flame of sound and swept athwart the whole mass of humanity within
the building and without. How they cheered! Hooray! Hooray!
No one in all tho=
se
myriads cheered like the man from prison. The tears poured down his face, a=
nd
he only stopped cheering at last because the thing had choked him. You must
have been in prison as long as he before you can understand, or even begin =
to understand,
what it means to a man to let his lungs go in a crowd. (But for all that he=
did
not even pretend to himself that he knew what all this emotion was about.) =
Hooray!
O God!--Hoo-ray!
And then a sort of
silence. Caterham had subsided to a conspicuous patience, and subordinate a=
nd
inaudible persons were saying and doing formal and insignificant things. It=
was
like hearing voices through the noise of leaves in spring.
"Wawawawa---" What did it matter? People in the audience talked to
one another. "Wawawawawa---" the thing went on. Would that
grey-headed duffer never have done? Interrupting? Of course they were
interrupting. "Wa, wa, wa, wa---" But shall we hear Caterham any
better?
Meanwhile at any =
rate
there was Caterham to stare at, and one could stand and study the distant
prospect of the great man's features. He was easy to draw was this man, and
already the world had him to study at leisure on lamp chimneys and children=
's
plates, on Anti-Boomfood medals and Anti-Boomfood flags, on the selvedges of
Caterham silks and cottons and in the linings of Good Old English Caterham
hats. He pervades all the caricature of that time. One sees him as a sailor
standing to an old-fashioned gun, a port-fire labelled "New Boomfood
Laws" in his hand; while in the sea wallows that huge, ugly, threateni=
ng
monster, "Boomfood;" or he is cap-a-pie in armour, St. George's c=
ross
on shield and helm, and a cowardly titanic Caliban sitting amidst desecrati=
ons
at the mouth of a horrid cave declines his gauntlet of the "New Boomfo=
od Regulations;"
or he comes flying down as Perseus and rescues a chained and beautiful
Andromeda (labelled distinctly about her belt as "Civilisation") =
from
a wallowing waste of sea monster bearing upon its various necks and claws
"Irreligion," "Trampling Egotism," "Mechanism,&quo=
t; "Monstrosity,"
and the like. But it was as "Jack the Giant-killer" that the popu=
lar
imagination considered Caterham most correctly cast, and it was in the vein=
of
a Jack the Giant-killer poster that the man from prison, enlarged that dist=
ant
miniature.
The
"Wawawawa" came abruptly to an end.
He's done. He's
sitting down. Yes! No! Yes! It's Caterham! "Caterham!" "Cate=
rham!"
And then came the cheers.
It takes a multit=
ude
to make such a stillness as followed that disorder of cheering. A man alone=
in
a wilderness;--it's stillness of a sort no doubt, but he hears himself brea=
the,
he hears himself move, he hears all sorts of things. Here the voice of Cate=
rham
was the one single thing heard, a thing very bright and clear, like a littl=
e light
burning in a black velvet recess. Hear indeed! One heard him as though he s=
poke
at one's elbow.
It was stupendous=
ly
effective to the man from prison, that gesticulating little figure in a hal=
o of
light, in a halo of rich and swaying sounds; behind it, partially effaced a=
s it
were, sat its supporters on the platform, and in the foreground was a wide
perspective of innumerable backs and profiles, a vast multitudinous attenti=
on.
That little figure seemed to have absorbed the substance from them all.
Caterham spoke of=
our
ancient institutions. "Earearear," roared the crowd. "Ear!
ear!" said the man from prison. He spoke of our ancient spirit of order
and justice. "Earearear!" roared the crowd. "Ear! Ear!"=
cried
the man from prison, deeply moved. He spoke of the wisdom of our forefather=
s,
of the slow growth of venerable institutions, of moral and social tradition=
s,
that fitted our English national characteristics as the skin fits the hand.
"Ear! Ear!" groaned the man from prison, with tears of excitement=
on
his cheeks. And now all these things were to go into the melting pot. Yes, =
into
the melting pot! Because three men in London twenty years ago had seen fit =
to
mix something indescribable in a bottle, all the order and sanctity of
things--Cries of "No! No!"--Well, if it was not to be so, they mu=
st
exert themselves, they must say good-bye to hesitation--Here there came a g=
ust
of cheering. They must say good-bye to hesitation and half measures.
"We have hea=
rd,
gentlemen," cried Caterham, "of nettles that become giant nettles=
. At
first they are no more than other nettles--little plants that a firm hand m=
ay
grasp and wrench away; but if you leave them--if you leave them, they grow =
with
such a power of poisonous expansion that at last you must needs have axe an=
d rope,
you must needs have danger to life and limb, you must needs have toil and
distress--men may be killed in their felling, men may be killed in their
felling---"
There came a stir=
and
interruption, and then the man from prison heard Caterham's voice again,
ringing clear and strong: "Learn about Boomfood from Boomfood itself
and--" He paused--"Grasp your nettle before it is too late!"=
He stopped and st=
ood
wiping his lips. "A crystal," cried some one, "a crystal,&qu=
ot;
and then came that same strange swift growth to thunderous tumult, until the
whole world seemed cheering....
The man from pris=
on
came out of the hall at last, marvellously stirred, and with that in his fa=
ce
that marks those who have seen a vision. He knew, every one knew; his ideas
were no longer vague. He had come back to a world in crisis, to the immedia=
te
decision of a stupendous issue. He must play his part in the great conflict
like a man--like a free, responsible man. The antagonism presented itself a=
s a
picture. On the one hand those easy gigantic mail-clad figures of the
morning--one saw them now in a different light--on the other this little
black-clad gesticulating creature under the limelight, that pigmy thing with
its ordered flow of melodious persuasion, its little, marvellously penetrat=
ing
voice, John Caterham--"Jack the Giant-killer." They must all unit=
e to
"grasp the nettle" before it was "too late."
III.
The tallest and
strongest and most regarded of all the children of the Food were the three =
sons
of Cossar. The mile or so of land near Sevenoaks in which their boyhood pas=
sed
became so trenched, so dug out and twisted about, so covered with sheds and
huge working models and all the play of their developing powers, it was lik=
e no
other place on earth. And long since it had become too little for the things
they sought to do. The eldest son was a mighty schemer of wheeled engines; =
he had
made himself a sort of giant bicycle that no road in the world had room for=
, no
bridge could bear. There it stood, a great thing of wheels and engines, cap=
able
of two hundred and fifty miles an hour, useless save that now and then he w=
ould
mount it and fling himself backwards and forwards across that cumbered
work-yard. He had meant to go around the little world with it; he had made =
it
with that intention, while he was still no more than a dreaming boy. Now its
spokes were rusted deep red like wounds, wherever the enamel had been chipp=
ed
away.
"You must ma=
ke a
road for it first, Sonnie," Cossar had said, "before you can do
that."
So one morning ab=
out
dawn the young giant and his brothers had set to work to make a road about =
the
world. They seem to have had an inkling of opposition impending, and they h=
ad
worked with remarkable vigour. The world had discovered them soon enough,
driving that road as straight as a flight of a bullet towards the English
Channel, already some miles of it levelled and made and stamped hard. They =
had
been stopped before midday by a vast crowd of excited people, owners of lan=
d,
land agents, local authorities, lawyers, policemen, soldiers even.
"We're makin=
g a
road," the biggest boy had explained.
"Make a road=
by
all means," said the leading lawyer on the ground, "but please
respect the rights of other people. You have already infringed the private
rights of twenty-seven private proprietors; let alone the special privileges
and property of an urban district board, nine parish councils, a county
council, two gasworks, and a railway company...."
"Goodney!&qu=
ot;
said the elder boy Cossar.
"You will ha=
ve
to stop it."
"But don't y=
ou want
a nice straight road in the place of all these rotten rutty little lanes?&q=
uot;
"I won't say=
it
wouldn't be advantageous, but--"
"It isn't to=
be
done," said the eldest Cossar boy, picking up his tools.
"Not in this
way," said the lawyer, "certainly."
"How is it t=
o be
done?"
The leading lawye=
r's
answer had been complicated and vague.
Cossar had come d=
own
to see the mischief his children had done, and reproved them severely and
laughed enormously and seemed to be extremely happy over the affair. "=
You
boys must wait a bit," he shouted up to them, "before you can do
things like that."
"The lawyer =
told
us we must begin by preparing a scheme, and getting special powers and all
sorts of rot. Said it would take us years."
"We'll have a
scheme before long, little boy," cried Cossar, hands to his mouth as he
shouted, "never fear. For a bit you'd better play about and make model=
s of
the things you want to do."
They did as he to=
ld
them like obedient sons.
But for all that =
the
Cossar lads brooded a little.
"It's all ve=
ry
well," said the second to the first, "but I don't always want jus=
t to
play about and plan, I want to do something real, you know. We didn't come =
into
this world so strong as we are, just to play about in this messy little bit=
of
ground, you know, and take little walks and keep out of the towns"--fo=
r by
that time they were forbidden all boroughs and urban districts, "Doing
nothing's just wicked. Can't we find out something the little people want d=
one
and do it for them--just for the fun of doing it?
"Lots of them
haven't houses fit to live in," said the second boy, "Let's go and
build 'em a house close up to London, that will hold heaps and heaps of them
and be ever so comfortable and nice, and let's make 'em a nice little road =
to
where they all go and do business--nice straight little road, and make it a=
ll
as nice as nice. We'll make it all so clean and pretty that they won't any =
of
them be able to live grubby and beastly like most of them do now. Water eno=
ugh
for them to wash with, we'll have--you know they're so dirty now that nine =
out
of ten of their houses haven't even baths in them, the filthy little skunks!
You know, the ones that have baths spit insults at the ones that haven't, i=
nstead
of helping them to get them--and call 'em the Great Unwashed---You know. We=
'll
alter all that. And we'll make electricity light and cook and clean up for
them, and all. Fancy! They make their women--women who are going to be
mothers--crawl about and scrub floors!
"We could ma=
ke
it all beautifully. We could bank up a valley in that range of hills over t=
here
and make a nice reservoir, and we could make a big place here to generate o=
ur
electricity and have it all simply lovely. Couldn't we, brother? And then
perhaps they'd let us do some other things."
"Yes," =
said
the elder brother, "we could do it very nice for them."
"Then
let's," said the second brother.
"I don't
mind," said the elder brother, and looked about for a handy tool.
And that led to
another dreadful bother.
Agitated multitud=
es
were at them in no time, telling them for a thousand reasons to stop, telli=
ng
them to stop for no reason at all--babbling, confused, and varied multitude=
s.
The place they were building was too high--it couldn't possibly be safe. It=
was
ugly; it interfered with the letting of proper-sized houses in the
neighbourhood; it ruined the tone of the neighbourhood; it was unneighbourl=
y;
it was contrary to the Local Building Regulations; it infringed the right of
the local authority to muddle about with a minute expensive electric supply=
of
its own; it interfered with the concerns of the local water company.
Local Government
Board clerks roused themselves to judicial obstruction. The little lawyer
turned up again to represent about a dozen threatened interests; local
landowners appeared in opposition; people with mysterious claims claimed to=
be
bought off at exorbitant rates; the Trades Unions of all the building trades
lifted up collective voices; and a ring of dealers in all sorts of building
material became a bar. Extraordinary associations of people with prophetic
visions of aesthetic horrors rallied to protect the scenery of the place wh=
ere
they would build the great house, of the valley where they would bank up the
water. These last people were absolutely the worst asses of the lot, the Co=
ssar
boys considered. That beautiful house of the Cossar boys was just like a wa=
lking-stick
thrust into a wasps' nest, in no time.
"I never
did!" said the elder boy.
"We can't go
on," said the second brother.
"Rotten litt=
le
beasts they are," said the third of the brothers; "we can't do
anything!"
"Even when i=
t's
for their own comfort. Such a nice place we'd have made for them too."=
"They seem to
spend their silly little lives getting in each other's way," said the
eldest boy, "Rights and laws and regulations and rascalities; it's lik=
e a
game of spellicans.... Well, anyhow, they'll have to live in their grubby,
dirty, silly little houses for a bit longer. It's very evident we can't go =
on
with this."
And the Cossar
children left that great house unfinished, a mere hole of foundations and t=
he
beginning of a wall, and sulked back to their big enclosure. After a time t=
he
hole was filled with water and with stagnation and weeds, and vermin, and t=
he
Food, either dropped there by the sons of Cossar or blowing thither as dust,
set growth going in its usual fashion. Water voles came out over the country
and did infinite havoc, and one day a farmer caught his pigs drinking there,
and instantly and with great presence of mind--for he knew: of the great ho=
g of
Oakham--slew them all. And from that deep pool it was the mosquitoes came,
quite terrible mosquitoes, whose only virtue was that the sons of Cossar, a=
fter
being bitten for a little, could stand the thing no longer, but chose a
moonlight night when law and order were abed and drained the water clean aw=
ay
into the river by Brook.
But they left the=
big
weeds and the big water voles and all sorts of big undesirable things still
living and breeding on the site they had chosen--the site on which the fair
great house of the little people might have towered to heaven ...
IV.
That had been in =
the
boyhood of the Sons, but now they were nearly men, And the chains had been
tightening upon them and tightening with every year of growth. Each year th=
ey
grew, and the Food spread and great things multiplied, each year the stress=
and
tension rose. The Food had been at first for the great mass of mankind a
distant marvel, and now It was coming home to every threshold, and threaten=
ing,
pressing against and distorting the whole order of life. It blocked this, it
overturned that; it changed natural products, and by changing natural produ=
cts
it stopped employments and threw men out of work by the hundred thousands; =
it
swept over boundaries and turned the world of trade into a world of catacly=
sms:
no wonder mankind hated it.
And since it is
easier to hate animate than inanimate things, animals more than plants, and
one's fellow-men more completely than any animals, the fear and trouble
engendered by giant nettles and six-foot grass blades, awful insects and
tiger-like vermin, grew all into one great power of detestation that aimed
itself with a simple directness at that scattered band of great human being=
s,
the Children of the Food. That hatred had become the central force in polit=
ical
affairs. The old party lines had been traversed and effaced altogether under
the insistence of these newer issues, and the conflict lay now with the par=
ty
of the temporisers, who were for putting little political men to control an=
d regulate
the Food, and the party of reaction for whom Caterharn spoke, speaking alwa=
ys
with a more sinister ambiguity, crystallising his intention first in one
threatening phrase and then another, now that men must "prune the bram=
ble
growths," now that they must find a "cure for elephantiasis,"
and at last upon the eve of the election that they must "Grasp the
nettle."
One day the three
sons of Cossar, who were now no longer boys but men, sat among the masses of
their futile work and talked together after their fashion of all these thin=
gs.
They had been working all day at one of a series of great and complicated
trenches their father had bid them make, and now it was sunset, and they sa=
t in
the little garden space before the great house and looked at the world and
rested, until the little servants within should say their food was ready.
You must figure t=
hese
mighty forms, forty feet high the least of them was, reclining on a patch of
turf that would have seemed a stubble of reeds to a common man. One sat up =
and
chipped earth from his huge boots with an iron girder he grasped in his han=
d;
the second rested on his elbow; the third whittled a pine tree into shape a=
nd
made a smell of resin in the air. They were clothed not in cloth but in
under-garments of woven rope and outer clothes of felted aluminium wire; th=
ey
were shod with timber and iron, and the links and buttons and belts of thei=
r clothing
were all of plated steel. The great single-storeyed house they lived in,
Egyptian in its massiveness, half built of monstrous blocks of chalk and ha=
lf
excavated from the living rock of the hill, had a front a full hundred feet=
in
height, and beyond, the chimneys and wheels, the cranes and covers of their
work sheds rose marvellously against the sky. Through a circular window in =
the
house there was visible a spout from which some white-hot metal dripped and
dripped in measured drops into a receptacle out of sight. The place was
enclosed and rudely fortified by monstrous banks of earth, backed with steel
both over the crests of the Downs above and across the dip of the valley. It
needed something of common size to mark the nature of the scale. The train =
that
came rattling from Sevenoaks athwart their vision, and presently plunged in=
to the
tunnel out of their sight, looked by contrast with them like some small-siz=
ed
automatic toy.
