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These remarks, whether entirely understood or not at the time, did make a deep impression on Digby’s mind; and he thanked Bouverie for speaking so unreservedly to him. “But how did the other fellows, of whom you were speaking, die?” asked Digby. “Perhaps they had reformed, or would have reformed, had they lived.”
“What they might have done no mortal can venture to say,” answered Bouverie, gravely. “They had not reformed, but, on the contrary, had become worse and worse, and one and all of them died miserably. The deaths of some were laid to the climates to which they went; but had their constitutions not been completely weakened, they might easily have withstood the attacks of the climate. Two died from excessive drinking, another was killed in a drunken brawl, and a fourth broke his neck when unconscious of what he was about, while two more died miserably, horribly. I need not tell you now; but they had their own vicious propensities alone to blame.”
“I believe all you have told me, and how I wish that you would speak to others in the way you have done to me,” exclaimed Digby. “What shall we do when you go, Bouverie?” As he spoke, the tears came into his eyes.
“Remember what I have said to you; and let the right-thinking boys keep as much as possible to themselves,” answered Bouverie (he was going at the end of the half). “I will let you know where I am, and you must write to me and let me know how things go on, and I will write to you, and give you my advice. I shall depend a good deal upon you, remember. Already many fellows look to you as a leader; you must do your best to keep that position, not only by your daring and activity, but by your moral conduct, by your steadiness and general good behaviour. As a proof of it, Farnham and others have been arranging a game of ‘Follow-my-leader’ for to-morrow, across the country somewhere; and, after discussing a number of fellows to act as leader, some much older than you are, they unanimously fixed on you.”
Digby could not be but pleased at this, especially from the importance Bouverie attached to the circumstance. That very evening, Farnham, Newland, Ranger, and several other fellows came up to him.
“Heathcote, the weather is still cool, and we have all been talking of a grand Follow-my-leader run;” began Newland.
“Sibley, who was one of our best leaders, is lame, and can’t run, and Cooper won’t, and the fellows say that Hume, and Freeland, and Rolls, and Elmore don’t give sport enough, and funk to go over difficult places, and can’t jump half the brooks about us, and so it was agreed that the chances are you would make a better leader than any of them.”
“That’s not exactly it, Newland,” interposed Farnham; “you know that when some one asked you to lead, you said, that from the way Heathcote had followed the last time we had a run, and from the capital manner in which he plays all the games he learns, that you were certain that he would prove about the best and most plucky leader we have had in our time. Then, Heathcote, say you will accept the office, and settle the matter.”
“I can’t make a speech, but I will undertake to do my best; and all I ask is, that if I tumble into a ditch and can’t get out by myself, somebody will help me,” answered Digby. “How many will join, do you think?”
“Twenty, at least,” said Farnham. “Good sport is expected; because they all say a plucky fellow like you is certain to lead into new and difficult places.”
“As I said before, I’ll do my best, and just think over to-night the line of country I will take,” said Digby. “I know it pretty well by this time, but I will consult you two fellows about it when I have formed a plan, and see if you approve of it.”
So it was settled.
“We’ll just take care, though,” he added, “lest that little sneak, Tommy Bray, does not manage to slip his vile French mark into my hand the last thing. The only safe plan will be to hold my tongue altogether; then he can’t say I am talking English or bad French.”
The rest undertook to keep a watch over Tommy, and to draw him away should he be found near Digby.
The precaution was not useless, for he was very soon afterwards seen hovering about, his little sharp eyes twinkling with malice, as if he had made sure of his victim. The rest, however, sung out “Johnny Jackass, Johnny Jackass,” – a name which had lately been bestowed on him, while others “he-hawed – he-hawed” in concert, and in a way which prevented him from fixing on any of the party with whom, from their being in the French class, he could leave the mark. Besides, had he given it to one of them, he would have been prevented handing it to Digby, which it was his object to do. First one addressed him – not in very good French, certainly, – then another; and the others pretended to be talking English a little way off; but by the time he got up to them they were either making dumb show, or chattering away in what was considered French. Then he would suddenly turn back to Digby, but would find him poring over a book, and as dumb as an adder. Thus the evening slipped away; and after the bell rang for prayers, the mark could not be passed. It was known that Bray did not really get any imposition for having the mark, and thus all escaped.
