The Golden Scarecrow | Page 7

he did."
"My dear Pidgen," said Mr. Lasher, "I haven't understood a word."
Pidgen shook his head. "You're right. That's just what's the matter with
me. I can't even put what I see plainly." He sighed deeply. "I've failed.

There's no doubt about it. But, although I know that, I've had a happy
life. That's the funny part of it. I've enjoyed it more than you ever will,
Lasher. At least, I'm never lonely. I like my food, too, and one's head's
always full of jolly ideas, if only they seemed jolly to other people."
"Upon my word, Pidgen," said Mr. Lasher. At this moment Mrs. Lasher
opened the door.
"Well, well. Fancy! Sitting over the fire talking! Oh, you men! Tea! tea!
Tea, Will! Fancy talking all the afternoon! Well!"
No one had noticed Hugh. He, however, had understood Mr. Pidgen
better than Mr. Lasher did.
V
This conversation aroused in Hugh, for various reasons, the greatest
possible excitement. He would have liked to have asked Mr. Pidgen
many questions. Christmas Day came, and a beautiful day enthroned it:
a pale blue sky, faint and clear, was a background to misty little clouds
that hovered, then fled and disappeared, and from these flakes of snow
fell now and then across the shining sunlight. Early in the winter
afternoon a moon like an orange feather sailed into the sky as the lower
stretches of blue changed into saffron and gold. Trees and hills and
woods were crystal-clear, and shone with an intensity of outline as
though their shapes had been cut by some giant knife against the
background. Although there was no wind the air was so expectant that
the ringing of church bells and the echo of voices came as though
across still water. The colour of the sunlight was caught in the cups and
runnels of the stiff frozen roads and a horse's hoofs echoed, sharp and
ringing, over fields and hedges. The ponds were silvered into a sheet of
ice, so thin that the water showed dark beneath it. All the trees were
rimmed with hoar-frost.
On Christmas afternoon, when three o'clock had just struck from the
church tower, Hugh and Mr. Pidgen met, as though by some
conspirator's agreement, by the garden gate. They had said nothing to
one another and yet there they were; they both glanced anxiously back

at the house and then Mr. Pidgen said:
"Suppose we take a walk."
"Thank you very much," said Hugh. "Tea isn't till half-past four."
"Very well, then, suppose you lead the way." They walked a little, and
then Hugh said: "I was there yesterday, in the study, when you talked
all that about your books, and everything." The words came from him
in little breathless gusts because he was excited.
Mr. Pidgen stopped and looked upon him. "Thunder and sunshine! You
don't say so! What under heaven were you doing?"
"I was reading, and you came in and then I was interested."
"Well?"
Hugh dropped his voice.
"I understood all that you meant. I'd like to read your books if I may.
We haven't any in the house."
"Bless my soul! Here's some one wants to read my books!" Mr. Pidgen
was undoubtedly pleased. "I'll send you some. I'll send you them all!"
Hugh gasped with pleasure. "I'll read them all, however many there
are!" he said excitedly. "Every word."
"Well," said Mr. Pidgen, "that's more than any one else has ever done."
"I'd rather be with you," said the boy very confidently, "than Mr.
Lasher. I'd rather write stories than preach sermons that no one wants to
listen to." Then more timidly he continued: "I know what you meant
about the man who comes when you're a baby. I remember him quite
well, but I never can say anything because they'd say I was silly.
Sometimes I think he's still hanging round only he doesn't come to the
vicarage much. He doesn't like Mr. Lasher much, I expect. But I do
remember him. He had a beard and I used to think it funny the nurse

didn't see him. That was before we went to Ceylon, you know, we used
to live in Polchester then. When it was nearly dark and not quite he'd be
there. I forgot about him in Ceylon, but since I've been here I've
wondered ... it's sometimes like some one whispering to you and you
know if you turn round he won't be there, but he is there all the same. I
made twenty-five last summer against Porthington Grammar; they're
not much good really, and it was our second eleven, and I was nearly
out second ball; anyway I made twenty-five, and afterwards as I was
ragging about I suddenly thought of him. I know he was pleased. If it
had been a