"They have m=
ade
all the woods this side of Ightham out of bounds," said one, "and
moved the board that was out by Knockholt two miles and more this way."=
;
"It is the l=
east
they could do," said the youngest, after a pause. "They are tryin=
g to
take the wind out of Caterham's sails."
"It's not en=
ough
for that, and--it is almost too much for us," said the third.
"They are
cutting us off from Brother Redwood. Last time I went to him the red notices
had crept a mile in, either way. The road to him along the Downs is no more
than a narrow lane."
The speaker thoug=
ht.
"What has come to our brother Redwood?"
"Why?" =
said
the eldest brother.
The speaker hacke= d a bough from his pine. "He was like--as though he wasn't awake. He didn't seem to listen to what I had to say. And he said something of--love."<= o:p>
The youngest tapp=
ed
his girder on the edge of his iron sole and laughed. "Brother
Redwood," he said, "has dreams."
Neither spoke for=
a
space. Then the eldest brother said, "This cooping up and cooping up g=
rows
more than I can bear. At last, I believe, they will draw a line round our b=
oots
and tell us to live on that."
The middle brother
swept aside a heap of pine boughs with one hand and shifted his attitude.
"What they do now is nothing to what they will do when Caterham has
power."
"If he gets
power," said the youngest brother, smiting the ground with his girder.=
"As he
will," said the eldest, staring at his feet.
The middle brother
ceased his lopping, and his eye went to the great banks that sheltered them
about. "Then, brothers," he said, "our youth will be over, a=
nd,
as Father Redwood said to us long ago, we must quit ourselves like men.&quo=
t;
"Yes," =
said
the eldest brother; "but what exactly does that mean? Just what does it
mean--when that day of trouble comes?"
He too glanced at
those rude vast suggestions of entrenchment about them, looking not so much=
at
them as through them and over the hills to the innumerable multitudes beyon=
d.
Something of the same sort came into all their minds--a vision of little pe=
ople
coming out to war, in a flood, the little people, inexhaustible, incessant,
malignant....
"They are
little," said the youngest brother; "but they have numbers beyond
counting, like the sands of the sea."
"They have
arms--they have weapons even, that our brothers in Sunderland have made.&qu=
ot;
"Besides,
Brothers, except for vermin, except for little accidents with evil things, =
what
have we seen of killing?"
"I know,&quo=
t;
said the eldest brother. "For all that--we are what we are. When the d=
ay
of trouble comes we must do the thing we have to do."
He closed his kni=
fe
with a snap--the blade was the length of a man--and used his new pine staff=
to
help himself rise. He stood up and turned towards the squat grey immensity =
of
the house. The crimson of the sunset caught him as he rose, caught the mail=
and
clasps about his neck and the woven metal of his arms, and to the eyes of h=
is
brother it seemed as though he was suddenly suffused with blood ...
As the young giant
rose a little black figure became visible to him against that western
incandescence on the top of the embankment that towered above the summit of=
the
down. The black limbs waved in ungainly gestures. Something in the fling of=
the
limbs suggested haste to the young giant's mind. He waved his pine mast in
reply, filled the whole valley with his vast Hullo! threw a "Something=
's
up" to his brothers, and set off in twenty-foot strides to meet and he=
lp
his father.
V.
It chanced too th=
at a
young man who was not a giant was delivering his soul about these sons of
Cossar just at that same time. He had come over the hills beyond Sevenoaks,=
he
and his friend, and he it was did the talking. In the hedge as they came al=
ong
they had heard a pitiful squealing, and had intervened to rescue three nest=
ling
tits from the attack of a couple of giant ants. That adventure it was had s=
et
him talking.
"Reactionary=
!"
he was saying, as they came within sight of the Cossar encampment. "Who
wouldn't be reactionary? Look at that square of ground, that space of God's
earth that was once sweet and fair, torn, desecrated, disembowelled! Those
sheds! That great wind-wheel! That monstrous wheeled machine! Those dykes! =
Look
at those three monsters squatting there, plotting some ugly devilment or ot=
her!
Look--look at all the land!"
His friend glance=
d at
his face. "You have been listening to Caterham," he said.
"Using my ey=
es.
Looking a little into the peace and order of the past we leave behind. This
foul Food is the last shape of the Devil, still set as ever upon the ruin of
our world. Think what the world must have been before our days, what it was
still when our mothers bore us, and see it now! Think how these slopes once
smiled under the golden harvest, how the hedges, full of sweet little flowe=
rs,
parted the modest portion of this man from that, how the ruddy farmhouses
dotted the land, and the voice of the church bells from yonder tower stilled
the whole world each Sabbath into Sabbath prayer. And now, every year, still
more and more of monstrous weeds, of monstrous vermin, and these giants gro=
wing
all about us, straddling over us, blundering against all that is subtle and
sacred in our world. Why here--Look!"
He pointed, and h=
is
friend's eyes followed the line of his white finger.
"One of their
footmarks. See! It has smashed itself three feet deep and more, a pitfall f=
or
horse and rider, a trap to the unwary. There is a briar rose smashed to dea=
th;
there is grass uprooted and a teazle crushed aside, a farmer's drain pipe
snapped and the edge of the pathway broken down. Destruction! So they are d=
oing
all over the world, all over the order and decency the world of men has mad=
e.
Trampling on all things. Reaction! What else?"
"But--reacti=
on.
What do you hope to do?"
"Stop it!&qu=
ot;
cried the young man from Oxford. "Before it is too late."
"But---"=
;
"It's not
impossible," cried the young man from Oxford, with a jump in his voice.
"We want the firm hand; we want the subtle plan, the resolute mind. We
have been mealy-mouthed and weak-handed; we have trifled and temporised and=
the
Food has grown and grown. Yet even now--"
He stopped for a
moment. "This is the echo of Caterham," said his friend.
"Even now. E=
ven
now there is hope--abundant hope, if only we make sure of what we want and =
what
we mean to destroy. The mass of people are with us, much more with us than =
they
were a few years ago; the law is with us, the constitution and order of
society, the spirit of the established religions, the customs and habits of
mankind are with us--and against the Food. Why should we temporise? Why sho=
uld
we lie? We hate it, we don't want it; why then should we have it? Do you me=
an
to just grizzle and obstruct passively and do nothing--till the sands are
out?"
He stopped short =
and
turned about. "Look at that grove of nettles there. In the midst of th=
em
are homes--deserted--where once clean families of simple men played out the=
ir
honest lives!
"And
there!" he swung round to where the young Cossars muttered to one anot=
her
of their wrongs.
"Look at the=
m!
And I know their father, a brute, a sort of brute beast with an intolerant =
loud
voice, a creature who has ran amuck in our all too merciful world for the l=
ast
thirty years and more. An engineer! To him all that we hold dear and sacred=
is
nothing. Nothing! The splendid traditions of our race and land, the noble
institutions, the venerable order, the broad slow march from precedent to
precedent that has made our English people great and this sunny island free=
--it
is all an idle tale, told and done with. Some claptrap about the Future is
worth all these sacred things.... The sort of man who would run a tramway o=
ver
his mother's grave if he thought that was the cheapest line the tramway cou=
ld
take.... And you think to temporise, to make some scheme of compromise, that
will enable you to live in your way while that--that machinery--lives in it=
s. I
tell you it is hopeless--hopeless. As well make treaties with a tiger! They
want things monstrous--we want them sane and sweet. It is one thing or the
other."
"But what can
you do?"
"Much! All! =
Stop
the Food! They are still scattered, these giants; still immature and disuni=
ted.
Chain them, gag them, muzzle them. At any cost stop them. It is their world=
or
ours! Stop the Food. Shut up these men who make it. Do anything to stop Cos=
sar!
You don't seem to remember--one generation--only one generation needs holdi=
ng
down, and then--Then we could level those mounds there, fill up their
footsteps, take the ugly sirens from our church towers, smash all our eleph=
ant
guns, and turn our faces again to the old order, the ripe old civilisation =
for
which the soul of man is fitted."
"It's a migh=
ty
effort."
"For a mighty
end. And if we don't? Don't you see the prospect before us clear as day?
Everywhere the giants will increase and multiply; everywhere they will make=
and
scatter the Food. The grass will grow gigantic in our fields, the weeds in =
our
hedges, the vermin in the thickets, the rats in the drains. More and more a=
nd
more. This is only a beginning. The insect world will rise on us, the plant
world, the very fishes in the sea, will swamp and drown our ships. Tremendo=
us
growths will obscure and hide our houses, smother our churches, smash and d=
estroy
all the order of our cities, and we shall become no more than a feeble verm=
in
under the heels of the new race. Mankind will be swamped and drowned in thi=
ngs
of its own begetting! And all for nothing! Size! Mere size! Enlargement and=
da
capo. Already we go picking our way among the first beginnings of the coming
time. And all we do is to say 'How inconvenient!' To grumble and do nothing.
No!"
He raised his han=
d.
"Let them do=
the
thing they have to do! So also will I. I am for Reaction--unstinted and
fearless Reaction. Unless you mean to take this Food also, what else is the=
re
to do in all the world? We have trifled in the middle ways too long. You!
Trifling in the middle ways is your habit, your circle of existence, your s=
pace
and time. So, not I! I am against the Food, with all my strength and purpose
against the Food."
He turned on his
companion's grunt of dissent. "Where are you?"
"It's a
complicated business---"
"Oh!--Driftw=
ood!"
said the young man from Oxford, very bitterly, with a fling of all his limb=
s.
"The middle way is nothingness. It is one thing or the other. Eat or
destroy. Eat or destroy! What else is there to do?"
CHAPTER THE SECOND - THE
GIANT LOVERS.
I.
Now it chanced in=
the
days when Caterham was campaigning against the Boom-children before the Gen=
eral
Election that was--amidst the most tragic and terrible circumstances--to br=
ing
him into power, that the giant Princess, that Serene Highness whose early
nutrition had played so great a part in the brilliant career of Doctor Wink=
les,
had come from the kingdom of her father to England, on an occasion that was
deemed important. She was affianced for reasons of state to a certain Princ=
e--and
the wedding was to be made an event of international significance. There had
arisen mysterious delays. Rumour and Imagination collaborated in the story =
and
many things were said. There were suggestions of a recalcitrant Prince who
declared he would not be made to look like a fool--at least to this extent.
People sympathised with him. That is the most significant aspect of the aff=
air.
Now it may seem a
strange thing, but it is a fact that the giant Princess, when she came to
England, knew of no other giants whatever. She had lived in a world where t=
act
is almost a passion and reservations the air of one's life. They had kept t=
he
thing from her; they had hedged her about from sight or suspicion of any gi=
gantic
form, until her appointed coming to England was due. Until she met young
Redwood she had no inkling that there was such a thing as another giant in =
the
world.
In the kingdom of=
the
father of the Princess there were wild wastes of upland and mountains where=
she
had been accustomed to roam freely. She loved the sunrise and the sunset and
all the great drama of the open heavens more than anything else in the worl=
d,
but among a people at once so democratic and so vehemently loyal as the Eng=
lish
her freedom was much restricted. People came in brakes, in excursion trains=
, in
organised multitudes to see her; they would cycle long distances to stare at
her, and it was necessary to rise betimes if she would walk in peace. It was
still near the dawn that morning when young Redwood came upon her.
The Great Park ne=
ar
the Palace where she lodged stretched, for a score of miles and more, west =
and
south of the western palace gates. The chestnut trees of its avenues reached
high above her head. Each one as she passed it seemed to proffer a more
abundant wealth of blossom. For a time she was content with sight and scent,
but at last she was won over by these offers, and set herself so busily to
choose and pick that she did not perceive young Redwood until he was close =
upon
her.
She moved among t=
he
chestnut trees, with the destined lover drawing near to her, unanticipated,
unsuspected. She thrust her hands in among the branches, breaking them and
gathering them. She was alone in the world. Then---
She looked up, an=
d in
that moment she was mated.
We must needs put=
our
imaginations to his stature to see the beauty he saw. That unapproachable
greatness that prevents our immediate sympathy with her did not exist for h=
im.
There she stood, a gracious girl, the first created being that had ever see=
med
a mate for him, light and slender, lightly clad, the fresh breeze of the da=
wn
moulding the subtly folding robe upon her against the soft strong lines of =
her
form, and with a great mass of blossoming chestnut branches in her hands. T=
he collar
of her robe opened to show the whiteness of her neck and a soft shadowed
roundness that passed out of sight towards her shoulders. The breeze had st=
olen
a strand or so of her hair too, and strained its red-tipped brown across her
cheek. Her eyes were open blue, and her lips rested always in the promise o=
f a
smile as she reached among the branches.
She turned upon h=
im
with a start, saw him, and for a space they regarded one another. For her, =
the
sight of him was so amazing, so incredible, as to be, for some moments at
least, terrible. He came to her with the shock of a supernatural apparition=
; he
broke all the established law of her world. He was a youth of one-and-twenty
then, slenderly built, with his father's darkness and his father's gravity.=
He
was clad in a sober soft brown leather, close-fitting easy garments, and in
brown hose, that shaped him bravely. His head went uncovered in all weather=
s.
They stood regarding one another--she incredulously amazed, and he with his
heart beating fast. It was a moment without a prelude, the cardinal meeting=
of their
lives.
For him there was
less surprise. He had been seeking her, and yet his heart beat fast. He came
towards her, slowly, with his eyes upon her face.
"You are the
Princess," he said. "My father has told me. You are the Princess =
who
was given the Food of the Gods."
"I am the
Princess--yes," she said, with eyes of wonder. "But--what are you=
?"
"I am the so=
n of
the man who made the Food of the Gods."
"The Food of=
the
Gods!"
"Yes, the Fo=
od
of the Gods."
"But--"=
Her face expressed
infinite perplexity.
"What? I don=
't
understand. The Food of the Gods?"
"You have not
heard?"
"The Food of=
the
Gods! No!"
She found herself
trembling violently. The colour left her face. "I did not know," =
she
said. "Do you mean--?"
He waited for her=
.
"Do you mean
there are other--giants?"
He repeated,
"Did you not know?"
And she answered,
with the growing amazement of realisation, "No!"
The whole world a=
nd
all the meaning of the world was changing for her. A branch of chestnut sli=
pped
from her hand. "Do you mean to say," she repeated stupidly,
"that there are other giants in the world? That some food--?"
He caught her
amazement.
"You know
nothing?" he cried. "You have never heard of us? You, whom the Fo=
od
has made akin to us!"
There was terror
still in the eyes that stared at him. Her hand rose towards her throat and =
fell
again. She whispered, "No."
It seemed to her =
that
she must weep or faint. Then in a moment she had rule over herself and she =
was
speaking and thinking clearly. "All this has been kept from me," =
she
said. "It is like a dream. I have dreamt--have dreamt such things. But
waking--No. Tell me! Tell me! What are you? What is this Food of the Gods? =
Tell
me slowly--and clearly. Why have they kept it from me, that I am not
alone?"
II.
"Tell me,&qu=
ot;
she said, and young Redwood, tremulous and excited, set himself to tell her=
--it
was poor and broken telling for a time--of the Food of the Gods and the gia=
nt
children who were scattered over the world.
You must figure t=
hem
both, flushed and startled in their bearing; getting at one another's meani=
ng
through endless half-heard, half-spoken phrases, repeating, making perplexi=
ng
breaks and new departures--a wonderful talk, in which she awakened from the
ignorance of all her life. And very slowly it became clear to her that she =
was
no exception to the order of mankind, but one of a scattered brotherhood, w=
ho
had all eaten the Food and grown for ever out of the little limits of the f=
olk beneath
their feet. Young Redwood spoke of his father, of Cossar, of the Brothers
scattered throughout the country, of the great dawn of wider meaning that h=
ad
come at last into the history of the world. "We are in the beginning o=
f a
beginning," he said; "this world of theirs is only the prelude to=
the
world the Food will make.