Digby, very naturally, could scarcely sleep at first going to bed for thinking of what he would do the next day. He resolved, at all events, that he would show he was worthy of the honour done him. Each boy was furnished with a strong ash leaping-pole, about ten feet long, and this added very much to the excitement and interest of the sport, because by their means wide and deep streams could easily be crossed, walls scaled, and difficult hedges got through. At last Digby recollected having taken a walk over a wildish part of the country, three or four weeks before this; and on thinking over the impediments to a direct course across it, he resolved that that should be the line he would follow. This done, he fell asleep.
Chapter Fourteen
A Grand Game of “Follow my Leader” – Digby Leader – Farmer Growler proves far better than he looks – Arrival of Julian Langley – a conspiracy hatched
The next morning broke with the promise of a very fine day, and as the sun rose, the weather improved. Digby was early on foot, and set to work at once on his lessons, that he might run no chance of being turned back, and having to keep in to do any task which might be set him, and which he fancied Monsieur Guillaume or Mr Tugman would be too happy to impose. Both tried hard to find him tripping, but entirely failed. School was over. Dinner was rapidly got through, and Digby and his followers hurried out to prepare for their adventures. They all had on their cricketing dresses of white flannel, with dark blue jackets over them – light blue ribbons were on their hats, and short streamers of the same colour at the upper end of their poles. Altogether they looked very neat and fit for work. As they were dressed in flannel, and all their clothes would wash, they did not dread the consequences of a tumble into a muddy ditch or a deep stream. Digby was distinguished as leader by having a red and white ribbon added to the blue streamer at the end of his pole. They all assembled in the playground ready for the start. Scarborough looked at them with an envious eye, and would have liked to have spoiled their sport – so would Spiller, for no one had asked him to join; but the appearance of Bouverie, who had come to see the start, prevented them from indulging in their bad feelings.
“All ready,” shouted Digby. “Well, then, away we go.”
A gate in the side wall of the playground led into some fields. Out of this they all filed, Digby leading and flourishing his pole above his head. From the moment his followers got outside the gate they were bound to do exactly as he did. Now he planted his pole in the ground and leaped as far as it would carry him – now he took a hop, skip, and a jump – now an eccentric turn on one side or the other – now he bolted through a hedge, and ran at full speed along a road till a practicable gap appeared in another hedge with a field on the right: into this he leaped, and made his way towards a high mound whence a fine view could be obtained of all the country round. A broad ditch intervened – that everybody knew. There was a plank bridge some way down, and it was a question whether he was going to make for it, but he had no such intention. He reached its sedgy margin, and planting his pole firmly in the centre, he sprang forward and cleared it with a couple of feet to spare on the other side. One after the other followed. Some, the bigger boys especially, leaped as far as he did. Paul Newland cleared it, and a very good leap he made for a boy of his size. One little fellow, however, John Nott, who always wanted to do things, but seldom found his nerves in a proper condition when it came to the point, planted his pole, began the leap, but trembled when half way over, and before his feet had touched the bank down he slipped, and into the soft mud he went. William Ranger, who had purposely brought up the rear that he might help any who got into scrapes, though he said that he did so to whip up stragglers, saw what had happened, and leaping across somewhat out of his turn, hauled up the mud-bespattered little fellow to the green turf.
“There, roll yourself on the turf, Notty, and then, on your legs once more, follow the rest.” He exclaimed when he had performed this act of kindnesss, “Tally ho! tally ho!”
