Once Aboard The Lugger | Page 5

yourself, I pray, to the Rose. I am anxious.
Nothing could console me should any evil thing come upon her. I am
apprehensive. I look to you. I will take a stroll."
Outside the wire fence Mr. Marrapit and Mrs. Major parted. The
masterly woman glided swiftly towards the house; Mr. Marrapit, with
bent head, passed thoughtfully along an opposite path.
And immediately the sleeping garden awoke to sudden activity.

III.
First to break covert was Frederick, Mr. Fletcher's assistant.
Abnormally steeped in vice for one so young (this wretched boy was
but fourteen), with the coolness of a matured evil-doer Frederick
extinguished his cigarette-end by pressing it against his boot-heel;
dropped it amongst other ends, toilsomely collected, in a tin box;
placed the box in its prepared hole; covered this with earth and leaves;
hooked a basket of faded weeds upon his arm, and so appeared in Mr.
Marrapit's path with bent back, diligently searching.
Mr. Marrapit inquired: "Your task?"
"Weedin'," said Frederick.

"Weeding what?"
"Weeds," Frederick told him, a little surprised.
Mr. Marrapit rapped sharply: "Say 'sir'."
"Sir," said Frederick, making to move.
Mr. Marrapit peered at the basket. "You have remarkably few."
"There ain't never many," Frederick said with quiet pride--"there ain't
never many if you keep 'em down by always doin' your job."
Mr. Marrapit pointed: "They grow thick at your feet, sir!"
In round-eyed astonishment Frederick peered low. "They spring up the
minute your back's turned, them weeds. They want a weed destroyer
what you pours out of a can."
"You are the weed-destroyer," Mr. Marrapit said sternly. "Be careful. It
is very true that they spring up whenever my back is turned. Be
careful." He passed on.
"Blarst yer back," murmured Frederick, bending his own to the task.

IV.
A few yards further Mr. Marrapit again paused. Against a laurel bush
stood a pair of human legs, the seat of whose encasing trousers stared
gloomily upwards at the sky. With a small twig he carried Mr. Marrapit
tapped the seat. Three or four raps were necessary; slowly it
straightened into line with the legs; from the abyss of the bush a back,
shoulders, head, appeared.
Just as the ostrich with buried head believes itself hid from observation,
so it was with Mr. Fletcher, needing peace, a habit to plunge head and
shoulders into a bush and there remain--showing nothing against the
sky-line. Long practice had freed the posture from irksomeness. As a
young man Mr. Fletcher had been employed in a public tennis-court,
and there had learned the little mannerism to which he now had
constant resort. In those days the necessity of freeing himself from the
constant annoyance of nets to be tightened, or of disputes between rival
claims to courts to be settled, had driven him to devise some means of
escape. It was essential to the safety of his post, upon the other hand,
that he must never allow it to be said that he was constantly absent
from his duties. Chance gave him the very means he sought. Bent
double into a bush one day, searching a tennis ball, he heard his name
bawled up and down the courts; he did not stir. Those who were calling

him stumbled almost against his legs; did not observe him; passed on
calling. Thereafter, when unduly pressed, it became Mr. Fletcher's habit
to bury head and arms in a bush either until the hue and cry for him had
lulled, or until exasperated searchers knocked against his stern; in the
latter event he would explain that he was looking for tennis balls.
The habit had persisted. Whenever irritated or depressed (and this
man's temperament caused such often to be his fate), he would creep to
the most likely bush and there disappear as to his upper half. It is a fine
thing in this turbulent life thus to have some quiet refuge against the
snarlings of adversity.
Mr. Fletcher drew up now and faced Mr. Marrapit; in his hand a snail.
He said gloomily: "Another one"; held it towards his master's face.
Here is an example of how one deception leads to another. This was no
fresh snail; often before Mr. Marrapit had seen it. To lend motive to his
concealment Mr. Fletcher carried always with him this same snail;
needing peace he would draw it from his pocket; plunge to consolation;
upon discovery exhibit it as excuse.
"There is an abominable smell here," said Mr. Marrapit.
Mr. Fletcher inhaled laboriously. "It's not for me to say what it is."
"Adjust that impression. Yours is the duty. You are in charge here.
What is it?"
"It's them damn cats."
"You are insolent, sir. Your insolence increases. It grows unendurable."
Mr. Fletcher addressed the snail. "He asts a question. I beg not to
answer