"My father
believes--and I also believe--that a time will come when littleness will ha=
ve
passed altogether out of the world of man,--when giants shall go freely abo=
ut
this earth--their earth--doing continually greater and more splendid things.
But that--that is to come. We are not even the first generation of that--we=
are
the first experiments."
"And of these
things," she said, "I knew nothing!"
"There are t=
imes
when it seems to me almost as if we had come too soon. Some one, I suppose,=
had
to come first. But the world was all unprepared for our coming and for the
coming of all the lesser great things that drew their greatness from the Fo=
od.
There have been blunders; there have been conflicts. The little people hate=
our
kind....
"They are ha=
rd
towards us because they are so little.... And because our feet are heavy on=
the
things that make their lives. But at any rate they hate us now; they will h=
ave
none of us--only if we could shrink back to the common size of them would t=
hey
begin to forgive....
"They are ha= ppy in houses that are prison cells to us; their cities are too small for us; w= e go in misery along their narrow ways; we cannot worship in their churches....<= o:p>
"We see over
their walls and over their protections; we look inadvertently into their up=
per
windows; we look over their customs; their laws are no more than a net about
our feet....
"Every time =
we
stumble we hear them shouting; every time we blunder against their limits or
stretch out to any spacious act....
"Our easy pa=
ces
are wild flights to them, and all they deem great and wonderful no more than
dolls' pyramids to us. Their pettiness of method and appliance and imaginat=
ion
hampers and defeats our powers. There are no machines to the power of our
hands, no helps to fit our needs. They hold our greatness in servitude by a
thousand invisible bands. We are stronger, man for man, a hundred times, bu=
t we
are disarmed; our very greatness makes us debtors; they claim the land we s=
tand
upon; they tax our ampler need of food and shelter, and for all these thing=
s we
must toil with the tools these dwarfs can make us--and to satisfy their dwa=
rfish
fancies ...
"They pen us= in, in every way. Even to live one must cross their boundaries. Even to meet you here to-day I have passed a limit. All that is reasonable and desirable in = life they make out of bounds for us. We may not go into the towns; we may not cr= oss the bridges; we may not step on their ploughed fields or into the harbours = of the game they kill. I am cut off now from all our Brethren except the three sons of Cossar, and even that way the passage narrows day by day. One could think they sought occasion against us to do some more evil thing ..."<= o:p>
"But we are
strong," she said.
"We should be
strong--yes. We feel, all of us--you too I know must feel--that we have pow=
er,
power to do great things, power insurgent in us. But before we can do
anything--"
He flung out a ha=
nd
that seemed to sweep away a world.
"Though I
thought I was alone in the world," she said, after a pause, "I ha=
ve
thought of these things. They have taught me always that strength was almos=
t a
sin, that it was better to be little than great, that all true religion was=
to
shelter the weak and little, encourage the weak and little, help them to
multiply and multiply until at last they crawled over one another, to sacri=
fice
all our strength in their cause. But ... always I have doubted the thing th=
ey
taught."
"This
life," he said, "these bodies of ours, are not for dying."
"No."
"Nor to live=
in
futility. But if we would not do that, it is already plain to all our Breth=
ren
a conflict must come. I know not what bitterness of conflict must presently
come, before the little folks will suffer us to live as we need to live. All
the Brethren have thought of that. Cossar, of whom I told you: he too has
thought of that."
"They are ve=
ry
little and weak."
"In their wa=
y.
But you know all the means of death are in their hands, and made for their
hands. For hundreds of thousands of years these little people, whose world =
we
invade, have been learning how to kill one another. They are very able at t=
hat.
They are able in many ways. And besides, they can deceive and change
suddenly.... I do not know.... There comes a conflict. You--you perhaps are
different from us. For us, assuredly, the conflict comes.... The thing they
call War. We know it. In a way we prepare for it. But you know--those little
people!--we do not know how to kill, at least we do not want to kill--"=
;
"Look,"=
she
interrupted, and he heard a yelping horn.
He turned at the
direction of her eyes, and found a bright yellow motor car, with dark goggl=
ed
driver and fur-clad passengers, whooping, throbbing, and buzzing resentfull=
y at
his heel. He moved his foot, and the mechanism, with three angry snorts,
resumed its fussy way towards the town. "Filling up the roadway!"
floated up to him.
Then some one sai=
d,
"Look! Did you see? There is the monster Princess over beyond the
trees!" and all their goggled faces came round to stare.
"I say,"
said another. "That won't do ..."
"All this,&q=
uot;
she said, "is more amazing than I can tell."
"That they should not have told you," he said, and left his sentence incomplete.<= o:p>
"Until you c=
ame
upon me, I had lived in a world where I was great--alone. I had made myself=
a
life--for that. I had thought I was the victim of some strange freak of nat=
ure.
And now my world has crumbled down, in half an hour, and I see another worl=
d,
other conditions, wider possibilities--fellowship--"
"Fellowship,=
"
he answered.
"I want you =
to
tell me more yet, and much more," she said. "You know this passes
through my mind like a tale that is told. You even ... In a day perhaps, or
after several days, I shall believe in you. Now--Now I am dreaming....
Listen!"
The first stroke =
of a
clock above the palace offices far away had penetrated to them. Each counted
mechanically "Seven."
"This,"=
she
said, "should be the hour of my return. They will be taking the bowl o=
f my
coffee into the hall where I sleep. The little officials and servants--you =
cannot
dream how grave they are--will be stirring about their little duties."=
"They will
wonder ... But I want to talk to you."
She thought.
"But I want to think too. I want now to think alone, and think out this
change in things, think away the old solitude, and think you and those othe=
rs
into my world.... I shall go. I shall go back to-day to my place in the cas=
tle,
and to-morrow, as the dawn comes, I shall come again--here."
"I shall be =
here
waiting for you."
"All day I s=
hall
dream and dream of this new world you have given me. Even now, I can scarce=
ly
believe--"
She took a step b=
ack
and surveyed him from the feet to the face. Their eyes met and locked for a
moment.
"Yes," =
she
said, with a little laugh that was half a sob. "You are real. But it is
very wonderful! Do you think--indeed--? Suppose to-morrow I come and find
you--a pigmy like the others... Yes, I must think. And so for to-day--as the
little people do--"
She held out her
hand, and for the first time they touched one another. Their hands clasped
firmly and their eyes met again.
"Good-bye,&q=
uot;
she said, "for to-day. Good-bye! Good-bye, Brother Giant!"
He hesitated with
some unspoken thing, and at last he answered her simply, "Good-bye.&qu=
ot;
For a space they =
held
each other's hands, studying each the other's face. And many times after th=
ey
had parted, she looked back half doubtfully at him, standing still in the p=
lace
where they had met....
She walked into h=
er
apartments across the great yard of the Palace like one who walks in a drea=
m,
with a vast branch of chestnut trailing from her hand.
III.
These two met
altogether fourteen times before the beginning of the end. They met in the
Great Park or on the heights and among the gorges of the rusty-roaded, heat=
hery
moorland, set with dusky pine-woods, that stretched to the south-west. Twice
they met in the great avenue of chestnuts, and five times near the broad
ornamental water the king, her great-grandfather, had made. There was a pla=
ce
where a great trim lawn, set with tall conifers, sloped graciously to the
water's edge, and there she would sit, and he would lie at her knees and lo=
ok
up in her face and talk, telling of all the things that had been, and of the
work his father had set before him, and of the great and spacious dream of =
what
the giant people should one day be. Commonly they met in the early dawn, but
once they met there in the afternoon, and found presently a multitude of
peering eavesdroppers about them, cyclists, pedestrians, peeping from the
bushes, rustling (as sparrows will rustle about one in the London parks) am=
idst
the dead leaves in the woods behind, gliding down the lake in boats towards=
a
point of view, trying to get nearer to them and hear.
It was the first =
hint
that offered of the enormous interest the countryside was taking in their
meetings. And once--it was the seventh time, and it precipitated the
scandal--they met out upon the breezy moorland under a clear moonlight, and
talked in whispers there, for the night was warm and still.
Very soon they had
passed from the realisation that in them and through them a new world of
giantry shaped itself in the earth, from the contemplation of the great
struggle between big and little, in which they were clearly destined to
participate, to interests at once more personal and more spacious. Each time
they met and talked and looked on one another, it crept a little more out of
their subconscious being towards recognition, that something more dear and
wonderful than friendship was between them, and walked between them and drew
their hands together. And in a little while they came to the word itself an=
d found
themselves lovers, the Adam and Eve of a new race in the world.
They set foot sid=
e by
side into the wonderful valley of love, with its deep and quiet places. The
world changed about them with their changing mood, until presently it had
become, as it were, a tabernacular beauty about their meetings, and the sta=
rs
were no more than flowers of light beneath the feet of their love, and the =
dawn
and sunset the coloured hangings by the way. They ceased to be beings of fl=
esh
and blood to one another and themselves; they passed into a bodily texture =
of
tenderness and desire. They gave it first whispers and then silence, and dr=
ew
close and looked into one another's moonlit and shadowy faces under the inf=
inite
arch of the sky. And the still black pine-trees stood about them like
sentinels.
The beating steps=
of
time were hushed into silence, and it seemed to them the universe hung stil=
l.
Only their hearts were audible, beating. They seemed to be living together =
in a
world where there is no death, and indeed so it was with them then. It seem=
ed
to them that they sounded, and indeed they sounded, such hidden splendours =
in
the very heart of things as none have ever reached before. Even for mean an=
d little
souls, love is the revelation of splendours. And these were giant lovers who
had eaten the Food of the Gods ...
*
You may imagine t=
he
spreading consternation in this ordered world when it became known that the
Princess who was affianced to the Prince, the Princess, Her Serene Highness!
with royal blood in her veins! met,--frequently met,--the hypertrophied
offspring of a common professor of chemistry, a creature of no rank, no
position, no wealth, and talked to him as though there were no Kings and
Princes, no order, no reverence--nothing but Giants and Pigmies in the worl=
d,
talked to him and, it was only too certain, held him as her lover.
"If those
newspaper fellows get hold of it!" gasped Sir Arthur Poodle Bootlick .=
..
"I am
told--" whispered the old Bishop of Frumps.
"New story
upstairs," said the first footman, as he nibbled among the dessert thi=
ngs.
"So far as I can make out this here giant Princess--"
"They
say--" said the lady who kept the stationer's shop by the main entranc=
e to
the Palace, where the little Americans get their tickets for the State
Apartments ...
And then:
"We are
authorised to deny--" said "Picaroon" in Gossip.
And so the whole
trouble came out.
IV.
"They say th=
at
we must part," the Princess said to her lover.
"But why?&qu=
ot;
he cried. "What new folly have these people got into their heads?"=
;
"Do you
know," she asked, "that to love me--is high treason?"
"My dear,&qu=
ot;
he cried; "but does it matter? What is their right--right without a sh=
adow
of reason--and their treason and their loyalty to us?"
"You shall
hear," she said, and told him of the things that had been told to her.=
"It was the
queerest little man who came to me with a soft, beautifully modulated voice=
, a
softly moving little gentleman who sidled into the room like a cat and put =
his
pretty white hand up so, whenever he had anything significant to say. He is
bald, but not of course nakedly bald, and his nose and face are chubby rosy
little things, and his beard is trimmed to a point in quite the loveliest w=
ay.
He pretended to have emotions several times and made his eyes shine. You kn=
ow
he is quite a friend of the real royal family here, and he called me his de=
ar
young lady and was perfectly sympathetic even from the beginning. 'My dear =
young
lady,' he said, 'you know--you mustn't,' several times, and then, 'You owe a
duty.'"
"Where do th=
ey
make such men?"
"He likes
it," she said.
"But I don't
see--"
"He told me
serious things."
"You don't
think," he said, turning on her abruptly, "that there's anything =
in
the sort of thing he said?"
"There's
something in it quite certainly," said she.
"You
mean--?"
"I mean that
without knowing it we have been trampling on the most sacred conceptions of=
the
little folks. We who are royal are a class apart. We are worshipped prisone=
rs,
processional toys. We pay for worship by losing--our elementary freedom. An=
d I
was to have married that Prince--You know nothing of him though. Well, a pi=
gmy
Prince. He doesn't matter.... It seems it would have strengthened the bonds
between my country and another. And this country also was to profit. Imagin=
e it!--strengthening
the bonds!"
"And now?&qu=
ot;
"They want m=
e to
go on with it--as though there was nothing between us two."
"Nothing!&qu=
ot;
"Yes. But th=
at
isn't all. He said--"
"Your specia=
list
in Tact?"
"Yes. He sai=
d it
would be better for you, better for all the giants, if we two--abstained fr=
om
conversation. That was how he put it."
"But what can
they do if we don't?"
"He said you
might have your freedom."
"I!"
"He said, wi=
th a
stress, 'My dear young lady, it would be better, it would be more dignified=
, if
you parted, willingly.' That was all he said. With a stress on willingly.&q=
uot;
"But--! What
business is it of these little wretches, where we love, how we love? What h=
ave
they and their world to do with us?"
"They do not
think that."
"Of
course," he said, "you disregard all this."
"It seems
utterly foolish to me."
"That their =
laws
should fetter us! That we, at the first spring of life, should be tripped by
their old engagements, their aimless institutions! Oh--! We disregard it.&q=
uot;
"I am yours.=
So
far--yes."
"So far? Isn=
't
that all?"
"But they--If
they want to part us--"
"What can th=
ey
do?"
"I don't kno=
w.
What can they do?"
"Who cares w=
hat
they can do, or what they will do? I am yours and you are mine. What is the=
re
more than that? I am yours and you are mine--for ever. Do you think I will =
stop
for their little rules, for their little prohibitions, their scarlet boards
indeed!--and keep from you?"
"Yes. But st=
ill,
what can they do?"
"You mean,&q=
uot;
he said, "what are we to do?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"We? We can =
go
on."
"But if they
seek to prevent us?"
He clenched his
hands. He looked round as if the little people were already coming to preve=
nt
them. Then turned away from her and looked about the world. "Yes,"=
; he
said. "Your question was the right one. What can they do?"
"Here in this
little land," she said, and stopped. He seemed to survey it all.
"They are everywhere."
"But we
might--"
"Whither?&qu=
ot;
"We could go=
. We
could swim the seas together. Beyond the seas--"
"I have never
been beyond the seas."
"There are g=
reat
and desolate mountains amidst which we should seem no more than little peop=
le,
there are remote and deserted valleys, there are hidden lakes and snow-gird=
led
uplands untrodden by the feet of men. There--"
"But to get
there we must fight our way day after day through millions and millions of
mankind."
"It is our o=
nly
hope. In this crowded land there is no fastness, no shelter. What place is
there for us among these multitudes? They who are little can hide from one
another, but where are we to hide? There is no place where we could eat, no
place where we could sleep. If we fled--night and day they would pursue our
footsteps."
A thought came to
him.
"There is one
place," he said, "even in this island."
"Where?"=
;
"The place o=
ur
Brothers have made over beyond there. They have made great banks about their
house, north and south and east and west; they have made deep pits and hidd=
en
places, and even now--one came over to me quite recently. He said--I did not
altogether heed what he said then. But he spoke of arms. It may be--there--=
we
should find shelter....
"For many
days," he said, after a pause, "I have not seen our Brothers... D=
ear!
I have been dreaming, I have been forgetting! The days have passed, and I h=
ave
done nothing but look to see you again ... I must go to them and talk to th=
em,
and tell them of you and of all the things that hang over us. If they will =
help
us, they can help us. Then indeed we might hope. I do not know how strong t=
heir
place is, but certainly Cossar will have made it strong. Before all
this--before you came to me, I remember now--there was trouble brewing. The=
re
was an election--when all the little people settle things, by counting head=
s. It
must be over now. There were threats against all our race--against all our
race, that is, but you. I must see our Brothers. I must tell them all that =
has
happened between us, and all that threatens now."
V.