Away all the party went once more, till they all stood on the high mound, flourishing their poles and enjoying the balmy coolness of the early spring air, scented with numberless flowers of summer. Snowdrops and daffodils had disappeared, but primroses, cowslips, and violets covered the grassy fields and meadows in rich profusion. Wood anemones were carpeting with their delicate and white pink blossoms the leaf-covered ground in every wood and sheltered copse; and the delicate blossoms of the stellaria were shining forth, amid herbage of every description on all the banks and hedges, like stars in the dark sky. The glossy blossoms of the celandine, too, in every damper spot enamelled the turf; and the bright yellow flowers of the large water ranunculus garnished the sides of the streams and rivulets which flowed below them. Sweetly, too, and cheerfully the birds sang on every bush and tree-top with many varied notes. The cuckoo sent forth his unmistakeable sounds, also, from many a neighbouring hedge, always calling loudly, and yet seeming to be so far off, – while high above their heads was heard the joyous note of the skylark, as he rose upwards into the blue sky, as if never intending to return again to earth. Varied, likewise, was the landscape. There were hills and downs in the distance – wide fields, sloping here and there, in which the corn was just springing up – rich green meadows, on which the cattle was enjoying the most luxurious of repasts. There were woods, too, and hazel copses on the hill-sides; and sparkling streams and ponds which looked as if they must be full of fish, and wide ditches full of tall sedges and flowering rushes, and many other water-plants, some few of which were already coming into bloom. Here and there might be seen small villages or hamlets, farmhouses, and neat cottages with rustic porches, over which the honeysuckle or clematis had been taught to climb; pretty little gardens – every inch of them cultivated – though the habitations only of the poorest labourers. The boys stood some time looking at it, and almost unconsciously drinking in its beauties. Digby had a feeling that he loved such a scene dearly – perhaps he scarcely knew why it was. He had no inclination for some minutes to dart down again into the valley to proceed on the course he had marked out. No one seemed to wish to hurry him either. He looked and looked – gazing round on every side.
“Yes, this is England, dear old England,” he cried. “Old England for ever. Wherever we go, boys, never let us forget Old England, or what she is like.”
“No; nor that we are Englishmen,” added Ranger.
“Old England against the world in arms! Old England for ever!” shouted Digby.
And that shout was repeated loudly, enthusiastically by all those true English boys, as they stood on that hill-top; and never were those words, thus spoken in season, forgotten, nor did the sound of that hearty shout ever die away altogether on the ears of those who repeated and heard it. Had there been thousands and thousands of other English boys within hearing, they, too, would have repeated it with equal good-will. Oh, may English boys never forget those lines of our immortal poet: —
“Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them: nought shall make us rue
If England to itself do rest but true.”
King John.
“After all, I am sure there is no place like the country, and no country like England,” cried Digby, waving his pole. “But away we go once more, boys, with just another jolly shout for the land we all love – Hurra! hurra! hurra!”
All repeated the words, and down the hill dashed Digby, followed closely by his companions, and in another moment he was forcing his way up a steep bank, and through a hedge which few would have thought of attempting. He got through it, though, and the rest followed more easily. Probably the farmer who owned the field would rather they had taken a longer way round; but certainly it did not occur to any of them that they were doing any harm; hedges are so evidently made to be got through, somehow or other, by boys, if not by cows. On they went, along the edge of the field – for wheat was coming up in it, and Digby knew that they might do harm by trampling over that. There was, of course, a gate by which they might have got out of the field, but Digby scorned gates, and it was not in the direction he was taking. There was another bank, though, with a still thicker hedge on the top of it than that they had previously passed through. Up the bank dashed Digby; but, even with the aid of his pole, he could scarcely find footing; to get over the hedge seemed impossible. Strenuous were the efforts he made, though, and numerous the times he and his followers had to jump down the bank again. Foiled he was determined not to be. Casting his eyes on either side, they fell on a young beech tree, one of whose glossy branches hung, he fancied, within reach of the top of the bank. Along the bottom of the bank he ran; he climbed up it once more, but though he sprung as high as he could, he could not reach the branch; in an instant his pole was planted firmly against the branch; up it he swarmed, and sat perched in the tree. The pole was now hauled up, and the end placed on the opposite side of the hedge; down it he went, and found himself on the side of a wide piece of moorland, yellow with the bloom of the fern, or furze. The shouts of his followers showed him how much they appreciated the feat. A broad trench was still to be crossed, full of water.
