Freaks on the Fells by Robert Michael Ballantyne (best books to read in your 20s .TXT) 📕

comrade. We are two; you are four. It is merely a precaution to prevent the possibility of any one entering by stealth, and overhearing what I say."

The man with the battered face locked the door, and hung up the key as directed, merely remarking, with a laugh, that we were safe enough anyhow, and that if we were humbugging him it would be worse for us in the long-run.

"Come, now, out with yer secret," he added, impatiently.

"Certainly," answered Jack, with increased urbanity, at the same time taking down the key, (which caused the four men to start), and gazing at it in a pensive manner. "The secret! Ah! yes. Well, it's a wonderful one. D'you know, my lads, there would not be the most distant chance of your guessing it, if you were to try ever so much?"

"Well, but what is it?" cried one of the men, whose curiosity was now excited beyond endurance.

"It is this," rejoined Jack, with slow deliberation, "that you four men are--"

"Well," they whispered, leaning forward eagerly.

"The most outrageous and unmitigated asses we ever saw! Ha! I thought it would surprise you. Bob and I are quite agreed upon it. Pray don't open your eyes too wide, in case you should find it difficult to shut them again. Now, in proof of this great, and to you important truth, let me show you a thing. Do you see this torch," (taking it down), "and that straw?" (lifting up a handful), "Well, you have no idea what an astonishing result will follow the application of the former to the latter--see!"

To my horror, and evidently to the dismay of the men, who did not seem to believe that he was in earnest, Jack Brown thrust the blazing torch into the centre of the heap of straw.

The men uttered a yell, and rushing forward, threw themselves on the smoking heap in the hope of smothering it at once. But Jack applied the torch quickly to various parts. The flames leaped up! The men rolled off in agony. Jack, who somehow had managed to break his chain, hopped after them, showering the blazing straw on their heads, and yelling as never mortal yelled before. In two seconds the whole place was in a blaze, and I beheld Jack actually throwing somersets with his one leg over the fire and through the smoke; punching the heads of the four men most unmercifully; catching up blazing handfuls of straw, and thrusting them into their eyes and mouths in a way that quite overpowered me. I could restrain myself no longer. I began to roar in abject terror! In the midst of this dreadful scene the roof fell in with a hideous crash, and Jack, bounding through the smoking _debris_, cleared the walls and vanished!

At the same moment I received a dreadful blow on the side, and _awoke_-- to find myself lying on the floor of my bedroom, and our man-servant Edwards furiously beating the bed-curtains, which I had set on fire by upsetting the candle in my fall.

"Why, Master Robert," gasped Edwards, sitting down and panting vehemently, after having extinguished the flames, "wot have you been a-doin' of?" I was standing speechless in the midst of my upset chair, table, and books, glaring wildly, when the man said this.

"Edwards," I replied, with deep solemnity, "the mystery's cleared up at last. _It has been all a dream_!"

"Wot's been all a dream? You hain't bin a bed all night, for the clo'se is never touched, an' its broad daylight. Wot has bin up?"

I might have replied, that, according to his own statement, I had been "up," but I did not. I began gradually to believe that the dreadful scenes I had witnessed were not reality; and an overpowering sense of joy kept filling my heart as I continued to glare at the man until I thought my chest would rend asunder. Suddenly, and without moving hand, foot, or eye, I gave vent to a loud, sharp, "Hurrah!"

Edwards started--"Eh?"

"Hurrah! hurrah! it's a DREAM!"

"Hallo! I say, you know, come, this won't--"

"Hurrah!"

"Bless my 'art, Master Ro--"

Again I interrupted him by seizing my cap, swinging it round my head in an ecstasy of delight, and uttering cheer upon cheer with such outrageous vehemence, that Edwards, who thought me raving mad, crept towards the door, intending to bolt.

He was prevented from carrying out his intention, and violently overturned by the entrance of my father in dishabille. I sprang forward, plucked the spectacles off his nose, threw my arms round his neck, and kissed him on both eyes.

"I won't run away now, father, no, no, no! it's all a dream--a horrid dream! ha! ha! ha!"

"Bob, my dear boy!"

At this moment Jack, also in dishabille, rushed in. "Hallo! Bob, what's all the row?"

I experienced a different, but equally powerful gush of feeling on seeing my friend. Leaving my father, I rushed towards him, and, falling on his neck, burst into tears. Yes, I confess it without shame. Reader, if you had felt as I did, you would have done the same.