He did not come to
their next meeting until she had waited some time. They were to meet that d=
ay
about midday in a great space of park that fitted into a bend of the river,=
and
as she waited, looking ever southward under her hand, it came to her that t=
he
world was very still, that indeed it was broodingly still. And then she
perceived that, spite of the lateness of the hour, her customary retinue of
voluntary spies had failed her. Left and right, when she came to look, there
was no one in sight, and there was never a boat upon the silver curve of th=
e Thames.
She tried to find a reason for this strange stillness in the world....
Then, a grateful
sight for her, she saw young Redwood far away over a gap in the tree masses
that bounded her view.
Immediately the t=
rees
hid him, and presently he was thrusting through them and in sight again. She
could see there was something different, and then she saw that he was hurry=
ing
unusually and then that he limped. He gestured to her, and she walked towar=
ds
him. His face became clearer, and she saw with infinite concern that he win=
ced
at every stride.
She ran towards h=
im,
her mind full of questions and vague fear. He drew near to her and spoke
without a greeting.
"Are we to
part?" he panted.
"No," s=
he
answered. "Why? What is the matter?"
"But if we do
not part--! It is now."
"What is the
matter?"
"I do not wa=
nt
to part," he said. "Only--" He broke off abruptly to ask,
"You will not part from me?"
She met his eyes =
with
a steadfast look. "What has happened?" she pressed.
"Not for a
time?"
"What time?&=
quot;
"Years
perhaps."
"Part! No!&q=
uot;
"You have
thought?" he insisted.
"I will not
part." She took his hand. "If this meant death, now, I would not =
let
you go."
"If it meant
death," he said, and she felt his grip upon her fingers.
He looked about h=
im
as if he feared to see the little people coming as he spoke. And then: &quo=
t;It
may mean death."
"Now tell
me," she said.
"They tried =
to
stop my coming."
"How?"<= o:p>
"And as I ca=
me
out of my workshop where I make the Food of the Gods for the Cossars to sto=
re
in their camp, I found a little officer of police--a man in blue with white
clean gloves--who beckoned me to stop. 'This way is closed!' said he. I tho=
ught
little of that; I went round my workshop to where another road runs west, a=
nd
there was another officer. 'This road is closed!' he said, and added: 'All =
the
roads are closed!'"
"And then?&q=
uot;
"I argued wi=
th
him a little. 'They are public roads!' I said.
"'That's it,'
said he. 'You spoil them for the public.'
"'Very well,'
said I, 'I'll take the fields,' and then, up leapt others from behind a hed=
ge
and said, 'These fields are private.'
"'Curse your
public and private,' I said, 'I'm going to my Princess,' and I stooped down=
and
picked him up very gently--kicking and shouting--and put him out of my way.=
In
a minute all the fields about me seemed alive with running men. I saw one on
horseback galloping beside me and reading something as he rode--shouting it=
. He
finished and turned and galloped away from me--head down. I couldn't make it
out. And then behind me I heard the crack of guns."
"Guns!"=
"Guns--just =
as
they shoot at the rats. The bullets came through the air with a sound like
things tearing: one stung me in the leg."
"And you?&qu=
ot;
"Came on to =
you
here and left them shouting and running and shooting behind me. And now--&q=
uot;
"Now?"<= o:p>
"It is only =
the
beginning. They mean that we shall part. Even now they are coming after
me."
"We will
not."
"No. But if =
we
will not part--then you must come with me to our Brothers."
"Which
way?" she said.
"To the east.
Yonder is the way my pursuers will be coming. This then is the way we must =
go.
Along this avenue of trees. Let me go first, so that if they are
waiting--"
He made a stride,=
but
she had seized his arm.
"No," c=
ried
she. "I come close to you, holding you. Perhaps I am royal, perhaps I =
am
sacred. If I hold you--Would God we could fly with my arms about you!--it m=
ay
be, they will not shoot at you--"
She clasped his
shoulder and seized his hand as she spoke; she pressed herself nearer to hi=
m.
"It may be they will not shoot you," she repeated, and with a sud=
den
passion of tenderness he took her into his arms and kissed her cheek. For a
space he held her.
"Even if it =
is
death," she whispered.
She put her hands
about his neck and lifted her face to his.
"Dearest, ki=
ss
me once more."
He drew her to hi= m. Silently they kissed one another on the lips, and for another moment clung = to one another. Then hand in hand, and she striving always to keep her body ne= ar to his, they set forward if haply they might reach the camp of refuge the s= ons of Cossar had made, before the pursuit of the little people overtook them.<= o:p>
And as they cross=
ed
the great spaces of the park behind the castle there came horsemen galloping
out from among the trees and vainly seeking to keep pace with their giant
strides. And presently ahead of them were houses, and men with guns running=
out
of the houses. At the sight of that, though he sought to go on and was even
disposed to fight and push through, she made him turn aside towards the sou=
th.
As they fled a bu=
llet
whipped by them overhead.
CHAPTER THE THIRD - YOUNG
CADDLES IN LONDON.
I.
All unaware of the
trend of events, unaware of the laws that were closing in upon all the
Brethren, unaware indeed that there lived a Brother for him on the earth, y=
oung
Caddles chose this time to come out of his chalk pit and see the world. His
brooding came at last to that. There was no answer to all his questions in
Cheasing Eyebright; the new Vicar was less luminous even than the old, and =
the
riddle of his pointless labour grew at last to the dimensions of exasperati=
on.
"Why should I work in this pit day after day?" he asked. "Why
should I walk within bounds and be refused all the wonders of the world bey=
ond
there? What have I done, to be condemned to this?"
And one day he st=
ood
up, straightened his back, and said in a loud voice, "No!
"I won't,&qu=
ot;
he said, and then with great vigour cursed the pit.
Then, having few
words, he sought to express his thought in acts. He took a truck half filled
with chalk, lifted it, and flung it, smash, against another. Then he graspe=
d a
whole row of empty trucks and spun them down a bank. He sent a huge boulder=
of
chalk bursting among them, and then ripped up a dozen yards of rail with a
mighty plunge of his foot. So he commenced the conscientious wrecking of the
pit.
"Work all my
days," he said, "at this!"
It was an astonis=
hing
five minutes for the little geologist he had, in his preoccupation, overloo=
ked.
This poor little creature having dodged two boulders by a hairbreadth, got =
out
by the westward corner and fled athwart the hill, with flapping rucksack and
twinkling knicker-bockered legs, leaving a trail of Cretaceous echinoderms
behind him; while young Caddles, satisfied with the destruction he had
achieved, came striding out to fulfil his purpose in the world.
"Work in that
old pit, until I die and rot and stink!... What worm did they think was liv=
ing
in my giant body? Dig chalk for God knows what foolish purpose! Not I!"=
;
The trend of road=
and
railway perhaps, or mere chance it was, turned his face to London, and thit=
her
he came striding; over the Downs and athwart the meadows through the hot
afternoon, to the infinite amazement of the world. It signified nothing to =
him
that torn posters in red and white bearing various names flapped from every
wall and barn; he knew nothing of the electoral revolution that had flung
Caterham, "Jack the Giant-killer," into power. It signified nothi=
ng
to him that every police station along his route had what was known as
Caterham's ukase upon its notice board that afternoon, proclaiming that no
giant, no person whatever over eight feet in height, should go more than fi=
ve
miles from his "place of location" without a special permission. =
It
signified nothing to him that on his wake belated police officers, not a li=
ttle
relieved to find themselves belated, shook warning handbills at his retreat=
ing
back. He was going to see what the world had to show him, poor incredulous
blockhead, and he did not mean that occasional spirited persons shouting
"Hi!" at him should stay his course. He came on down by Rochester=
and
Greenwich towards an ever-thickening aggregation of houses, walking rather
slowly now, staring about him and swinging his huge chopper.
People in London =
had
heard something of him before, how that he was idiotic but gentle, and
wonderfully managed by Lady Wondershoot's agent and the Vicar; how in his d=
ull
way he revered these authorities and was grateful to them for their care of
him, and so forth. So that when they learnt from the newspaper placards that
afternoon that he also was "on strike," the thing appeared to man=
y of
them as a deliberate, concerted act.
"They mean to
try our strength," said the men in the trains going home from business=
.
"Lucky we ha=
ve
Caterham."
"It's in ans=
wer
to his proclamation."
The men in the cl=
ubs
were better informed. They clustered round the tape or talked in groups in
their smoking-rooms.
"He has no
weapons. He would have gone to Sevenoaks if he had been put up to it."=
"Caterham wi=
ll
handle him...."
The shopmen told
their customers. The waiters in restaurants snatched a moment for an evening
paper between the courses. The cabmen read it immediately after the betting
news....
The placards of t=
he
chief government evening paper were conspicuous with "Grasping the
Nettle." Others relied for effect on: "Giant Redwood continues to
meet the Princess." The Echo struck a line of its own with: "Rumo=
ured
Revolt of Giants in the North of England. The Sunderland Giants start for
Scotland." The, Westminster Gazette sounded its usual warning note.
"Giants Beware," said the Westminster Gazette, and tried to make a
point out of it that might perhaps serve towards uniting the Liberal party-=
-at
that time greatly torn between seven intensely egotistical leaders. The lat=
er
newspapers dropped into uniformity. "The Giant in the New Kent Road,&q=
uot;
they proclaimed.
"What I want=
to
know," said the pale young man in the tea shop, "is why we aren't
getting any news of the young Cossars. You'd think they'd be in it most of =
all
..."
"They tell me
there's another of them young giants got loose," said the barmaid, wip=
ing
out a glass. "I've always said they was dangerous things to 'ave about.
Right away from the beginning ... It ought to be put a stop to. Any'ow, I '=
ope
'e won't come along 'ere."
"I'd like to
'ave a look at 'im," said the young man at the bar recklessly, and add=
ed,
"I seen the Princess."
"D'you think
they'll 'urt 'im?" said the barmaid.
"May 'ave
to," said the young man at the bar, finishing his glass.
Amidst a hum of t=
en
million such sayings young Caddles came to London...
II.
I think of young
Caddles always as he was seen in the New Kent Road, the sunset warm upon his
perplexed and staring face. The Road was thick with its varied traffic,
omnibuses, trams, vans, carts, trolleys, cyclists, motors, and a marvelling
crowd--loafers, women, nurse-maids, shopping women, children, venturesome
hobble-dehoys--gathered behind his gingerly moving feet. The hoardings were
untidy everywhere with the tattered election paper. A babblement of voices
surged about him. One sees the customers and shopmen crowding in the doorwa=
ys
of the shops, the faces that came and went at the windows, the little street
boys running and shouting, the policemen taking it all quite stiffly and ca=
lmly,
the workmen knocking off upon scaffoldings, the seething miscellany of the
little folks. They shouted to him, vague encouragement, vague insults, the
imbecile catchwords of the day, and he stared down at them, at such a multi=
tude
of living creatures as he had never before imagined in the world.
Now that he had
fairly entered London he had had to slacken his pace more and more, the lit=
tle
folks crowded so mightily upon him. The crowd grew denser at every step, an=
d at
last, at a corner where two great ways converged, he came to a stop, and the
multitude flowed about him and closed him in.
There he stood, w=
ith
his feet a little apart, his back to a big corner gin palace that towered t=
wice
his height and ended In a sky sign, staring down at the pigmies and
wondering--trying, I doubt not, to collate it all with the other things of =
his
life, with the valley among the downlands, the nocturnal lovers, the singin=
g in
the church, the chalk he hammered daily, and with instinct and death and the
sky, trying to see it all together coherent and significant. His brows were
knit. He put up his huge paw to scratch his coarse hair, and groaned aloud.=
"I don't see
It," he said.
His accent was
unfamiliar. A great babblement went across the open space--a babblement ami=
dst
which the gongs of the trams, ploughing their obstinate way through the mas=
s,
rose like red poppies amidst corn. "What did he say?" "Said =
he
didn't see." "Said, where is the sea?" "Said, where is a
seat?" "He wants a seat." "Can't the brasted fool sit o=
n a 'ouse
or somethin'?"
"What are ye
for, ye swarming little people? What are ye all doing, what are ye all for?=
"What are ye
doing up here, ye swarming little people, while I'm a-cuttin' chalk for ye,
down in the chalk pits there?"
His queer voice, =
the
voice that had been so bad for school discipline at Cheasing Eyebright, smo=
te
the multitude to silence while it sounded and splashed them all to tumult at
the end. Some wit was audible screaming "Speech, speech!"
"What's he saying?" was the burthen of the public mind, and an
opinion was abroad that he was drunk. "Hi, hi, hi," bawled the
omnibus-drivers, threading a dangerous way. A drunken American sailor wande=
red
about tearfully inquiring, "What's he want anyhow?" A leathery-fa=
ced
rag-dealer upon a little pony-drawn cart soared up over the tumult by virtu=
e of
his voice. "Garn 'ome, you Brasted Giant!" he brawled, "Garn
'Ome! You Brasted Great Dangerous Thing! Can't you see you're a-frightening=
the
'orses? Go 'ome with you! 'Asn't any one 'ad the sense to tell you the law?=
"
And over all this uproar young Caddles stared, perplexed, expectant, saying=
no
more.
Down a side road =
came
a little string of solemn policemen, and threaded itself ingeniously into t=
he
traffic. "Stand back," said the little voices; "keep moving,
please."
Young Caddles bec=
ame
aware of a little dark blue figure thumping at his shin. He looked down, and
perceived two white hands gesticulating. "What?" he said, bending
forward.
"Can't stand
about here," shouted the inspector.
"No! You can=
't
stand about here," he repeated.
"But where a=
m I
to go?"
"Back to your
village. Place of location. Anyhow, now--you've got to move on. You're
obstructing the traffic."
"What
traffic?"
"Along the
road."
"But where i=
s it
going? Where does it come from? What does it mean? They're all round me. Wh=
at
do they want? What are they doin'? I want to understand. I'm tired of cutti=
n'
chalk and bein' all alone. What are they doin' for me while I'm a-cuttin'
chalk? I may just as well understand here and now as anywhere."
"Sorry. But =
we
aren't here to explain things of that sort. I must arst you to move on.&quo=
t;
"Don't you
know?"
"I must arst=
you
to move on--if you please ... I'd strongly advise you to get off 'ome. We've
'ad no special instructions yet--but it's against the law ... Clear away th=
ere.
Clear away."
The pavement to h=
is
left became invitingly bare, and young Caddles went slowly on his way. But =
now
his tongue was loosened.
"I don't
understand," he muttered. "I don't understand." He would app=
eal brokenly
to the changing crowd that ever trailed beside him and behind. "I didn=
't
know there were such places as this. What are all you people doing with
yourselves? What's it all for? What is it all for, and where do I come
in?"
He had already
begotten a new catchword. Young men of wit and spirit addressed each other =
in
this manner, "Ullo 'Arry O'Cock. Wot's it all for? Eh? Wot's it all
bloomin' well for?"
To which there sp=
rang
up a competing variety of repartees, for the most part impolite. The most
popular and best adapted for general use appears to have been "Shut
it," or, in a voice of scornful detachment--"Garn!"
There were others
almost equally popular.
III.
What was he seeki=
ng?
He wanted something the pigmy world did not give, some end which the pigmy
world prevented his attaining, prevented even his seeing clearly, which he =
was
never to see clearly. It was the whole gigantic social side of this lonely =
dumb
monster crying out for his race, for the things akin to him, for something =
he
might love and something he might serve, for a purpose he might comprehend =
and
a command he could obey. And, you know, all this was dumb, raged dumbly wit=
hin
him, could not even, had he met a fellow giant, have found outlet and
expression in speech. All the life he knew was the dull round of the villag=
e,
all the speech he knew was the talk of the cottage, that failed and collaps=
ed
at the bare outline of his least gigantic need. He knew nothing of money, t=
his
monstrous simpleton, nothing of trade, nothing of the complex pretences upon
which the social fabric of the little folks was built. He needed, he
needed--Whatever he needed, he never found his need.
All through the d=
ay
and the summer night he wandered, growing hungry but as yet untired, marking
the varied traffic of the different streets, the inexplicable businesses of=
all
these infinitesimal beings. In the aggregate it had no other colour than
confusion for him....