“Not very deep, though,” he thought to himself. “Never mind; here goes.”
Down the bank he slid, and, feeling with his pole, attempted to cross; but the water would, he found, even then, be up to his mouth, and perhaps deeper still further on. The weather was not yet warm enough to make a swim pleasant; so he had to scramble along by the side of the bank. At last, he came to the end of the water, and then he managed to get up the perpendicular side of a gravel bank, and, hurrying on, reached a high gravel mound.
Paul Newland had closely followed him; he made up by resolution and sagacity for what he wanted in strength.
The two stood together watching the rest getting over. Some very nearly tumbled into the pool; and they had to shout to warn them of their danger. Farnham soon came up to the mound; but they did not begin to move till Ranger shouted out that all were safely over. Then Digby once more set off among the heather, and furze, and scattered pine-trees. The unevenness of the ground afforded an abundant variety in the run. Sometimes they came to deep gravel-pits, down which Digby plunged, skirting along the pools which filled their bottoms, and then climbing up their crumbling banks on the opposite side. The piece of common was soon passed; and then a copse-wood, filled with brakes and briars, had to be passed through. Dauntlessly, in spite of thorns and the numberless scratches they inflicted, Digby led the way. Shrieks and shouts of laughter burst from the boys as they rushed on, thrusting the boughs aside, and often letting them spring back in the face of those who followed. All was taken in good part; they were in too good spirits to lose their tempers. Once more they were in a cultivated field; it was in a sheltered position, and the wheat was much advanced.
“Look out, Heathcote; old Growler’s farm is not far off, and I shouldn’t be surprised but what the field belongs to him,” shouted Farnham.
Digby was keeping along the extreme border of the field, where no wheat was growing, so he knew that they could do no harm; and he had no intention of cutting across it. On he went, therefore, till he saw under the hedge a leafy arch over a drain, and he thought that he could pass through it.
“The sooner we are out of old Growler’s property, perhaps, the better,” he shouted; “follow me.”
As he spoke, trailing his pole, he darted through the hole. It was a somewhat difficult feat; and he did not exactly know where he should find himself when he was through. He popped up his head, and found a heavy hand clapped on his shoulder.
“Hillo, young one; what have you been after?” said the man who had captured him, with a gruff voice. “Why, how many on you are there?” he added, as he watched one boy after the other emerge from the hole. “When will there be an end of you? You seems for all the world like young ferrets. Pretty mischief you’ve been doing, I doubt not, in my field of young corn. Oh, you think you’re going on, do you? Stop, stop, my young masters. I’m going to give you a sound good hiding, every one on you, or else you clubs together, and pays for the damage you have done my field.”
“We have done no damage whatever,” answered Digby. “We went in at a gap, we kept along the edge on the grass, and we came out at this hole, as you have seen.”
“I don’t believe thee, young ’un,” growled the farmer, angrily. “Don’t you tell me that you didn’t go straight across the young corn. I know what boys is made of, I should think.”
“I say that I would not tell you a falsehood to save myself from a dozen such thrashings as you would venture to give me,” exclaimed Digby, looking up boldly in his face. “Strike away, if you like; but, remember, you do it at your peril. I have told you the truth.”
The stout old farmer held him at arm’s-length, and gazed at him attentively.
“I do believe if I ever seed an honest English face thee has got it, and I believes every word thee says,” exclaimed the farmer, in quite a different tone to that in which he had before spoken. “There, now, I only wanted to frighten thee all a bit; for I thought thee had been doing a careless thing, and been trampling down my corn; but I sees I was mistaken – so just come all on you to my farm, it’s just close at hand here, and there’s a glass of home-made beer and some bread and cheese, or a cup of sweet milk and some cake, I’ll warrant my missus has got, for each of you.”
“We are playing follow-my-leader, Mr Growler; so if he goes we all must go, remember,” cried one of the boys.
“That’s just what I wants, young ’un,” answered the farmer, good-naturedly. “So come along, master – you’ll not repent it.”
