Priscilla's Spies
“I wonder,” said Frank, “if I could manage to get down to the boat
to-morrow. You said something about a boat, didn’t you, Priscilla? Is it
far?”
“I’ll work that all right for you. As it just happens, luckily enough
there’s an old bath-chair in a corner of the hay-loft. I came across
it last hols when I was looking for a bicycle pump I lost. I was rather
disappointed at the time, not thinking that the old chair would be any
use, whereas I wanted the pump. Now it turns out to be exactly what we
want, which shows that well directed labour is never really wasted. The
front-wheel is a bit groggy, but I daresay it’ll hold all right as far
as the quay. I’ll go round after dinner to-night and fish it out. I can
wheel you quite easily, for it’s all down hill.”
Frank had not intended when he left England to go about the country in a
bath-chair with a groggy front-wheel. For a moment he hesitated. A wild
fear struck him of what the Uppingham captain--that dangerous bat whose
innings his brilliant catch had cut short--might say and think if he
saw the vehicle. But the Uppingham captain was not likely to be in
Rosnacree. Christian Science was a more threatening danger. He pictured
to himself the stare of amazement on the countenance of Mr. Dupré and
the sniggering face of young Latimer who collected beetles and hated
washing. But Mr. Dupré, Latimer and the members of the house eleven,
were, no doubt, far off.
Miss Lentaigne was very near at hand. He accepted Priscilla’s offer.
“Right,” she said. “I’ll settle the chair, if I have to tie it together
with my hair ribbon. It’s nice to think of that old chair coming in
useful in the end. It must have been in the loft for ages and ages.
Sylvia Courtney told me that her mother says anything will come in
useful if you only keep it long enough; but I don’t know whether that’s
true. I don’t think it can be, quite, for I tried it once with a used
up exercise-book and it didn’t seem to be the slightest good even after
years and years, though it got most frightfully tattered. Still it
may be true. You never can tell about things of that sort, and Sylvia
Courtney says her mother is extremely wise; so she may be quite right.
“Christian Science,” said Frank bitterly, “wouldn’t be of any use if you
kept it for centuries. What’s the use of saying a thing isn’t swelled
when it is?”
CHAPTER V
A night’s rest restored self-respect to Frank Mannix. He felt when his
clothes were brought to him in the morning by a respectful footman that
he had to some extent sacrificed his dignity in his confidential
talk with Priscilla the day before. He had committed himself to the
bath-chair and the boating expedition, and he had too high a sense of
personal honour to back out of an engagement definitely made. But he
determined to keep Priscilla at a distance. He would go with her,
would to some extent join in her childish sports; but it must be on the
distinct understanding that he did so as a grown man who condescends to
play games with an amusing child. With this idea in his mind he dressed
himself very carefully in a suit a cricket flannels. The garments were
in themselves suitable for boating as he understood the sport. They were
also likely, he thought, to impress Priscilla. The white flannel coat,
bound round its edges with crimson silk, was at Haileybury part of a
uniform set apart for the sole use of members of the first eleven who
had actually got their colours. The crimson sash round his waist was
a badge of the same high office. Small boys, who played cricket on the
house pitches in the Little Side ground, bowed in awed humility before a
member of the first eleven when he appeared before them in all his glory
and felt elated if they were allowed to walk across the quadrangle
with any one who wore the sacred vestments. Frank had little doubt that
Priscilla, who was to be his companion for the day would realise the
greatness of her privileges.
But Priscilla seemed curiously unimpressed. She met him in the breakfast
room before either Sir Lucius or Miss Lentaigne came down.
“Great Scot! Cousin Frank,” she said, “you are a howler!”
Frank drew himself up; but realised even as he did so that he must make
some reply to Priscilla. It was impossible to pretend not to know that
she was speaking about his clothes.
“An old suit of flannels,” he said with elaborate carelessness. “I hope
you didn’t expect me to be grand.”
“I never saw anything grander in my life,” said Priscilla. “I thought
Sylvia Courtney’s summer Sunday hat was swankey; but it’s simply not in
it with your coat. I suppose that belt thing is real silk.”
“School colours,” said Frank.
“Oh! Ours are blue and dark yellow. I have them on a hockey blouse.”
The bath-chair turned out to be rather more dilapidated and disreputable
than Frank expected. The front-wheel--bound to its place with string,
not hair ribbon--seemed very likely indeed to come off. He eyed it
doubtfully.
“If you’re afraid,” said Priscilla, “that it will dirty your beautiful
white trousers, I’ll give it a rub-over with my pocket-handcher. But I
don’t think that’ll be much use really. You’ll be filthy from head to
foot in any case before we get home.”
Frank, limping with as much dignity as possible, sat down in the chair.
He got out his cigarette case and asked Priscilla not to start until he
had lit his cigarette.
“You don’t object to the smell, I hope,” he said politely.
“Not a bit. I’d smoke myself only I don’t like it. I tried once--Sylvia
Courtney was shocked. That’s rather the sort she is--but it seemed to me
to have a nasty taste. You’re sure you like it, Cousin Frank? Don’t do
it simply because you think you ought.”
Priscilla pushed the bath-chair from behind. Frank guided the shaky
front wheel by means of a long handle. They went down the avenue at an
extremely rapid pace, Priscilla moving in a kind of jaunty canter. When
they reached the gate Frank’s cigarette had gone out. There was a pause
while he lit it again. Then he asked Priscilla to go a little less
quickly. He wished his approach to the public street of the village to
be as little grotesque as possible.