He is said to have
plucked a lady from her carriage in Kensington, a lady in evening dress of =
the
smartest sort, to have scrutinised her closely, train and shoulder blades, =
and
to have replaced her--a little carelessly--with the profoundest sigh. For t=
hat
I cannot vouch. For an hour or so he watched people fighting for places in =
the
omnibuses at the end of Piccadilly. He was seen looming over Kennington Oval
for some moments in the afternoon, but when he saw these dense thousands we=
re engaged
with the mystery of cricket and quite regardless of him he went his way wit=
h a
groan.
He came back to
Piccadilly Circus between eleven and twelve at night and found a new sort of
multitude. Clearly they were very intent: full of things they, for
inconceivable reasons, might do, and of others they might not do. They star=
ed
at him and jeered at him and went their way. The cabmen, vulture-eyed, foll=
owed
one another continually along the edge of the swarming pavement. People eme=
rged
from the restaurants or entered them, grave, intent, dignified, or gently a=
nd
agreeably excited or keen and vigilant--beyond the cheating of the sharpest
waiter born. The great giant, standing at his corner, peered at them all.
"What is it all for?" he murmured in a mournful vast undertone,
"What is it all for? They are all so earnest. What is it I do not
understand?"
And none of them
seemed to see, as he could do, the drink-sodden wretchedness of the painted
women at the corner, the ragged misery that sneaked along the gutters, the
infinite futility of all this employment. The infinite futility! None of th=
em
seemed to feel the shadow of that giant's need, that shadow of the future, =
that
lay athwart their paths...
Across the road h=
igh
up mysterious letters flamed and went, that might, could he have read them,
have measured for him the dimensions of human interest, have told him of the
fundamental needs and features of life as the little folks conceived it. Fi=
rst
would come a flaming
T;
Then U would foll=
ow,
TU;
Then P,
TUP;
Until at last the=
re
stood complete, across the sky, this cheerful message to all who felt the
burthen of life's earnestness:
TUPPER'S TONIC WI=
NE
FOR VIGOUR.
Snap! and it had
vanished into night, to be followed in the same slow development by a second
universal solicitude:
BEAUTY SOAP.
Not, you remark, =
mere
cleansing chemicals, but something, as they say, "ideal;" and the=
n,
completing the tripod of the little life:
TANKER'S YELLOW
PILLS.
After that there =
was
nothing for it but Tupper again, in naming crimson letters, snap, snap, acr=
oss
the void.
T U P P....
Early in the small
hours it would seem that young Caddles came to the shadowy quiet of Regent's
Park, stepped over the railings and lay down on a grassy slope near where t=
he
people skate in winter time, and there he slept an hour or so. And about six
o'clock in the morning, he was talking to a draggled woman he had found
sleeping in a ditch near Hampstead Heath, asking her very earnestly what she
thought she was for....
IV.
The wandering of
Caddles about London came to a head on the second day in the morning. For t=
hen
his hunger overcame him. He hesitated where the hot-smelling loaves were be=
ing
tossed into a cart, and then very quietly knelt down and commenced robbery.=
He
emptied the cart while the baker's man fled for the police, and then his gr=
eat
hand came into the shop and cleared counter and cases. Then with an armful,
still eating, he went his way looking for another shop to go on with his me=
al.
It happened to be one of those seasons when work is scarce and food dear, a=
nd
the crowd in that quarter was sympathetic even with a giant who took the fo=
od
they all desired. They applauded the second phase of his meal, and laughed =
at
his stupid grimace at the policeman.
"I woff
hungry," he said, with his mouth full.
"Brayvo!&quo=
t;
cried the crowd. "Brayvo!"
Then when he was
beginning his third baker's shop, he was stopped by half a dozen policemen
hammering with truncheons at his shins. "Look here, my fine giant, you
come along o' me," said the officer in charge. "You ain't allowed
away from home like this. You come off home with me." They did their b=
est
to arrest him. There was a trolley, I am told, chasing up and down streets =
at
that time, bearing rolls of chain and ship's cable to play the part of
handcuffs in that great arrest. There was no intention then of killing him.
"He is no party to the plot," Caterham had said. "I will not
have innocent blood upon my hands." And added: "--until everything
else has been tried."
At first Caddles =
did
not understand the import of these attentions. When he did, he told the
policemen not to be fools, and set off in great strides that left them all
behind. The bakers' shops had been in the Harrow Road, and he went through
canal London to St. John's Wood, and sat down in a private garden there to =
pick
his teeth and be speedily assailed by another posse of constables.
"You lea' me
alone," he growled, and slouched through the gardens--spoiling several
lawns and kicking down a fence or so, while the energetic little policemen
followed him up, some through the gardens, some along the road in front of =
the
houses. Here there were one or two with guns, but they made no use of them.
When he came out into the Edgware Road there was a new note and a new movem=
ent
in the crowd, and a mounted policeman rode over his foot and got upset for =
his
pains.
"You lea' me
alone," said Caddles, facing the breathless crowd. "I ain't done
anything to you." At that time he was unarmed, for he had left his cha=
lk
chopper in Regent's Park. But now, poor wretch, he seems to have felt the n=
eed
of some weapon. He turned back towards the goods yard of the Great Western
Railway, wrenched up the standard of a tall arc light, a formidable mace for
him, and flung it over his shoulder. And finding the police still turning u=
p to
pester him, he went back along the Edgware Road, towards Cricklewood, and
struck off sullenly to the north.
He wandered as fa=
r as
Waltham, and then turned back westward and then again towards London, and c=
ame
by the cemeteries and over the crest of Highgate about midday into view of =
the
greatness of the city again. He turned aside and sat down in a garden, with=
his
back to a house that overlooked all London. He was breathless, and his face=
was
lowering, and now the people no longer crowded upon him as they had done wh=
en
first he came to London, but lurked in the adjacent garden, and peeped from=
cautious
securities. They knew by now the thing was grimmer than they had thought.
"Why can't they lea' me alone?" growled young Caddles. "I mu=
s'
eat. Why can't they lea' me alone?"
He sat with a
darkling face, gnawing at his knuckles and looking down over London. All the
fatigue, worry, perplexity, and impotent wrath of his wanderings was coming=
to
a head in him. "They mean nothing," he whispered. "They mean
nothing. And they won't let me alone, and they will get in my way." And
again, over and over to himself, "Meanin' nothing.
"Ugh! the li=
ttle
people!"
He bit harder at =
his
knuckles and his scowl deepened. "Cuttin' chalk for 'em," he
whispered. "And all the world is theirs! I don't come in--nowhere.&quo=
t;
Presently with a
spasm of sick anger he saw the now familiar form of a policeman astride the
garden wall.
"Lea' me
alone," grunted the giant. "Lea' me alone."
"I got to do=
my
duty," said the little policeman, with a face that was white and resol=
ute.
"You lea' me
alone. I got to live as well as you. I got to think. I got to eat. You lea'=
me
alone."
"It's the
Law," said the little policeman, coming no further. "We never made
the Law."
"Nor me,&quo=
t;
said young Caddles. "You little people made all that before I was born.
You and your Law! What I must and what I mustn't! No food for me to eat unl=
ess
I work a slave, no rest, no shelter, nothin', and you tell me--"
"I ain't got= no business with that," said the policeman. "I'm not one to argue. A= ll I got to do is to carry out the Law." And he brought his second leg over= the wall and seemed disposed to get down. Other policemen appeared behind him.<= o:p>
"I got no
quarrel with you--mind," said young Caddles, with his grip tight upon =
his
huge mace of iron, his face pale, and a lank explanatory great finger to the
policeman. "I got no quarrel with you. But--You lea' me alone."
The policeman tri=
ed
to be calm and commonplace, with a monstrous tragedy clear before his eyes.
"Give me the proclamation," he said to some unseen follower, and a
little white paper was handed to him.
"Lea' me
alone," said Caddles, scowling, tense, and drawn together.
"This
means," said the policeman before he read, "go 'ome. Go 'ome to y=
our
chalk pit. If not, you'll be hurt."
Caddles gave an
inarticulate growl.
Then when the
proclamation had been read, the officer made a sign. Four men with rifles c=
ame
into view and took up positions of affected ease along the wall. They wore =
the
uniform of the rat police. At the sight of the guns, young Caddles blazed i=
nto
anger. He remembered the sting of the Wreckstone farmers' shot guns. "=
You
going to shoot off those at me?" he said, pointing, and it seemed to t=
he
officer he must be afraid.
"If you don't
march back to your pit--"
Then in an instant
the officer had slung himself back over the wall, and sixty feet above him =
the
great electric standard whirled down to his death. Bang, bang, bang, went t=
he
heavy guns, and smash! the shattered wall, the soil and subsoil of the gard=
en
flew. Something flew with it, that left red drops on one of the shooter's
hands. The riflemen dodged this way and that and turned valiantly to fire
again. But young Caddles, already shot twice through the body, had spun abo=
ut
to find who it was had hit him so heavily in the back. Bang! Bang! He had a
vision of houses and greenhouses and gardens, of people dodging at windows,=
the
whole swaying fearfully and mysteriously. He seems to have made three stumb=
ling
strides, to have raised and dropped his huge mace, and to have clutched his
chest. He was stung and wrenched by pain.
What was this, wa=
rm
and wet, on his hand?
One man peering f=
rom
a bedroom window saw his face, saw him staring, with a grimace of weeping
dismay, at the blood upon his hand, and then his knees bent under him, and =
he
came crashing to the earth, the first of the giant nettles to fall to
Caterham's resolute clutch, the very last that he had reckoned would come i=
nto
his hand.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH - REDW=
OOD'S
TWO DAYS.
I.
So soon as Caterh=
am
knew the moment for grasping his nettle had come, he took the law into his =
own
hands and sent to arrest Cossar and Redwood.
Redwood was there=
for
the taking. He had been undergoing an operation in the side, and the doctors
had kept all disturbing things from him until his convalescence was assured.
Now they had released him. He was just out of bed, sitting in a fire-warmed
room, with a heap of newspapers about him, reading for the first time of the
agitation that had swept the country into the hands of Caterham, and of the
trouble that was darkening over the Princess and his son. It was in the mor=
ning
of the day when young Caddles died, and when the policeman tried to stop yo=
ung Redwood
on his way to the Princess. The latest newspapers Redwood had did but vague=
ly
prefigure these imminent things. He was re-reading these first adumbrations=
of
disaster with a sinking heart, reading the shadow of death more and more
perceptibly into them, reading to occupy his mind until further news should
come. When the officers followed the servant into his room, he looked up
eagerly.
"I thought it
was an early evening paper," he said. Then standing up, and with a swi=
ft
change of manner: "What's this?"
After that Redwood
had no news of anything for two days.
They had come wit=
h a
vehicle to take him away, but when it became evident that he was ill, it was
decided to leave him for a day or so until he could be safely removed, and =
his
house was taken over by the police and converted into a temporary prison. It
was the same house in which Giant Redwood had been born and in which
Herakleophorbia had for the first time been given to a human being, and Red=
wood
had now been a widower and had lived alone in it eight years.
He had become an
iron-grey man, with a little pointed grey beard and still active brown eyes=
. He
was slender and soft-voiced, as he had ever been, but his features had now =
that
indefinable quality that comes of brooding over mighty things. To the arres=
ting
officer his appearance was in impressive contrast to the enormity of his
offences. "Here's this feller," said the officer in command, to h=
is
next subordinate, "has done his level best to bust up everything, and =
'e's
got a face like a quiet country gentleman; and here's Judge Hangbrow keepin'
everything nice and in order for every one, and 'e's got a 'ead like a 'og.
Then their manners! One all consideration and the other snort and grunt. Wh=
ich
just shows you, doesn't it, that appearances aren't to be gone upon, whatev=
er else
you do."
But his praise of
Redwood's consideration was presently dashed. The officers found him
troublesome at first until they had made it clear that it was useless for h=
im
to ask questions or beg for papers. They made a sort of inspection of his s=
tudy
indeed, and cleared away even the papers he had. Redwood's voice was high a=
nd
expostulatory. "But don't you see," he said over and over again,
"it's my Son, my only Son, that is in this trouble. It isn't the Food I
care for, but my Son."
"I wish inde=
ed I
could tell you, Sir," said the officer. "But our orders are
strict."
"Who gave the
orders?" cried Redwood.
"Ah! that,
Sir---" said the officer, and moved towards the door....
"'E's going =
up
and down 'is room," said the second officer, when his superior came do=
wn.
"That's all right. He'll walk it off a bit."
"I hope 'e
will," said the chief officer. "The fact is I didn't see it in th=
at
light before, but this here Giant what's been going on with the Princess, y=
ou
know, is this man's son."
The two regarded =
one
another and the third policeman for a space.
"Then it is a
bit rough on him," the third policeman said.
It became evident
that Redwood had still imperfectly apprehended the fact that an iron curtain
had dropped between him and the outer world. They heard him go to the door,=
try
the handle and rattle the lock, and then the voice of the officer who was
stationed on the landing telling him it was no good to do that. Then afterw=
ards
they heard him at the windows and saw the men outside looking up. "It'=
s no
good that way," said the second officer. Then Redwood began upon the b=
ell.
The senior officer went up and explained very patiently that it could do no=
good
to ring the bell like that, and if it was rung for nothing now it might hav=
e to
be disregarded presently when he had need of something. "Any reasonable
attendance, Sir," the officer said. "But if you ring it just by w=
ay
of protest we shall be obliged, Sir, to disconnect."
The last word the
officer heard was Redwood's high-pitched, "But at least you might tell=
me
if my Son--"
II.
After that Redwood
spent most of his time at the windows.
But the windows
offered him little of the march of events outside. It was a quiet street at=
all
times, and that day it was unusually quiet: scarcely a cab, scarcely a
tradesman's cart passed all that morning. Now and then men went by--without=
any
distinctive air of events--now and then a little group of children, a nurse=
maid
and a woman going shopping, and so forth. They came on to the stage right or
left, up or down the street, with an exasperating suggestion of indifferenc=
e to
any concerns more spacious than their own; they would discover the
police-guarded house with amazement and exit in the opposite direction, whe=
re
the great trusses of a giant hydrangea hung across the pavement, staring ba=
ck
or pointing. Now and then a man would come and ask one of the policemen a q=
uestion
and get a curt reply ...
Opposite the hous=
es
seemed dead. A housemaid appeared once at a bedroom window and stared for a
space, and it occurred to Redwood to signal to her. For a time she watched =
his
gestures as if with interest and made a vague response to them, then looked
over her shoulder suddenly and turned and went away. An old man hobbled out=
of
Number 37 and came down the steps and went off to the right, altogether wit=
hout
looking up. For ten minutes the only occupant of the road was a cat....
With such events =
that
interminable momentous morning lengthened out.
About twelve there
came a bawling of newsvendors from the adjacent road; but it passed. Contra=
ry
to their wont they left Redwood's street alone, and a suspicion dawned upon=
him
that the police were guarding the end of the street. He tried to open the
window, but this brought a policeman into the room forthwith....
The clock of the
parish church struck twelve, and after an abyss of time--one.
They mocked him w=
ith
lunch.
He ate a mouthful=
and
tumbled the food about a little in order to get it taken away, drank freely=
of
whisky, and then took a chair and went back to the window. The minutes expa=
nded
into grey immensities, and for a time perhaps he slept....
He woke with a va=
gue
impression of remote concussions. He perceived a rattling of the windows li=
ke
the quiver of an earthquake, that lasted for a minute or so and died away. =
Then
after a silence it returned.... Then it died away again. He fancied it migh=
t be
merely the passage of some heavy vehicle along the main road. What else cou=
ld
it be?
After a time he b=
egan
to doubt whether he had heard this sound.
He began to reason
interminably with himself. Why, after all, was he seized? Caterham had been=
in
office two days--just long enough--to grasp his Nettle! Grasp his Nettle! G=
rasp
his Giant Nettle! The refrain once started, sang through his mind, and would
not be dismissed.
