The Yeoman Adventurer | Page 9

I looked at the wall as half expecting the sword of Captain
Smite-and-spare-not Wheatman to rattle to the ground under this awful
insinuation.
"The only use our family has found for priests, madam," I said, "has
been, I fear, to hunt them like vermin. As a Wheatman of the Hanyards,
I'm afraid I'm a degenerate."
"You'll not even be that much longer if I keep you from getting into
some dry clothes. And, if Jane is willing, I will make myself myself. I
would fain be on."
With a sweet smile and a gracious curtsy, she followed the ready Jane
upstairs.
I removed all traces of what had taken place, and carried my precious
jack into the pantry, where I hung him in safety. He should be set up by
Master Whatcot of Stafford as a trophy and memento in honour of this
great day. I then hurried off to my room to attend to my own
appearance, and indeed I needed it, for I was caked with mud up to my
knees and soaking wet up to my waist. For the first time in my life I
was grieved to the bone at the inadequacy of my wardrobe, and even

when I had donned my Sunday best my appearance was undoubtedly
villainous from the London point of view. I feathered myself as finely
as my resources permitted, but it was a homely, uncouth yeoman that
raced downstairs and awaited her coming. I drew the curtains, lit the
candles, kicked the fire into a blaze, and built it up with fresh logs.
It would be impossible for me to set down the hubbub of thoughts and
ideas that filled my mind. I had been plunged into a new world, and
floundered about in it pretty hopelessly, I can tell you. The days of
knight-errantry had come over again, and chance, mightier even than
King Arthur, had commanded me to serve a sweet lady in distress. But
I had had no training, no preliminary squireship, in which I could learn
how things were done by watching brave and accomplished knights do
them. I had lived among the parts of speech, not among the facts of life.
I could hit a bird on the wing, snare a rabbit, ride like a saddle, angle
for jack and trout, strike like a sledge-hammer, swim like a fish--and
that was all. I knew, too, every turn and track and tree for miles round;
and that might be something now, and indeed, as will be seen, turned
out my most precious accomplishment. Some people said I was as
proud as Lucifer, others that I was as meek as a mouse, and I once
overheard our Kate tell Priscilla Dobson, Jack's vinegary sister, that
both were right--which confounded me, for our 'Copper Nob,' as I used
to call her, was a shrewd little woman. Still, such as I was, the stranger
lady should have me, an she would, as her squire, to the last breath in
my body. Only let me get out of my cabbage-bed, only give me a man's
work to do, and I would ask for no more. Neither for love nor for liking
would I crave, but just for the work and the joy of it.
The yard gate clicked, and a moment later mother and Kate came in.
"Oh, Noll, it's been grand!" burst out Kate. "I wish you'd been there.
There were hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers, horse and foot, and
guns and wagons without end. Lord Brocton was there, and Sir Ralph
Sneyd, who is just a duck, and a nasty-looking major with his face all
over blotches. And they saw us, and crowded into the vicar's to talk to
us."
"And what about Jack Dobson?"

"Oh, Oliver, what have you got your best clothes on for?"
"Because I got wet through catching a great jack. But never mind my
best clothes. How did Jack look in his uniform?"
"A lot better than Lord Brocton, or anyone else there, if you must
know," she said, jerking the words at me, with her cheeks near the
colour of her hair.
"Can he talk sense yet?"
"He talked like the modest gentleman he is," said my mother, "and
looked nearly as handsome as my own boy. He sent his loving
greetings to you, and would fain have come to see you but his duties
would not allow of it."
Of course my gibes at Jack were all purely foolish and jealous, and,
moreover, I could now afford to be truthful; so I said, "If Jack doesn't
do better, as well as look better, than my Lord Brocton, I'll thrash him
soundly when he gets back. But he will. He's a rare one is Master Jack,
and by a long chalk the pluckiest soul, boy