Part 38 (1/2)

”Gettin' nearer and nearer,” he resumed his former conversation exactly where he had left it off, ”but never near enough to get disappointed--ain't it? When you gets to the end of anything, you see, it's over. And that's a pity.”

Uncle Felix glanced at Stumper; Stumper glanced down at the end of his ”wooden” leg; the Tramp still said nothing, smiling in his beard, now combed out much smoother than before.

”It comes to this,” said Weeden, ”my way of thinkin' at least.” He scratched wisdom from another corner of his head. ”There's a lot of 'iding goin' on, no question about _that_; and the great thing is--my way of thinkin' at any rate--is--jest to keep on lookin'.”

The children met him eagerly at this point, using two favourite words that Aunt Emily strongly disapproved of: ”deslidedly,” said one; ”distinkly,” exclaimed the other.

”That's it,” continued WEEDEN, pulling down his cap to hide, perhaps, the spot where wisdom would leak out. ”And, talking of signs, I say--find out yer own pertickler sign, then follow it blindly--till the end.”

He straightened up and looked with an air of respectful candour at the others. The decision of his statement delighted them. The children felt something of awe in it. Something of their Leader's knowledge evidently was in him.

”Miss Judy, she gets 'er signs from the air,” he said, as no one spoke.

”Master Tim goes poking along the ground, looking for something with his feet. He feels best that way, feels the earth--things a-growin' up or things wot go down into 'oles. Colonel Stumper--and no offence to you, sir--chooses dark places where the sun forgets to s.h.i.+ne--”

”Dangerous, jungly places,” whispered Tim, admiringly.

”And Mr. Felix--” he hesitated. Uncle Felix's easiest way of searching seemed to puzzle him. ”Mr. Felix,” he went on at length, ”jest messes about all over the place at once, because 'e sees signs everywhere and don't know what to foller in partickler for fear of losin' hisself.”

Come-Back Stumper chuckled audibly, but Uncle Felix asked at once--”And you, WEEDEN? What about yourself, I wonder?”

The Gardener replied without his usual hesitation. It was probably the most direct reply he had ever made. No one could guess how much it cost him. ”Underground,” he said. ”My signs lies underground, sir. Where the rain-drops 'ides theirselves on getting down and the grubs keeps secret till they feel their wings. Where the potatoes and the reddishes is,”

he added, touching his cap with a respectful finger. He went on with a hint of yearning in his tone that made it tremble slightly: ”If I could find igsackly where and 'ow the potatoes gets big down there”--he pointed to the earth--”or how my roses get colour out of the dirt--I'd know it, wouldn't I, sir? I'd--'ave him, fair!”

The effort exhausted him, it seemed. So deeply was he moved that he had almost gone contrary to his own nature in making such an explicit statement. But he had said something very real at last. It was clear that he was distinctly in the know. Living among natural growing things, he was in touch with life in a deeper sense than they were.

”And me?” the Tramp mentioned lightly, smiling at his companion of the outdoor life. ”Don't leave me out, please. I'm looking like the rest of you.”

WEEDEN turned round and gazed at him. He wore a strange expression that had respect in it, but something more than mere respect. There was a touch of wonder in his eye, a hint of wors.h.i.+p almost. But he did not answer; no word escaped his lips. Instead of speaking he moved up nearer; he took three cautious steps, then halted close beside the great burly figure that formed the centre of the little group.

And then he did a curious and significant little act; he held out both his hands against him as a man might hold out his hands to warm them before a warm and comforting grate of blazing coals.

”Fire,” he said; then added, ”and I'm much obliged to you.”

He wore a proud and satisfied air, grateful and happy too. He put his cap straight, picked up his spade, and prepared without another word to go on digging for truffles where apparently none existed. He seemed quite content with--looking.

A pause followed, broken presently by Tim: a whisper addressed to all.

”He never finds any. That shows how real it is.”

”They're somewhere, though,” observed Judy.

They stood and watched the spade; it went in with a crunching sound; it came out slowly with a sort of ”pouf,” and a load of rich, black earth slid off it into the world of suns.h.i.+ne. It went in again, it came out again; the rhythm of the movement caught them. How long they watched it no one knew, and no one cared to know: it might have been a moment, it may have been a year or two; so utterly had hurry vanished out of life it seemed to them they stood and watched for ever...when they became aware of a curious sensation, as though they felt the whole earth turning with them. They were moving, surely. Something to which they belonged, of which they formed a part--was moving. A windy voice was singing just in front of them. They looked up. The words were inaudible, but they knew it was a bit of the same old song that every one seemed singing everywhere as though the Day itself were singing.

The Tramp was going on.

”Hark!” said Tim. ”The birds are singing. Let's go on and look.”

”The world is wild with laughter,” Judy cried, s.n.a.t.c.hing the words from the air about her. ”We can fly--” She darted after him.

”Among the imprisoned hours as we choose,” boomed the voice of Uncle Felix, as he followed, rolling in behind her.