The Golden Scarecrow | Page 4

His cheeks were chubby and red and his nose small, his mouth also
very small. He had no chin. He was wearing a bright blue velvet
waistcoat with brass buttons, and over his black shoes there shone
white spats.
Hugh had never seen white spats before. Mr. Pidgen shone with
cleanliness, and he had supremely the air of having been exactly as he
was, all in one piece, years ago. He was like one of the china ornaments
in Mrs. Lasher's drawing-room that the housemaid is told to be so
careful about, and concerning whose destruction Hugh heard her on at
least one occasion declaring, in a voice half tears, half defiance, "Please,
ma'am, it wasn't me. It just slipped of itself!" Mr. Pidgen would break
very completely were he dropped.
The first thing about him that struck Hugh was his amazing difference
from Mr. Lasher. It seemed strange that any two people so different

could be in the same house. Mr. Lasher never gleamed or shone, he
would not break with however violent an action you dropped him, he
would certainly never wear white spats.
Hugh liked Mr. Pidgen at once. They spoke for the first time at the
mid-day meal, when Mr. Lasher said, "More Yorkshire pudding,
Pidgen?" and Mr. Pidgen said, "I adore it."
Now Yorkshire pudding happened to be one of Hugh's special passions
just then, particularly when it was very brown and crinkly, so he said
quite spontaneously and without taking thought, as he was always told
to do,
"So do I!"
"My dear Hugh!" said Mrs. Lasher; "how very greedy! Fancy! After all
you've been told! Well, well! Manners, manners!"
"I don't know," said Mr. Pidgen (his mouth was full). "I said it first, and
I'm older than he is. I should know better.... I like boys to be greedy, it's
a good sign--a good sign. Besides. Sunday--after a sermon--one
naturally feels a bit peckish. Good enough sermon, Lasher, but a bit
long."
Mr. Lasher of course did not like this, and, indeed, it was evident to any
one (even to a small boy) that the two gentlemen would have different
opinions upon every possible subject. However, Hugh loved Mr.
Pidgen there and then, and decided that he would put him into the story
then running (appearing in nightly numbers from the moment of his
departure to bed to the instant of slumber--say ten minutes); he would
also, in the imaginary cricket matches that he worked out on paper,
give Mr. Pidgen an innings of two hundred not out and make him
captain of Kent. He now observed the vision very carefully and
discovered several strange items in his general behaviour. Mr. Pidgen
was fond of whistling and humming to himself; he was restless and
would walk up and down a room with his head in the air and his hands
behind his broad back, humming (out of tune) "Sally in our Alley," or
"Drink to me only." Of course this amazed Mr. Lasher.

He would quite suddenly stop, stand like a top spinning, balanced on
his toes, and cry, "Ah! Now I've got it! No, I haven't! Yes, I have. By
God, it's gone again!"
To this also Mr. Lasher strongly objected, and Hugh heard him say,
"Really, Pidgen, think of the boy! Think of the boy!" and Mr. Pidgen
exclaimed, "By God, so I should!... Beg pardon, Lasher! Won't do it
again! Lord save me, I'm a careless old drunkard!" He had any number
of strange phrases that were new and brilliant and exciting to the boy,
who listened to him. He would say, "by the martyrs of Ephesus!" or
"Sunshine and thunder!" or "God stir your slumbers!" when he thought
any one very stupid. He said this last one day to Mrs. Lasher, and of
course she was very much astonished. She did not from the first like
him at all. Mr. Pidgen and Mr. Lasher had been friends at Cambridge
and had not met one another since, and every one knows that that is a
dangerous basis for the renewal of friendship. They had a little dispute
on the very afternoon of Mr. Pidgen's arrival, when Mr. Lasher asked
his guest whether he played golf.
"God preserve my soul! No!" said Mr. Pidgen. Mr. Lasher then
explained that playing golf made one thin, hungry and self-restrained.
Mr. Pidgen said that he did not wish to be the first or last of these, and
that he was always the second, and that golf was turning the fair places
of England into troughs for the moneyed pigs of the Stock Exchange to
swill in.
"My dear Pidgen!" cried Mr. Lasher, "I'm afraid no one could call me a
moneyed pig with any justice--more's the pity--and a game of golf to
me is----"
"Ah! you're