“By the way,” said Priscilla, “have you any money?”
“Certainly. How much do you want?”
“That depends. I have eightpence, which ought to be enough unless you
want something very expensive to drink.”
“Why should we take anything to drink? We said at breakfast that we’d be
back for luncheon.”
“We won’t,” said Priscilla, “nor we won’t for tea. Lucky if we are for
dinner.”
“But Miss Lentaigne said she’d expect us. If we stay out she won’t like
it.”
“Let her dis.,” said Priscilla. “Now what do you want to drink? I always
have lemon flavoured soda. It’s less sticky than regular lemonade. Stone
ginger beer is better than either, of course, but Brannigan doesn’t keep
it, I can’t imagine why not.”
“If we’re going to stay out,” said Frank, “I’ll have beer, lager for
choice.”
“Right. Lager is twopence. Lemon flavoured soda twopence if we bring
back the bottles. That will leave fourpence for biscuits which ought to
be enough.”
Fourpence worth of biscuits seemed to Frank an insufficient supply of
food for two people who are to be on the sea for the whole day. He
saw, besides, an opportunity of asserting once for all his position of
superiority. He made up his mind to tip Priscilla. He fumbled in his
pocket for a coin.
“You get quite a lot of biscuits for fourpence,” said Priscilla, “if you
go in for plain arrowroot. Of course they’re rather dull, but then you
get very few of the better sorts. Take macaroons, for instance. They’re
nearly a halfpenny each in Brannigan’s. Sheer robbery, I call it.”
Frank, determined to do the thing handsomely if he did it at all, passed
half a crown to Priscilla over the back of the bath chair.
“My dear child,” he said, “buy macaroons by all means if you like them.
Buy as many as you want.”
Priscilla received the half-crown without any appearance of shame.
“If you’re prepared to lash out money in that way,” she said, “we may as
well have a tongue. Brannigan has small ones at one and sixpence. Brawn
of course is cheaper, but then if you have brawn you want a tin-opener.
The tongues are in glass jars which you can break with a stone or a
rowlock. The lids are supposed to come off quite easily if you jab a
knife through them, but they don’t really. All that happens is a sort of
fizz of air and the lid sticks on as tight as ever. Things hardly ever
do what they’re supposed to according to science, which makes me think
that science is rather rot, though, of course, it may have its uses only
that I don’t know them.”
Priscilla wheeled the bath-chair for some distance along the road
without speaking. Then she asked another question.
“Which would you rather have, the tongue or a tin of Californian
peaches. They’re one and sixpence too, so we can’t have both, for
it would be a pity to miss the chance of one and fourpence worth of
macaroons. I don’t remember ever having so many at one time before.
Though of course they’re not really so many when there are two of us to
eat them.”
“I’ll give you another one and sixpence,” said Frank, “and then you’ll
be able to get the peaches too if you want them. I rather bar those
tinned fruits myself. They have no flavour.”
On Saturday evenings, when prefects and all self-respecting members
of the upper and middle schools have tea in their studies, Frank was
accustomed to eat tinned lobsters and sometimes tinned salmon, but he
knew that superiority to such forms of food was one of the marks of a
grown man. He hoped, by speaking slightingly of the Californian peaches,
to impress Priscilla with the idea that he was a sort of uncle of hers.
The luncheon was involving him in considerable expense, but he did not
grudge the money if it produced the effect he desired. Unfortunately it
did not.
“Well have a gorgeous bust,” said Priscilla. “I shouldn’t wonder if
Brannigan got some kind of fit when we spend all that in his shop at
once. He’s not accustomed to millionaires.”
Frank, not being able to find a shilling and a sixpence in his pocket,
handed over another half crown. Priscilla promised to give him his
change. She stopped the bath-chair at the door of Brannigan’s shop. The
men of leisure who sat on the window sills stared curiously at Frank.
Young gentlemen dressed in white flannels and wheeled in bath-chairs are
rare in Rosnacree. Frank felt embarrassed and annoyed.
“Excuse me half a mo.,” said Priscilla. “I’ll just speak a word to Peter
Walsh and then do the shopping. Peter, you’re to get the sails on the
Tortoise at once.”
She spoke with such decisive authority that Peter Walsh felt quite
certain that she had no right to give the order.
“Is it the Tortoise, Miss?”
“Didn’t I say the Tortoise. Go and get the sails at once.”
“I don’t know,” said Peter, “whether would your da be pleased with me if
I sent you out in the Tortoise. Sure you know----”
“Mr. Mannix and I,” said Priscilla, “are going out for the day in the
Tortoise.”
Peter Walsh took a long look at Frank. He was apparently far from
satisfied with the result of his inspection.
“Of course if the young gentleman in the perambulator is going with you,
Miss--the Tortoise is a giddy kind of a boat, your honour, and
without you’d be used to her or the like of her--but sure if you’re
satisfied--but what it is, the master gave orders that Miss Priscilla
wasn’t to go out in the Tortoise without either himself or me would be
along with her.”
Frank was painfully aware that he was not used to the Tortoise or to
any boat the least like her. He had never in his life been to sea in a
sailing boat for the management of which he was in any way responsible.