What, after all,
could Caterham do? He was a religious man. He was bound in a sort of way by
that not to do violence without a cause.
Grasp his Nettle!
Perhaps, for example, the Princess was to be seized and sent abroad. There
might be trouble with his son. In which case--! But why had he been arreste=
d?
Why was it necessary to keep him in ignorance of a thing like that? The thi=
ng
suggested--something more extensive.
Perhaps, for
example--they meant to lay all the giants by the heels! They were all to be
arrested together. There had been hints of that in the election speeches. A=
nd
then?
No doubt they had=
got
Cossar also?
Caterham was a
religious man. Redwood clung to that. The back of his mind was a black curt=
ain,
and on that curtain there came and went a word--a word written in letters of
fire. He struggled perpetually against that word. It was always as it were
beginning to get written on the curtain and never getting completed.
He faced it at la=
st.
"Massacre!" There was the word in its full brutality.
No! No! No! It was
impossible! Caterham was a religious man, a civilised man. And besides after
all these years, after all these hopes!
Redwood sprang up=
; he
paced the room. He spoke to himself; he shouted.
"No!"
Mankind was surely
not so mad as that--surely not! It was impossible, it was incredible, it co=
uld
not be. What good would it do to kill the giant human when the gigantic in =
all
the lower things had now inevitably come? They could not be so mad as that!
"I must dismiss such an idea," he said aloud; "dismiss such =
an
idea! Absolutely!"
He pulled up shor=
t.
What was that?
Certainly the win=
dows
had rattled. He went to look out into the street. Opposite he saw the insta=
nt
confirmation of his ears. At a bedroom at Number 35 was a woman, towel in h=
and,
and at the dining-room of Number 37 a man was visible behind a great vase of
hypertrophied maidenhair fern, both staring out and up, both disquieted and
curious. He could see now too, quite clearly, that the policeman on the
pavement had heard it also. The thing was not his imagination.
He turned to the
darkling room.
"Guns,"=
he
said.
He brooded.
"Guns?"=
They brought him =
in
strong tea, such as he was accustomed to have. It was evident his housekeep=
er
had been taken into consultation. After drinking it, he was too restless to=
sit
any longer at the window, and he paced the room. His mind became more capab=
le
of consecutive thought.
The room had been=
his
study for four-and-twenty years. It had been furnished at his marriage, and=
all
the essential equipment dated from then, the large complex writing-desk, the
rotating chair, the easy chair at the fire, the rotating bookcase, the fixt=
ure
of indexed pigeon-holes that filled the further recess. The vivid Turkey
carpet, the later Victorian rugs and curtains had mellowed now to a rich
dignity of effect, and copper and brass shone warm about the open fire.
Electric lights had replaced the lamp of former days; that was the chief al=
teration
in the original equipment. But among these things his connection with the F=
ood
had left abundant traces. Along one wall, above the dado, ran a crowded arr=
ay
of black-framed photographs and photogravures, showing his son and Cossar's=
sons
and others of the Boom-children at various ages and amidst various
surroundings. Even young Caddles' vacant visage had its place in that
collection. In the corner stood a sheaf of the tassels of gigantic meadow g=
rass
from Cheasing Eyebright, and on the desk there lay three empty poppy heads =
as big
as hats. The curtain rods were grass stems. And the tremendous skull of the
great hog of Oakham hung, a portentous ivory overmantel, with a Chinese jar=
in
either eye socket, snout down above the fire....
It was to the
photographs that Redwood went, and in particular to the photographs of his =
son.
They brought back
countless memories of things that had passed out of his mind, of the early =
days
of the Food, of Bensington's timid presence, of his cousin Jane, of Cossar =
and
the night work at the Experimental Farm. These things came to him now very
little and bright and distinct, like things seen through a telescope on a s=
unny
day. And then there was the giant nursery, the giant childhood, the young
giant's first efforts to speak, his first clear signs of affection.
Guns?
It flowed in on h=
im,
irresistibly, overwhelmingly, that outside there, outside this accursed sil=
ence
and mystery, his son and Cossar's sons, and all these glorious first-fruits=
of
a greater age were even now--fighting. Fighting for life! Even now his son
might be in some dismal quandary, cornered, wounded, overcome....
He swung away from
the pictures and went up and down the room gesticulating. "It cannot
be," he cried, "it cannot be. It cannot end like that!"
"What was
that?"
He stopped, stric=
ken
rigid.
The trembling of =
the
windows had begun again, and then had come a thud--a vast concussion that s=
hook
the house. The concussion seemed to last for an age. It must have been very
near. For a moment it seemed that something had struck the house above him-=
-an
enormous impact that broke into a tinkle of falling glass, and then a still=
ness
that ended at last with a minute clear sound of running feet in the street
below.
Those feet releas=
ed
him from his rigor. He turned towards the window, and saw it starred and
broken.
His heart beat hi=
gh
with a sense of crisis, of conclusive occurrence, of release. And then agai=
n,
his realisation of impotent confinement fell about him like a curtain!
He could see noth=
ing
outside except that the small electric lamp opposite was not lighted; he co=
uld
hear nothing after the first suggestion of a wide alarm. He could add nothi=
ng
to interpret or enlarge that mystery except that presently there came a red=
dish
fluctuating brightness in the sky towards the south-east.
This light waxed =
and
waned. When it waned he doubted if it had ever waxed. It had crept upon him
very gradually with the darkling. It became the predominant fact in his long
night of suspense. Sometimes it seemed to him it had the quiver one associa=
tes
with dancing flames, at others he fancied it was no more than the normal
reflection of the evening lights. It waxed and waned through the long hours,
and only vanished at last when it was submerged altogether under the rising
tide of dawn. Did it mean--? What could it mean? Almost certainly it was so=
me
sort of fire, near or remote, but he could not even tell whether it was smo=
ke
or cloud drift that streamed across the sky. But about one o'clock there be=
gan
a flickering of searchlights athwart that ruddy tumult, a flickering that
continued for the rest of the night. That too might mean many things? What
could it mean? What did it mean? Just this stained unrestful sky he had and=
the
suggestion of a huge explosion to occupy his mind. There came no further
sounds, no further running, nothing but a shouting that might have been only
the distant efforts of drunken men...
He did not turn up
his lights; he stood at his draughty broken window, a distressful, slight b=
lack
outline to the officer who looked ever and again into the room and exhorted=
him
to rest.
All night Redwood
remained at his window peering up at the ambiguous drift of the sky, and on=
ly
with the coming of the dawn did he obey his fatigue and lie down upon the
little bed they had prepared for him between his writing-desk and the sinki=
ng
fire in the fireplace under the great hog's skull.
III.
For thirty-six lo=
ng
hours did Redwood remain imprisoned, closed in and shut off from the great
drama of the Two Days, while the little people in the dawn of greatness fou=
ght
against the Children of the Food. Then abruptly the iron curtain rose again,
and he found himself near the very centre of the struggle. That curtain ros=
e as
unexpectedly as it fell. In the late afternoon he was called to the window =
by
the clatter of a cab, that stopped without. A young man descended, and in
another minute stood before him in the room, a slightly built young man of
thirty perhaps, clean shaven, well dressed, well mannered.
"Mr. Redwood,
Sir," he began, "would you be willing to come to Mr. Caterham? He
needs your presence very urgently."
"Needs my
presence!" There leapt a question into Redwood's mind, that for a mome=
nt
he could not put. He hesitated. Then in a voice that broke he asked: "=
What
has he done to my Son?" and stood breathless for the reply.
"Your Son, S=
ir?
Your Son is doing well. So at least we gather."
"Doing
well?"
"He was woun=
ded,
Sir, yesterday. Have you not heard?"
Redwood smote the=
se
pretences aside. His voice was no longer coloured by fear, but by anger.
"You know I have not heard. You know I have heard nothing."
"Mr. Caterham
feared, Sir--It was a time of upheaval. Every one--taken by surprise. He
arrested you to save you, Sir, from any misadventure--"
"He arrested=
me
to prevent my giving any warning or advice to my son. Go on. Tell me what h=
as
happened. Have you succeeded? Have you killed them all?"
The young man mad=
e a
pace or so towards the window, and turned.
"No, Sir,&qu=
ot;
he said concisely.
"What have y=
ou
to tell me?"
"It's our pr=
oof,
Sir, that this fighting was not planned by us. They found us ... totally
unprepared."
"You mean?&q=
uot;
"I mean, Sir,
the Giants have--to a certain extent--held their own."
The world changed,
for Redwood. For a moment something like hysteria had the muscles of his fa=
ce
and throat. Then he gave vent to a profound "Ah!" His heart bound=
ed
towards exultation. "The Giants have held their own!"
"There has b=
een
terrible fighting--terrible destruction. It is all a most hideous misunders=
tanding
... In the north and midlands Giants have been killed ... Everywhere."=
"They are
fighting now?"
"No, Sir. Th=
ere
was a flag of truce."
"From
them?"
"No, Sir. Mr.
Caterham sent a flag of truce. The whole thing is a hideous misunderstandin=
g.
That is why he wants to talk to you, and put his case before you. They insi=
st,
Sir, that you should intervene--"
Redwood interrupt=
ed.
"Do you know what happened to my Son?" he asked.
"He was
wounded."
"Tell me! Te=
ll
me!"
"He and the
Princess came--before the--the movement to surround the Cossar camp was
complete--the Cossar pit at Chislehurst. They came suddenly, Sir, crashing
through a dense thicket of giant oats, near River, upon a column of infantry
... Soldiers had been very nervous all day, and this produced a panic."=
;
"They shot
him?"
"No, Sir. Th=
ey
ran away. Some shot at him--wildly--against orders."
Redwood gave a no=
te
of denial. "It's true, Sir. Not on account of your son, I won't preten=
d,
but on account of the Princess."
"Yes. That's
true."
"The two Gia=
nts
ran shouting towards the encampment. The soldiers ran this way and that, and
then some began firing. They say they saw him stagger--"
"Ugh!"<= o:p>
"Yes, Sir. B=
ut
we know he is not badly hurt."
"How?"<= o:p>
"He sent the
message, Sir, that he was doing well!"
"To me?"=
;
"Who else,
Sir?"
Redwood stood for
nearly a minute with his arms tightly folded, taking this in. Then his
indignation found a voice.
"Because you
were fools in doing the thing, because you miscalculated and blundered, you
would like me to think you are not murderers in intention. And besides--The
rest?"
The young man loo=
ked
interrogation.
"The other
Giants?"
The young man mad=
e no
further pretence of misunderstanding. His tone fell. "Thirteen, Sir, a=
re
dead."
"And others
wounded?"
"Yes, Sir.&q=
uot;
"And
Caterham," he gasped, "wants to meet me! Where are the others?&qu=
ot;
"Some got to=
the
encampment during the fighting, Sir ... They seem to have known--"
"Well, of co=
urse
they did. If it hadn't been for Cossar--Cossar is there?"
"Yes, Sir. A=
nd
all the surviving Giants are there--the ones who didn't get to the camp in =
the
fighting have gone, or are going now under the flag of trace."
"That
means," said Redwood, "that you are beaten."
"We are not
beaten. No, Sir. You cannot say we are beaten. But your sons have broken the
rules of war. Once last night, and now again. After our attack had been
withdrawn. This afternoon they began to bombard London--"
"That's
legitimate!"
"They have b=
een
firing shells filled with--poison."
"Poison?&quo=
t;
"Yes. Poison=
. The
Food--"
"Herakleopho=
rbia?"
"Yes, Sir. M=
r.
Caterham, Sir--"
"You are bea=
ten!
Of course that beats you. It's Cossar! What can you hope to do now? What go=
od
is it to do anything now? You will breathe it in the dust of every street. =
What
is there to fight for more? Rules of war, indeed! And now Caterham wants to
humbug me to help him bargain. Good heavens, man! Why should I come to your
exploded windbag? He has played his game ... murdered and muddled. Why shou=
ld
I?"
The young man sto=
od
with an air of vigilant respect.
"It is a fac=
t,
Sir," he interrupted, "that the Giants insist that they shall see
you. They will have no ambassador but you. Unless you come to them, I am
afraid, Sir, there will be more bloodshed."
"On your sid=
e,
perhaps."
"No, Sir--on=
both
sides. The world is resolved the thing must end."
Redwood looked ab=
out
the study. His eyes rested for a moment on the photograph of his boy. He tu=
rned
and met the expectation of the young man. "Yes," he said at last,
"I will come."
IV.
His encounter with
Caterham was entirely different from his anticipation. He had seen the man =
only
twice in his life, once at dinner and once in the lobby of the House, and h=
is
imagination had been active not with the man but with the creation of the
newspapers and caricaturists, the legendary Caterham, Jack the Giant-killer,
Perseus, and all the rest of it. The element of a human personality came in=
to disorder
all that.
Here was not the =
face
of the caricatures and portraits, but the face of a worn and sleepless man,
lined and drawn, yellow in the whites of the eyes, a little weakened about =
the
mouth. Here, indeed, were the red-brown eyes, the black hair, the distincti=
ve
aquiline profile of the great demagogue, but here was also something else t=
hat
smote any premeditated scorn and rhetoric aside. This man was suffering; he=
was
suffering acutely; he was under enormous stress. From the beginning he had =
an
air of impersonating himself. Presently, with a single gesture, the slighte=
st
movement, he revealed to Redwood that he was keeping himself up with drugs.=
He
moved a thumb to his waistcoat pocket, and then, after a few sentences more,
threw concealment aside, and slipped the little tabloid to his lips.
Moreover, in spit=
e of
the stresses upon him, in spite of the fact that he was in the wrong, and
Redwood's junior by a dozen years, that strange quality in him, the
something--personal magnetism one may call it for want of a better name--th=
at
had won his way for him to this eminence of disaster was with him still. On
that also Redwood had failed to reckon. From the first, so far as the course
and conduct of their speech went, Caterham prevailed over Redwood. All the
quality of the first phase of their meeting was determined by him, all the =
tone
and procedure were his. That happened as if it was a matter of course. All
Redwood's expectations vanished at his presence. He shook hands before Redw=
ood remembered
that he meant to parry that familiarity; he pitched the note of their
conference from the outset, sure and clear, as a search for expedients unde=
r a
common catastrophe.
If he made any
mistake it was when ever and again his fatigue got the better of his immedi=
ate
attention, and the habit of the public meeting carried him away. Then he dr=
ew
himself up--through all their interview both men stood--and looked away from
Redwood, and began to fence and justify. Once even he said
"Gentlemen!"
Quietly, expandin=
gly,
he began to talk....
There were moments
when Redwood ceased even to feel himself an interlocutor, when he became th=
e mere
auditor of a monologue. He became the privileged spectator of an extraordin=
ary
phenomenon. He perceived something almost like a specific difference between
himself and this being whose beautiful voice enveloped him, who was talking,
talking. This mind before him was so powerful and so limited. From its driv=
ing energy,
its personal weight, its invincible oblivion to certain things, there spran=
g up
in Redwood's mind the most grotesque and strange of images. Instead of an
antagonist who was a fellow-creature, a man one could hold morally responsi=
ble,
and to whom one could address reasonable appeals, he saw Caterham as someth=
ing,
something like a monstrous rhinoceros, as it were, a civilised rhinoceros
begotten of the jungle of democratic affairs, a monster of irresistible ons=
et
and invincible resistance. In all the crashing conflicts of that tangle he =
was
supreme. And beyond? This man was a being supremely adapted to make his way
through multitudes of men. For him there was no fault so important as self-=
contradiction,
no science so significant as the reconciliation of "interests."
Economic realities, topographical necessities, the barely touched mines of
scientific expedients, existed for him no more than railways or rifled guns=
or
geographical literature exist for his animal prototype. What did exist were
gatherings, and caucuses, and votes--above all, votes. He was votes
incarnate--millions of votes.
And now in the gr=
eat
crisis, with the Giants broken but not beaten, this vote-monster talked.