So once more seizing Digby by the shoulder he hauled him off, without any vehement opposition, towards a comfortable looking farmhouse, a few fields away from where they then were. The farmer was better than his word, and bread and cheese and cake, and honey and preserves, and fresh milk and cider, and beer and gooseberry wine, all, as the farmer’s wife assured them, made by herself at home, were placed in abundance before them. They did justice to the provisions, but to their credit they drank very slightly of the fermented liquors. The farmer and his wife pressed them to partake of everything set before them. Really it was, as the good dame observed, a pleasant sight to see the twenty boys, all in health and spirits, their cheeks glowing with the exercise they had been taking, sitting round the large well-scrubbed oak table in the farmhouse kitchen, and the huge cheeses and equally large loaves of pure home-made bread, not sickly white, but with an honest brown tinge, showing that all the best part of the flour was there, and no admixture of alum or bone-dust. Then how the beer frothed, and smelt of honest malt and hops. The profusion of honest food was pleasant, and still pleasanter the hearty good-will with which it was given. The dame wanted to do some rashers of bacon and to poach them some eggs, but they all declined her kindness, assuring her that if they eat more they could never get through the work they had before them.
“Remember, my boys, I shall be main glad to see any of you whenever you comes this way, and can give me a look in,” said Farmer Growler, as they rose to continue their run, and Digby was offering to shake hands with him.
The farmer took his hand and wrung it heartily.
“I wasn’t inclined to think over well of the youngsters of Grangewood there; but since I have seen you, I tell you frankly, I likes some on you very much. Good-bye, good-bye.”
“We might have said the same of our new friend,” observed Digby, as they got beyond hearing. “After having known that honest, good-natured fellow, rough as his outside seemed, I shall be inclined to think better of some of the farmers I know, whom I’ve always fancied to be rather sulky, bearish fellows. We won’t forget to pay him a visit another day, and it will be pleasant if we can think of something to carry to him or his wife. But we must make up for lost time, and go ahead faster than before, or we shall not get back till dark.”
Away they all went; their meal – for neither was it luncheon, dinner, nor tea – in no way impeded their progress. On they ran faster than ever; nothing stopped them. At last they came out near a village. Right through it they went, much to the astonishment of the inhabitants, who hurried out of their cottages, to see the young gentlemen running like mad down the street. A meadow was on one side. Over a paling and a widish ditch Digby jumped, and along the meadow he ran, knowing full well that a broadish stream was to be found at the bottom of it. By this time a number of spectators had collected.
“It must be done,” thought Digby; “follow who can.”
He planted his pole in the middle of the stream and cleared it with a bound – shouts from the villagers showing their admiration of the feat.
Most of the rest went over in good style. Poor little Notty very nearly tumbled in, but generous Ranger went over first and stood by to catch him; and on they all went once more in line, and were soon out of sight of the village and its vociferous inhabitants, as Newland called them. Other streams were in their course. They came to some swampy ground, and Digby very nearly let them into a quagmire, where they would all have stuck, when he espied some stones to his left, and landed on a causeway which led across it. That stream-leaping was a fine exercise for the nerves and strength, and agility too, and required no little practice. A hill now appeared before them. They breasted it boldly, as some of them did years afterwards other hills when crowned with fierce enemies, showering down bullets and round-shot on their heads. The parish church, with a lofty and beautiful tower, stood there. It had been all along Digby’s aim to reach it. The view from the summit he knew was beautiful – no more extensive prospect was to be found in all the country round. The tower was undergoing repair, so the door was open. In went Digby, and up the steps he ran – round and round and round he went, as he ascended the well-worn circular stair – the voices of his followers sounding in various tones behind him. Near the top was a window – from it hung a stout rope, which his quick eye saw was well secured. He reached the top, where there was a platform large enough, for the tower was square, to contain all the party. Soon they all assembled there. If the view from the hill was sufficient to inspirit them, this was still more calculated to do so. It did, and such a cheer was raised as perhaps had not been heard from the old tower top for many a year. There is good hope for England when her boys can cheer right lustily and honestly, as did Digby Heathcote and his friends. For some time they stood there drinking in unconsciously the beauty of the scene, not troubling themselves with details however, and imbibing, too, greater love than ever for their native land. Suddenly Digby recollected that he ought to be moving.
