George Bowring - A Tale of Cader Idris | Page 8

of the banks and stones that shook with waterfall.
And before I had time to ask, "Who goes there?"--as in this solitude
one might do--a slight, short man, whom I knew by sight as a workman
of Aber-Aydyr, named Evan Peters, was close to me, and was swinging
a slate-hammer in one hand, and bore in the other a five-foot staff. He
seemed to be amazed at sight of me, but touched his hat with his staff,
and said: "Good-night, gentleman!" in Welsh; for the natives of this
part are very polite. "Good-night, Evan!" I answered, in his own
language, of which I had picked up a little; and he looked well pleased,
and said in his English: "For why, sir, did you leave your things in that
place there? A bad mans come and steal them, it is very likely."
Then he wished me "Good-night" again, and was gone--for he seemed
to be in a dreadful hurry--before I had the sense to ask him what he

meant about "my things." But as his footfall died away a sudden fear
came over me.
"The things he meant must be George Bowring's," I said to myself; and
I dropped my own, and set off, with my blood all tingling, for the place
toward which he had jerked his staff. How long it took me to force my
way among rugged rocks and stubs of oak I cannot tell, for every
moment was an hour to me. But a streak of sunset glanced along the
lonesome gorge, and cast my shadow further than my voice would go;
and by it I saw something long and slender against a scar of rock, and
standing far in front of me. Toward this I ran as fast as ever my
trembling legs would carry me, for I knew too well that it must be the
fishing-rod of George Bowring.
It was stuck in the ground--not carelessly, nor even in any hurry; but as
a sportsman makes all snug, when for a time he leaves off casting. For
instance, the end fly was fixed in the lowest ring of the butt, and the
slack of the line reeled up so that the collar lay close to the rod itself.
Moreover, in such a rocky place, a bed to receive the spike could not
have been found without some searching. For a moment I was
reassured. Most likely George himself was near--perhaps in quest of
blueberries (which abound at the foot of the shingles-and are a very
delicious fruit), or of some rare fern to send his wife, who was one of
the first in England to take much notice of them. And it shows what
confidence I had in my friend's activity and strength, that I never feared
the likely chance of his falling-from some precipice.
But just as I began, with some impatience--for we were to have dined at
the Cross-Pipes about sundown, five good (or very bad) miles away,
and a brace of ducks-was the order--just as I began to shout, "George!
Wherever have you got to?" leaping on a little rock, I saw a thing that
stopped me. At the further side of this rock, and below my feet, was a
fishing basket, and a half-pint mug nearly full of beer, and a crust of the
brown, sweet bread of the hills, and a young white onion, half cut
through, and a clasp-knife open, and a screw of salt, and a slice of the
cheese, just dashed with goat's milk, which George was so fond of, but
I disliked; and there may have been a hard-boiled egg. At the sight of

these things all my blood rushed to my head in such a manner that all
my power to think was gone. I sat down on the rock where George
must have sat while beginning his frugal luncheon, and I put my heels
into the marks of his, and, without knowing why, I began to sob like a
child who has lost his mother. What train of reasoning went through
my brain--if any passed in the obscurity--let metaphysicians or
psychologists, as they call themselves, pretend to know. I only know
that I kept on whispering, "George is dead! Unless he had been killed,
he never would have left his beer so!"
I must have sat, making a fool of myself, a considerable time in this
way, thinking of George's poor wife and children, and wondering what
would become of them, instead of setting to work at once to know what
was become of him. I took up a piece of cheese-rind, showing a perfect
impression of his fine front teeth, and I put it in my pocketbook, as the
last thing he had touched. And then I examined the place-all around and
knelt to look