It was so evident
that even now he had everything to learn. He did not know there were physic=
al
laws and economic laws, quantities and reactions that all humanity voting
nemine contradicente cannot vote away, and that are disobeyed only at the p=
rice
of destruction. He did not know there are moral laws that cannot be bent by=
any
force of glamour, or are bent only to fly back with vindictive violence. In=
the
face of shrapnel or the Judgment Day, it was evident to Redwood that this m=
an
would have sheltered behind some curiously dodged vote of the House of Comm=
ons.
What most concern=
ed
his mind now was not the powers that held the fastness away there to the so=
uth,
not defeat and death, but the effect of these things upon his Majority, the
cardinal reality in his life. He had to defeat the Giants or go under. He w=
as
by no means absolutely despairful. In this hour of his utmost failure, with
blood and disaster upon his hands, and the rich promise of still more horri=
ble
disaster, with the gigantic destinies of the world towering and toppling ov=
er
him, he was capable of a belief that by sheer exertion of his voice, by exp=
laining
and qualifying and restating, he might yet reconstitute his power. He was
puzzled and distressed no doubt, fatigued and suffering, but if only he cou=
ld
keep up, if only he could keep talking--
As he talked he
seemed to Redwood to advance and recede, to dilate and contract. Redwood's
share of the talk was of the most subsidiary sort, wedges as it were sudden=
ly
thrust in. "That's all nonsense." "No." "It's no u=
se
suggesting that." "Then why did you begin?"
It is doubtful if
Caterham really heard him at all. Round such interpolations Caterham's spee=
ch
flowed indeed like some swift stream about a rock. There this incredible man
stood, on his official hearthrug, talking, talking with enormous power and
skill, talking as though a pause in his talk, his explanations, his
presentation of standpoints and lights, of considerations and expedients, w=
ould
permit some antagonistic influence to leap into being--into vocal being, th=
e only
being he could comprehend. There he stood amidst the slightly faded splendo=
urs
of that official room in which one man after another had succumbed to the
belief that a certain power of intervention was the creative control of an
empire....
The more he talked
the more certain Redwood's sense of stupendous futility grew. Did this man
realise that while he stood and talked there, the whole great world was mov=
ing,
that the invincible tide of growth flowed and flowed, that there were any h=
ours
but parliamentary hours, or any weapons in the hands of the Avengers of Blo=
od?
Outside, darkling the whole room, a single leaf of giant Virginian creeper
tapped unheeded on the pane.
Redwood became
anxious to end this amazing monologue, to escape to sanity and judgment, to
that beleaguered camp, the fastness of the future, where, at the very nucle=
us
of greatness, the Sons were gathered together. For that this talking was
endured. He had a curious impression that unless this monologue ended he wo=
uld
presently find himself carried away by it, that he must fight against
Caterham's voice as one fights against a drug. Facts had altered and were
altering beneath that spell.
What was the man
saying?
Since Redwood had=
to
report it to the Children of the Food, in a sort of way he perceived it did
matter. He would have to listen and guard his sense of realities as well as=
he
could.
Much about
bloodguiltiness. That was eloquence. That didn't matter. Next?
He was suggesting=
a
convention!
He was suggesting
that the surviving Children of the Food should capitulate and go apart and =
form
a community of their own. There were precedents, he said, for this. "We
would assign them territory--"
"Where?"
interjected Redwood, stooping to argue.
Caterham snatched=
at
that concession. He turned his face to Redwood's, and his voice fell to a
persuasive reasonableness. That could be determined. That, he contended, wa=
s a
quite subsidiary question. Then he went on to stipulate: "And except f=
or
them and where they are we must have absolute control, the Food and all the
Fruits of the Food must be stamped out--"
Redwood found him=
self
bargaining: "The Princess?"
"She stands
apart."
"No," s=
aid
Redwood, struggling to get back to the old footing. "That's absurd.&qu=
ot;
"That
afterwards. At any rate we are agreed that the making of the Food must
stop--"
"I have agre=
ed
to nothing. I have said nothing--"
"But on one
planet, to have two races of men, one great, one small! Consider what has
happened! Consider that is but a little foretaste of what might presently
happen if this Food has its way! Consider all you have already brought upon
this world! If there is to be a race of Giants, increasing and
multiplying--"
"It is not f=
or
me to argue," said Redwood. "I must go to our sons. I want to go =
to
my son. That is why I have come to you. Tell me exactly what you offer.&quo=
t;
Caterham made a
speech upon his terms.
The Children of t=
he
Food were to be given a great reservation--in North America perhaps or
Africa--in which they might live out their lives in their own fashion.
"But it's
nonsense," said Redwood. "There are other Giants now abroad. All =
over
Europe--here and there!"
"There could=
be
an international convention. It's not impossible. Something of the sort ind=
eed
has already been spoken of ... But in this reservation they can live out th=
eir
own lives in their own way. They may do what they like; they may make what =
they
like. We shall be glad if they will make us things. They may be happy.
Think!"
"Provided th=
ere
are no more Children."
"Precisely. =
The
Children are for us. And so, Sir, we shall save the world, we shall save it
absolutely from the fruits of your terrible discovery. It is not too late f=
or
us. Only we are eager to temper expediency with mercy. Even now we are burn=
ing
and searing the places their shells hit yesterday. We can get it under. Tru=
st
me we shall get it under. But in that way, without cruelty, without
injustice--"
"And suppose=
the
Children do not agree?"
For the first time
Caterham looked Redwood fully in the face.
"They must!&=
quot;
"I don't thi=
nk
they will."
"Why should =
they
not agree?" he asked, in richly toned amazement.
"Suppose they
don't?"
"What can it=
be
but war? We cannot have the thing go on. We cannot. Sir. Have you scientific
men no imagination? Have you no mercy? We cannot have our world trampled un=
der
a growing herd of such monsters and monstrous growths as your Food has made=
. We
cannot and we cannot! I ask you, Sir, what can it be but war? And
remember--this that has happened is only a beginning! This was a skirmish. A
mere affair of police. Believe me, a mere affair of police. Do not be cheat=
ed
by perspective, by the immediate bigness of these newer things. Behind us is
the nation--is humanity. Behind the thousands who have died there are milli=
ons.
Were it not for the fear of bloodshed, Sir, behind our first attacks there
would be forming other attacks, even now. Whether we can kill this Food or =
not,
most assuredly we can kill your sons! You reckon too much on the things of
yesterday, on the happenings of a mere score of years, on one battle. You h=
ave
no sense of the slow course of history. I offer this convention for the sak=
e of
lives, not because it can change the inevitable end. If you think that your
poor two dozen of Giants can resist all the forces of our people and of all=
the
alien peoples who will come to our aid; if you think you can change Humanit=
y at
a blow, in a single generation, and alter the nature and stature of Man--&q=
uot;
He flung out an a=
rm.
"Go to them now, Sir. I see them, for all the evil they have done,
crouching among their wounded--"
He stopped, as th=
ough
he had glanced at Redwood's son by chance.
There came a paus=
e.
"Go to
them," he said.
"That is wha=
t I
want to do."
"Then go
now...."
He turned and pre=
ssed
the button of a bell; without, in immediate response, came a sound of openi=
ng
doors and hastening feet.
The talk was at an
end. The display was over. Abruptly Caterham seemed to contract, to shrivel=
up
into a yellow-faced, fagged-out, middle-sized, middle-aged man. He stepped
forward, as if he were stepping out of a picture, and with a complete
assumption of that friendliness that lies behind all the public conflicts of
our race, he held out his hand to Redwood.
As if it were a
matter of course, Redwood shook hands with him for the second time.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH - THE G=
IANT
LEAGUER.
I.
Presently Redwood
found himself in a train going south over the Thames. He had a brief vision=
of
the river shining under its lights, and of the smoke still going up from the
place where the shell had fallen on the north bank, and where a vast multit=
ude
of men had been organised to burn the Herakleophorbia out of the ground. The
southern bank was dark, for some reason even the streets were not lit, all =
that
was clearly visible was the outlines of the tall alarm-towers and the dark
bulks of flats and schools, and after a minute of peering scrutiny he turned
his back on the window and sank into thought. There was nothing more to see=
or
do until he saw the Sons....
He was fatigued by
the stresses of the last two days; it seemed to him that his emotions must
needs be exhausted, but he had fortified himself with strong coffee before
starting, and his thoughts ran thin and clear. His mind touched many things=
. He
reviewed again, but now in the enlightenment of accomplished events, the ma=
nner
in which the Food had entered and unfolded itself in the world.
"Bensington
thought it might be an excellent food for infants," he whispered to
himself, with a faint smile. Then there came into his mind as vivid as if t=
hey were
still unsettled his own horrible doubts after he had committed himself by
giving it to his own son. From that, with a steady unfaltering expansion, in
spite of every effort of men to help and hinder, the Food had spread through
the whole world of man. And now?
"Even if they
kill them all," Redwood whispered, "the thing is done."
The secret of its
making was known far and wide. That had been his own work. Plants, animals,=
a
multitude of distressful growing children would conspire irresistibly to fo=
rce
the world to revert again to the Food, whatever happened in the present
struggle. "The thing is done," he said, with his mind swinging ro=
und
beyond all his controlling to rest upon the present fate of the Children and
his son. Would he find them exhausted by the efforts of the battle, wounded,
starving, on the verge of defeat, or would he find them still stout and
hopeful, ready for the still grimmer conflict of the morrow? His son was
wounded! But he had sent a message!
His mind came bac=
k to
his interview with Caterham.
He was roused from
his thoughts by the stopping of his train in Chislehurst station. He recogn=
ised
the place by the huge rat alarm-tower that crested Camden Hill, and the row=
of
blossoming giant hemlocks that lined the road....
Caterham's private
secretary came to him from the other carriage and told him that half a mile
farther the line had been wrecked, and that the rest of the journey was to =
be
made in a motor car. Redwood descended upon a platform lit only by a hand
lantern and swept by the cool night breeze. The quiet of that derelict,
wood-set, weed-embedded suburb--for all the inhabitants had taken refuge in
London at the outbreak of yesterday's conflict--became instantly impressive.
His conductor took him down the steps to where a motor car was waiting with
blazing lights--the only lights to be seen--handed him over to the care of =
the driver
and bade him farewell.
"You will do
your best for us," he said, with an imitation of his master's manner, =
as
he held Redwood's hand.
So soon as Redwood
could be wrapped about they started out into the night. At one moment they
stood still, and then the motor car was rushing softly and swiftly down the
station incline. They turned one corner and another, followed the windings =
of a
lane of villas, and then before them stretched the road. The motor droned u=
p to
its topmost speed, and the black night swept past them. Everything was very
dark under the starlight, and the whole world crouched mysteriously and was=
gone
without a sound. Not a breath stirred the flying things by the wayside; the
deserted, pallid white villas on either hand, with their black unlit window=
s,
reminded him of a noiseless procession of skulls. The driver beside him was=
a
silent man, or stricken into silence by the conditions of his journey. He
answered Redwood's brief questions in monosyllables, and gruffly. Athwart t=
he
southern sky the beams of searchlights waved noiseless passes; the sole str=
ange
evidences of life they seemed in all that derelict world about the hurrying
machine.
The road was
presently bordered on either side by gigantic blackthorn shoots that made it
very dark, and by tail grass and big campions, huge giant dead-nettles as h=
igh
as trees, flickering past darkly in silhouette overhead. Beyond Keston they
came to a rising hill, and the driver went slow. At the crest he stopped. T=
he
engine throbbed and became still. "There," he said, and his big
gloved finger pointed, a black misshapen thing before Redwood's eyes.
Far away as it
seemed, the great embankment, crested by the blaze from which the searchlig=
hts
sprang, rose up against the sky. Those beams went and came among the clouds=
and
the hilly land about them as if they traced mysterious incantations.
"I don't
know," said the driver at last, and it was clear he was afraid to go o=
n.
Presently a
searchlight swept down the sky to them, stopped as it were with a start,
scrutinised them, a blinding stare confused rather than mitigated by an
intervening monstrous weed stem or so. They sat with their gloves held over=
their
eyes, trying to look under them and meet that light.
"Go on,"
said Redwood after a while.
The driver still =
had
his doubts; he tried to express them, and died down to "I don't know&q=
uot;
again.
At last he ventur=
ed
on. "Here goes," he said, and roused his machinery to motion agai=
n,
followed intently by that great white eye.
To Redwood it see=
med
for a long time they were no longer on earth, but in a state of palpitating
hurry through a luminous cloud. Teuf, teuf, teuf, teuf, went the machine, a=
nd
ever and again--obeying I know not what nervous impulse--the driver sounded=
his
horn.
They passed into =
the
welcome darkness of a high-fenced lane, and down into a hollow and past some
houses into that blinding stare again. Then for a space the road ran naked
across a down, and they seemed to hang throbbing in immensity. Once more gi=
ant
weeds rose about them and whirled past. Then quite abruptly close upon them
loomed the figure of a giant, shining brightly where the searchlight caught=
him
below, and black against the sky above. "Hullo there!" he cried, =
and
"stop! There's no more road beyond ... Is that Father Redwood?"
Redwood stood up =
and
gave a vague shout by way of answer, and then Cossar was in the road beside
him, gripping both hands with both of his and pulling him out of the car.
"What of my
son?" asked Redwood.
"He's all right," said Cossar. "They've hurt nothing serious in him."<= o:p>
"And your
lads?"
"Well. All of
them, well. But we've had to make a fight for it."
The Giant was say=
ing
something to the motor driver. Redwood stood aside as the machine wheeled
round, and then suddenly Cossar vanished, everything vanished, and he was in
absolute darkness for a space. The glare was following the motor back to the
crest of the Keston hill. He watched the little conveyance receding in that
white halo. It had a curious effect, as though it was not moving at all and=
the
halo was. A group of war-blasted Giant elders flashed into gaunt scarred ge=
sticulations
and were swallowed again by the night ... Redwood turned to Cossar's dim
outline again and clasped his hand. "I have been shut up and kept in
ignorance," he said, "for two whole days."
"We fired the
Food at them," said Cossar. "Obviously! Thirty shots. Eh!"
"I come from
Caterham."
"I know you
do." He laughed with a note of bitterness. "I suppose he's wiping=
it
up."
II.
"Where is my
son?" said Redwood.
"He is all
right. The Giants are waiting for your message."
"Yes, but my
son--..."
He passed with Co=
ssar
down a long slanting tunnel that was lit red for a moment and then became d=
ark
again, and came out presently into the great pit of shelter the Giants had
made.
Redwood's first
impression was of an enormous arena bounded by very high cliffs and with its
floor greatly encumbered. It was in darkness save for the passing reflectio=
ns
of the watchman's searchlights that whirled perpetually high overhead, and =
for
a red glow that came and went from a distant corner where two Giants worked
together amidst a metallic clangour. Against the sky, as the glare came abo=
ut,
his eye caught the familiar outlines of the old worksheds and playsheds that
were made for the Cossar boys. They were hanging now, as it were, at a cliff
brow, and strangely twisted and distorted with the guns of Caterham's
bombardment. There were suggestions of huge gun emplacements above there, a=
nd
nearer were piles of mighty cylinders that were perhaps ammunition. All abo=
ut the
wide space below, the forms of great engines and incomprehensible bulks were
scattered in vague disorder. The Giants appeared and vanished among these
masses and in the uncertain light; great shapes they were, not disproportio=
nate
to the things amidst which they moved. Some were actively employed, some
sitting and lying as if they courted sleep, and one near at hand, whose body
was bandaged, lay on a rough litter of pine boughs and was certainly asleep.
Redwood peered at these dim forms; his eyes went from one stirring outline =
to
another.
"Where is my
son, Cossar?"
Then he saw him.<= o:p>
His son was sitti=
ng
under the shadow of a great wall of steel. He presented himself as a black
shape recognisable only by his pose,--his features were invisible. He sat c=
hin
upon hand, as though weary or lost in thought. Beside him Redwood discovered
the figure of the Princess, the dark suggestion of her merely, and then, as=
the
glow from the distant iron returned, he saw for an instant, red lit and ten=
der,
the infinite kindliness of her shadowed face. She stood looking down upon h=
er
lover with her hand resting against the steel. It seemed that she whispered=
to
him.