“On, on,” he shouted, and down the steps he dashed – not altogether, though. He stopped at the belfry and sprang to the window, from which hung the rope he had observed. Heaving down his pole, he grasped the rope, and, to the surprise and almost horror of his companions, he threw his legs over and down he glided; not very rapidly, though, but quietly, as if it was a matter of every-day occurrence, looking up and trying out, “Let those only follow who are certain they can do it. I forgive those who cannot.”
Farnham, Ranger, Newland, and others looked over, and doubted whether or not they would follow. They had a regard for their necks – it would not be pleasant to break them, and yet Digby performed the feat so easily, and it would be a disgrace if no one attempted it. Ranger did not hesitate long – he only waited till Digby reached the ground in safety, to grasp the rope and to follow him down. The rest shouted when they saw him gliding down. He was, as he deserved to be, a general favourite. Soon he was seen standing alongside Digby. Farnham and then Newland came, and three more; but the remainder could not bring themselves to make the venture. Indeed, Digby and Ranger entreated them not to do so; for though they stood underneath to catch any who might fall, they all felt that the risk was great. Digby, more especially, had scarcely reached the ground than he regretted having tempted others to follow his example.
“If any of them should be killed, or seriously hurt themselves, how dreadful it would be. I should never forgive myself,” he observed to Ranger.
All were at length assembled at the foot of the tower; and Digby having flourished his pole, once more started off as leader of the party, on their return towards home. He had arranged a different route to that by which they had come, away to the right; a portion of it being over a high chalky ridge. They had a steep hill-side to climb, but well and actively they did it; and, at the top, they were rewarded by the fresh health-inspiring breeze they met in their faces. For a mile or more Digby kept the summit of the ridge – a smooth, green surface, which appeared to afford but little variety to the leader’s movements; but here Digby equally showed his talent for his office, never for a minute together was he in the same attitude. Now his pole was poised on high as an Indian dart, or javelin; now it was held as a lance; now he was flourishing it round his head; now he made a sudden leap forward with it; now he hopped; now he skipped; now he went round and round, spinning, but yet advancing. All these, and a variety of other eccentric movements were seen from the valley below, and created the greatest astonishment, and, in some instances, consternation, for the figures of the boys, seen against the evening sky, as they followed one after the other, in regular succession, appeared magnified to a considerable degree; and many wondered what extraordinary beings they could be. They were very much amused, some days afterwards, on hearing of the strange sights the people had seen on the ridge on that very evening, and how they passed by. The remainder of the leaps they took, the streams they crossed, and the duckings some of them got, need not further be described. They got back in time for tea, which on Saturdays, in summer, was always later than at other times.
Digby got very much complimented for the way in which he had led.
“It’s the best run we have ever had, old fellow,” exclaimed Ranger and others. “Yes, indeed it was; and the plucky way in which you got down from the top of Whitcombe Church tower was very fine. It’s not surprising some of us funked to follow. We must have another run like it next week, and we must get you to be leader again. Remember, you think over what course you will take, so as to give us plenty of sport.”
Digby, naturally gratified at all these compliments, promised that he would prepare for another run on the following Saturday.
The authorities, however, it appeared, had taken a different view of the sport to that which those had who had engaged in it. The descent from the top of Whitcombe tower was looked upon with unmitigated horror; and it was proposed to take steps for the prevention of any such dangerous adventures in future. Little, however, was poor Mr Sanford aware of how much worse proceedings were taking place much nearer home, and of the far greater dangers to which many of the boys were exposed during those long spring evenings, when they were allowed to wander forth beyond the supervision of their masters.
The Monday after this noted run, Digby was passing through the hall, when the front-door bell rang, and Susan went to open it, just as she had done the day of his arrival. He likewise stopped at the end of the passage to see who was coming. A fly was at the door, and in front of it stood Rubbins, the fat butler at Milford Priory, who was at that moment helping out of it no less a person than Julian Langley.