Jack led me gently to my bed, and, seating me on the edge of it, sat down beside me. I at once perceived from their looks that they all thought me mad, and felt the necessity of calming me before taking more forcible measures. This tickled me so much that I laughed again heartily, insomuch that Jack could not help joining me. Suddenly a thought flashed into my mind. My heart leaped to my throat, and I glanced downwards. _It was there_! I seized Jack's right leg, tumbled him back into the bed, and laying the limb across my knee, grasped it violently.

"All right!" I shouted, "straight, firm, muscular, supple as ever." I squeezed harder.

Jack roared. "I say, Bob, gently--"

"Hold your tongue," said I, pinching the thigh. "Do you feel _that_?"

"Ho! ah! _don't_!"

"And that?"

"Stop him! I say, my dear boy, have mercy?" Jack tried to raise himself, but I tilted him back, and, grasping the limb in both arms, hugged it.

After breakfast Jack and I retired to my room, where, the weather being unfavourable for our fishing excursion, I went all over it again in detail. After that I sent Jack off to amuse himself as he chose, and, seizing a quire of foolscap, mended a pen, squared my elbows, and began to write this remarkable account of the reason why I did not become a sailor.

I now present it to the juvenile public, in the hope that it may prove a warning to all boys who venture to entertain the notion of running away from home and going to sea.


STORY THREE, CHAPTER 1.


PAPERS FROM NORWAY.

Norway, 2nd July, 1868.

Happening to be in Norway just now, and believing that young people feel an interest in the land of the old sea-kings, I send you a short account of my experiences. Up to this date I verily believe that there is nothing in the wide world comparable to this island coast of Norway. At this moment we are steaming through a region which the fairies might rejoice to inhabit. Indeed, the fact that there are no fairies here goes far to prove that there are none anywhere. What a thought! No fairies? Why all the romance of childhood would be swept away at one fell blow if I were to admit the idea that there are no fairies. Perish the matter-of-fact thought! Let me rather conclude, that, for some weighty, though unknown, reason, the fairies have resolved to leave this island world uninhabited.

Fortune favours me. I have just come on deck, after a two days' voyage across the German Ocean, to find myself in the midst of innumerable islands, a dead calm--so dead that it seems impossible that it should ever come alive again--and scenery so wild, so gorgeous, that one ceases to wonder where the Vikings of old got their fire, their romance, their enterprise, and their indomitable pluck. It is warm, too, and brilliantly sunny.

On gazing at these tall grey rocks, with the bright green patches here and there, and an occasional red-tiled hut, one almost expects to see a fleet of daring rovers dash out of a sequestered bay, with their long yellow hair, and big blue eyes, and broad shoulders--not to mention broad-swords and ring-mail and battle-axes. But one does not always see what one expects. The days of the sea-kings are gone by; and at this moment, rowing out of one of these same sequestered bays, comes the boat of a custom-house officer. Yes, there is no doubt whatever about it. There he comes, a plain-looking unromantic man in a foraging-cap, with a blue surtout and brass buttons, about as like to a sea-king as a man-of-war is to a muffin.

Of course, the scenery is indescribable--no scenery _is_ describable. In order that my reader may judge of the truth of this statement, I append the following description.

There are islands round us of every shape and size--all of them more or less barren, the greater part of their surfaces being exposed grey rock. Here and there may be seen, as I have already hinted, small patches of bright green, and, sparsely scattered everywhere, are little red-roofed wooden cottages--poor enough things the most of them; others, gaudy-looking affairs with gable-ends, white faces, and windows bordered with green. All of these are, while I write, reflected in the water as in a mirror, for there is not a breath of wind. Over the islands on my left are seen more islands extending out to sea. On the right tower up the blue hills of the interior of old Norway, and, although the weather is excessively hot, many of these are covered with snow. Everything is light, and transparent, and thin, and blue, and glassy, and fairy-like, and magically beautiful, and altogether delightful! There: have you made much of all that, good reader? If you have, be thankful, for, as I set out by saying, description of scenery, (at least to any good purpose), is impossible. The description of a man, however, is quite another thing. Here is our pilot. He is a rugged man, with fair hair, and a yellow face, and a clay-coloured chin, and a red nose. He is small in stature, and thin, insignificant in appearance, deeply miserable in aspect. His garments are black glazed oiled-cloth from head to foot, and immensely too large for him, especially the waistcoat, which is double-breasted, and seems to feel that his trousers are not a sufficient covering for such a pair of brittle looking legs, for it extends at least half way down to his knees. The flap of his sou'-wester, also, comes half way down his back. He is a wonderful object to look upon; yet he has the audacity, (so it seems to me), to take us in charge, and our captain has the foolhardiness to allow him.

If one goes out of the beaten track of "routes" in Norway, one is apt to get into difficulties of a minor kind. I happen to be travelling just now