Redwood would have
gone towards them.
"Presently,&=
quot;
said Cossar. "First there is your message."
"Yes," =
said
Redwood, "but--"
He stopped. His s=
on
was now looking up and speaking to the Princess, but in too low a tone for =
them
to hear. Young Redwood raised his face, and she bent down towards him, and
glanced aside before she spoke.
"But if we a=
re
beaten," they heard the whispered voice of young Redwood.
She paused, and t=
he
red blaze showed her eyes bright with unshed tears. She bent nearer him and
spoke still lower. There was something so intimate and private in their
bearing, in their soft tones, that Redwood--Redwood who had thought for two
whole days of nothing but his son--felt himself intrusive there. Abruptly he
was checked. For the first time in his life perhaps he realised how much mo=
re a
son may be to his father than a father can ever be to a son; he realised the
full predominance of the future over the past. Here between these two he ha=
d no
part. His part was played. He turned to Cossar, in the instant realisation.
Their eyes met. His voice was changed to the tone of a grey resolve.
"I will deli=
ver
my message now," he said. "Afterwards--... It will be soon enough
then."
The pit was so
enormous and so encumbered that it was a long and tortuous route to the pla=
ce
from which Redwood could speak to them all.
He and Cossar
followed a steeply descending way that passed beneath an arch of interlocki=
ng
machinery, and so came into a vast deep gangway that ran athwart the bottom=
of
the pit. This gangway, wide and vacant, and yet relatively narrow, conspired
with everything about it to enhance Redwood's sense of his own littleness. =
It
became, as it were, an excavated gorge. High overhead, separated from him by
cliffs of darkness, the searchlights wheeled and blazed, and the shining sh=
apes
went to and fro. Giant voices called to one another above there, calling the
Giants together to the Council of War, to hear the terms that Caterham had
sent. The gangway still inclined downward towards black vastnesses, towards
shadows and mysteries and inconceivable things, into which Redwood went slo=
wly
with reluctant footsteps and Cossar with a confident stride....
Redwood's thoughts
were busy. The two men passed into the completest darkness, and Cossar took=
his
companion's wrist. They went now slowly perforce.
Redwood was moved=
to
speak. "All this," he said, "is strange."
"Big," =
said
Cossar.
"Strange. And
strange that it should be strange to me--I, who am, in a sense, the beginni=
ng
of it all. It's--"
He stopped, wrest=
ling
with his elusive meaning, and threw an unseen gesture at the cliff.
"I have not
thought of it before. I have been busy, and the years have passed. But here=
I
see--It is a new generation, Cossar, and new emotions and new needs. All th=
is, Cossar--"
Cossar saw now his
dim gesture to the things about them.
"All this is
Youth."
Cossar made no
answers and his irregular footfalls went striding on.
"It isn't our
youth, Cossar. They are taking things over. They are beginning upon their o=
wn
emotions, their own experiences, their own way. We have made a new world, a=
nd
it isn't ours. It isn't even--sympathetic. This great place--"
"I planned
it," said Cossar, his face close.
"But now?&qu=
ot;
"Ah! I have
given it to my sons."
Redwood could feel
the loose wave of the arm that he could not see.
"That is it.=
We
are over--or almost over."
"Your
message!"
"Yes. And
then--"
"We're
over."
"Well--?&quo=
t;
"Of course we
are out of it, we two old men," said Cossar, with his familiar note of
sudden anger. "Of course we are. Obviously. Each man for his own time.=
And
now--it's their time beginning. That's all right. Excavator's gang. We do o=
ur
job and go. See? That is what death is for. We work out all our little brai=
ns
and all our little emotions, and then this lot begins afresh. Fresh and fre=
sh!
Perfectly simple. What's the trouble?"
He paused to guide
Redwood to some steps.
"Yes," =
said
Redwood, "but one feels--"
He left his sente=
nce
incomplete.
"That is what
Death is for." He heard Cossar below him insisting, "How else cou=
ld
the thing be done? That is what Death is for."
III.
After devious
windings and ascents they came out upon a projecting ledge from which it was
possible to see over the greater extent of the Giants' pit, and from which
Redwood might make himself heard by the whole of their assembly. The Giants
were already gathered below and about him at different levels, to hear the
message he had to deliver. The eldest son of Cossar stood on the bank overh=
ead
watching the revelations of the searchlights, for they feared a breach of t=
he
truce. The workers at the great apparatus in the corner stood out clear in
their own light; they were near stripped; they turned their faces towards
Redwood, but with a watchful reference ever and again to the castings that =
they
could not leave. He saw these nearer figures with a fluctuating indistinctn=
ess,
by lights that came and went, and the remoter ones still less distinctly. T=
hey
came from and vanished again into the depths of great obscurities. For these
Giants had no more light than they could help in the pit, that their eyes m=
ight
be ready to see effectually any attacking force that might spring upon them=
out
of the darknesses around.
Ever and again so=
me
chance glare would pick out and display this group or that of tall and powe=
rful
forms, the Giants from Sunderland clothed in overlapping metal plates, and =
the
others clad in leather, in woven rope or in woven metal, as their conditions
had determined. They sat amidst or rested their hands upon, or stood erect
among machines and weapons as mighty as themselves, and all their faces, as
they came and went from visible to invisible, had steadfast eyes.
He made an effort=
to
begin and did not do so. Then for a moment his son's face glowed out in a h=
ot
insurgence of the fire, his son's face looking up to him, tender as well as
strong; and at that he found a voice to reach them all, speaking across a g=
ulf,
as it were, to his son.
"I come from
Caterham," he said. "He sent me to you, to tell you the terms he
offers."
He paused. "=
They
are impossible terms, I know, now that I see you here all together; they are
impossible terms, but I brought them to you, because I wanted to see you
all--and my son. Once more ... I wanted to see my son...."
"Tell them t=
he
terms," said Cossar.
"This is what
Caterham offers. He wants you to go apart and leave his world!"
"Where?"=
;
"He does not
know. Vaguely somewhere in the world a great region is to be set apart.... =
And
you are to make no more of the Food, to have no children of your own, to li=
ve
in your own way for your own time, and then to end for ever."
He stopped.
"And that is
all?"
"That is
all."
There followed a
great stillness. The darkness that veiled the Giants seemed to look
thoughtfully at him.
He felt a touch at
his elbow, and Cossar was holding a chair for him--a queer fragment of doll=
's
furniture amidst these piled immensities. He sat down and crossed his legs,=
and
then put one across the knee of the other, and clutched his boot nervously,=
and
felt small and self-conscious and acutely visible and absurdly placed.
Then at the sound=
of
a voice he forgot himself again.
"You have he=
ard,
Brothers," said this voice out of the shadows.
And another answe=
red,
"We have heard."
"And the ans=
wer,
Brothers?"
"To
Caterham?"
"Is No!"=
;
"And then?&q=
uot;
There was a silen=
ce
for the space of some seconds.
Then a voice said:
"These people are right. After their lights, that is. They have been r=
ight
in killing all that grew larger than its kind--beast and plant and all mann=
er
of great things that arose. They were right in trying to massacre us. They =
are
right now in saying we must not marry our kind. According to their lights t=
hey
are right. They know--it is time that we also knew--that you cannot have
pigmies and giants in one world together. Caterham has said that again and =
again--clearly--their
world or ours."
"We are not =
half
a hundred now," said another, "and they are endless millions.&quo=
t;
"So it may b=
e.
But the thing is as I have said."
Then another long
silence.
"And are we =
to
die then?"
"God
forbid!"
"Are they?&q=
uot;
"No."
"But that is
what Caterham says! He would have us live out our lives, die one by one, ti=
ll
only one remains, and that one at last would die also, and they would cut d=
own
all the giant plants and weeds, kill all the giant under-life, burn out the
traces of the Food--make an end to us and to the Food for ever. Then the li=
ttle
pigmy world would be safe. They would go on--safe for ever, living their li=
ttle
pigmy lives, doing pigmy kindnesses and pigmy cruelties each to the other; =
they
might even perhaps attain a sort of pigmy millennium, make an end to war, m=
ake
an end to over-population, sit down in a world-wide city to practise pigmy =
arts,
worshipping one another till the world begins to freeze...."
In the corner a s=
heet
of iron fell in thunder to the ground.
"Brothers, we
know what we mean to do."
In a spluttering =
of
light from the searchlights Redwood saw earnest youthful faces turning to h=
is
son.
"It is easy =
now
to make the Food. It would be easy for us to make Food for all the world.&q=
uot;
"You mean,
Brother Redwood," said a voice out of the darkness, "that it is f=
or
the little people to eat the Food."
"What else is
there to do?"
"We are not =
half
a hundred and they are many millions."
"But we held=
our
own."
"So far.&quo=
t;
"If it is Go=
d's
will, we may still hold our own."
"Yes. But th=
ink
of the dead!"
Another voice too=
k up
the strain. "The dead," it said. "Think of the unborn....&qu=
ot;
"Brothers,&q=
uot;
came the voice of young Redwood, "what can we do but fight them, and i=
f we
beat them, make them take the Food? They cannot help but take the Food now.
Suppose we were to resign our heritage and do this folly that Caterham
suggests! Suppose we could! Suppose we give up this great thing that stirs
within us, repudiate this thing our fathers did for us--that you, Father, d=
id
for us--and pass, when our time has come, into decay and nothingness! What
then? Will this little world of theirs be as it was before? They may fight
against greatness in us who are the children of men, but can they conquer? =
Even
if they should destroy us every one, what then? Would it save them? No! For
greatness is abroad, not only in us, not only in the Food, but in the purpo=
se
of all things! It is in the nature of all things; it is part of space and t=
ime.
To grow and still to grow: from first to last that is Being--that is the la=
w of
life. What other law can there be?"
"To help
others?"
"To grow. It=
is
still, to grow. Unless we help them to fail...."
"They will f=
ight
hard to overcome us," said a voice.
And another,
"What of that?"
"They will
fight," said young Redwood. "If we refuse these terms, I doubt not
they will fight. Indeed I hope they will be open and fight. If after all th=
ey
offer peace, it will be only the better to catch us unawares. Make no mista=
ke,
Brothers; in some way or other they will fight. The war has begun, and we m=
ust
fight, to the end. Unless we are wise, we may find presently we have lived =
only
to make them better weapons against our children and our kind. This, so far,
has been only the dawn of battle. All our lives will be a battle. Some of us
will be killed in battle, some of us will be waylaid. There is no easy vict=
ory--no
victory whatever that is not more than half defeat for us. Be sure of that.
What of that? If only we keep a foothold, if only we leave behind us a grow=
ing
host to fight when we are gone!"
"And
to-morrow?"
"We will sca=
tter
the Food; we will saturate the world with the Food."
"Suppose they
come to terms?"
"Our terms a=
re
the Food. It is not as though little and great could live together in any
perfection of compromise. It is one thing or the other. What right have par=
ents
to say, My child shall have no light but the light I have had, shall grow no
greater than the greatness to which I have grown? Do I speak for you, Broth=
ers?"
Assenting murmurs
answered him.
"And to the
children who will be women as well as to the children who will be men,"
said a voice from the darkness.
"Even more
so--to be mothers of a new race ..."
"But for the
next generation there must be great and little," said Redwood, with his
eyes on his son's face.
"For many
generations. And the little will hamper the great and the great press upon =
the
little. So it must needs be, father."
"There will =
be
conflict."
"Endless
conflict. Endless misunderstanding. All life is that. Great and little cann=
ot
understand one another. But in every child born of man, Father Redwood, lur=
ks
some seed of greatness--waiting for the Food."
"Then I am t=
o go
to Caterham again and tell him--"
"You will st=
ay
with us, Father Redwood. Our answer goes to Caterham at dawn."
"He says tha=
t he
will fight...."
"So be it,&q=
uot;
said young Redwood, and his brethren murmured assent.
"The iron
waits," cried a voice, and the two giants who were working in the corn=
er
began a rhythmic hammering that made a mighty music to the scene. The metal
glowed out far more brightly than it had done before, and gave Redwood a
clearer view of the encampment than had yet come to him. He saw the oblong
space to its full extent, with the great engines of warfare ranged ready to
hand. Beyond, and at a higher level, the house of the Cossars stood. About =
him
were the young giants, huge and beautiful, glittering in their mail, amidst=
the
preparations for the morrow. The sight of them lifted his heart. They were =
so easily
powerful! They were so tall and gracious! They were so steadfast in their
movements! There was his son amongst them, and the first of all giant women,
the Princess....
There leapt into =
his
mind the oddest contrast, a memory of Bensington, very bright and
little--Bensington with his hand amidst the soft breast feathers of that fi=
rst
great chick, standing in that conventionally furnished room of his, peering
over his spectacles dubiously as cousin Jane banged the door....
It had all happen=
ed
in a yesterday of one-and-twenty years.
Then suddenly a
strange doubt took hold of him: that this place and present greatness were =
but
the texture of a dream; that he was dreaming, and would in an instant wake =
to
find himself in his study again, the Giants slaughtered, the Food suppresse=
d,
and himself a prisoner locked in. What else indeed was life but that--alway=
s to
be a prisoner locked in! This was the culmination and end of his dream. He
would wake through bloodshed and battle, to find his Food the most foolish =
of
fancies, and his hopes and faith of a greater world to come no more than the
coloured film upon a pool of bottomless decay. Littleness invincible!
So strong and deep
was this wave of despondency, this suggestion of impending disillusionment,
that he started to his feet. He stood and pressed his clenched fists into h=
is
eyes, and so for a moment remained, fearing to open them again and see, lest
the dream should already have passed away....
The voice of the
giant children spoke to one another, an undertone to that clangorous melody=
of
the smiths. His tide of doubt ebbed. He heard the giant voices; he heard th=
eir
movements about him still. It was real, surely it was real--as real as spit=
eful
acts! More real, for these great things, it may be, are the coming things, =
and
the littleness, bestiality, and infirmity of men are the things that go. He
opened his eyes. "Done," cried one of the two ironworkers, and th=
ey
flung their hammers down.
A voice sounded
above. The son of Cossar, standing on the great embankment, had turned and =
was
now speaking to them all.
"It is not t=
hat
we would oust the little people from the world," he said, "in ord=
er
that we, who are no more than one step upwards from their littleness, may h=
old
their world for ever. It is the step we fight for and not ourselves.... We =
are
here, Brothers, to what end? To serve the spirit and the purpose that has b=
een
breathed into our lives. We fight not for ourselves--for we are but the
momentary hands and eyes of the Life of the World. So you, Father Redwood,
taught us. Through us and through the little folk the Spirit looks and lear=
ns.
From us by word and birth and act it must pass--to still greater lives. This
earth is no resting place; this earth is no playing place, else indeed we m=
ight
put our throats to the little people's knife, having no greater right to li=
ve
than they. And they in their turn might yield to the ants and vermin. We fi=
ght
not for ourselves but for growth--growth that goes on for ever. To-morrow,
whether we live or die, growth will conquer through us. That is the law of =
the
spirit for ever more. To grow according to the will of God! To grow out of
these cracks and crannies, out of these shadows and darknesses, into greatn=
ess
and the light! Greater," he said, speaking with slow deliberation,
"greater, my Brothers! And then--still greater. To grow, and again--to
grow. To grow at last into the fellowship and understanding of God. Growing=
....
Till the earth is no more than a footstool.... Till the spirit shall have
driven fear into nothingness, and spread...." He swung his arm
heavenward:--"There!" His voice ceased. The white glare of one of=
tho
searchlights wheeled about, and for a moment fell upon him, standing out
gigantic with hand upraised against the sky.
For one instant he
shone, looking up fearlessly into the starry deeps, mail-clad, young and
strong, resolute and still. Then the light had passed, and he was no more t=
han
a great black outline against the starry sky--a great black outline that
threatened with one mighty gesture the firmament of heaven and all its
multitude of stars.
THE END.