The Railway Children
“Not me,” said Peter, “but YOU'D better.”
The girls climbed to the top of the bank and stood ready to bolt for
home as soon as they saw their brother out of danger. The way home lay
all down hill. They knew that they all ran well. The Bargee did not look
as if HE did. He was red-faced, heavy, and beefy.
But as soon as his foot was on the towing-path the children saw that
they had misjudged him.
He made one spring up the bank and caught Peter by the leg, dragged him
down--set him on his feet with a shake--took him by the ear--and said
sternly:--
“Now, then, what do you mean by it? Don't you know these 'ere waters is
preserved? You ain't no right catching fish 'ere--not to say nothing of
your precious cheek.”
Peter was always proud afterwards when he remembered that, with the
Bargee's furious fingers tightening on his ear, the Bargee's crimson
countenance close to his own, the Bargee's hot breath on his neck, he
had the courage to speak the truth.
“I WASN'T catching fish,” said Peter.
“That's not YOUR fault, I'll be bound,” said the man, giving Peter's ear
a twist--not a hard one--but still a twist.
Peter could not say that it was. Bobbie and Phyllis had been holding
on to the railings above and skipping with anxiety. Now suddenly Bobbie
slipped through the railings and rushed down the bank towards Peter, so
impetuously that Phyllis, following more temperately, felt certain that
her sister's descent would end in the waters of the canal. And so it
would have done if the Bargee hadn't let go of Peter's ear--and caught
her in his jerseyed arm.
“Who are you a-shoving of?” he said, setting her on her feet.
“Oh,” said Bobbie, breathless, “I'm not shoving anybody. At least, not
on purpose. Please don't be cross with Peter. Of course, if it's your
canal, we're sorry and we won't any more. But we didn't know it was
yours.”
“Go along with you,” said the Bargee.
“Yes, we will; indeed we will,” said Bobbie, earnestly; “but we do beg
your pardon--and really we haven't caught a single fish. I'd tell you
directly if we had, honour bright I would.”
She held out her hands and Phyllis turned out her little empty pocket to
show that really they hadn't any fish concealed about them.
“Well,” said the Bargee, more gently, “cut along, then, and don't you do
it again, that's all.”
The children hurried up the bank.
“Chuck us a coat, M'ria,” shouted the man. And a red-haired woman in a
green plaid shawl came out from the cabin door with a baby in her arms
and threw a coat to him. He put it on, climbed the bank, and slouched
along across the bridge towards the village.
“You'll find me up at the 'Rose and Crown' when you've got the kid to
sleep,” he called to her from the bridge.
When he was out of sight the children slowly returned. Peter insisted on
this.
“The canal may belong to him,” he said, “though I don't believe it
does. But the bridge is everybody's. Doctor Forrest told me it's public
property. I'm not going to be bounced off the bridge by him or anyone
else, so I tell you.”
Peter's ear was still sore and so were his feelings.
The girls followed him as gallant soldiers might follow the leader of a
forlorn hope.
“I do wish you wouldn't,” was all they said.
“Go home if you're afraid,” said Peter; “leave me alone. I'M not
afraid.”
The sound of the man's footsteps died away along the quiet road. The
peace of the evening was not broken by the notes of the sedge-warblers
or by the voice of the woman in the barge, singing her baby to sleep. It
was a sad song she sang. Something about Bill Bailey and how she wanted
him to come home.
The children stood leaning their arms on the parapet of the bridge; they
were glad to be quiet for a few minutes because all three hearts were
beating much more quickly.
“I'm not going to be driven away by any old bargeman, I'm not,” said
Peter, thickly.
“Of course not,” Phyllis said soothingly; “you didn't give in to him! So
now we might go home, don't you think?”
“NO,” said Peter.
Nothing more was said till the woman got off the barge, climbed the
bank, and came across the bridge.
She hesitated, looking at the three backs of the children, then she
said, “Ahem.”
Peter stayed as he was, but the girls looked round.
“You mustn't take no notice of my Bill,” said the woman; “'is bark's
worse'n 'is bite. Some of the kids down Farley way is fair terrors. It
was them put 'is back up calling out about who ate the puppy-pie under
Marlow bridge.”
“Who DID?” asked Phyllis.
“_I_ dunno,” said the woman. “Nobody don't know! But somehow, and I
don't know the why nor the wherefore of it, them words is p'ison to a
barge-master. Don't you take no notice. 'E won't be back for two hours
good. You might catch a power o' fish afore that. The light's good an'
all,” she added.
“Thank you,” said Bobbie. “You're very kind. Where's your baby?”
“Asleep in the cabin,” said the woman. “'E's all right. Never wakes
afore twelve. Reg'lar as a church clock, 'e is.”
“I'm sorry,” said Bobbie; “I would have liked to see him, close to.”
“And a finer you never did see, Miss, though I says it.” The woman's
face brightened as she spoke.
“Aren't you afraid to leave it?” said Peter.
“Lor' love you, no,” said the woman; “who'd hurt a little thing like
'im? Besides, Spot's there. So long!”
The woman went away.
“Shall we go home?” said Phyllis.
“You can. I'm going to fish,” said Peter briefly.
“I thought we came up here to talk about Perks's birthday,” said
Phyllis.
“Perks's birthday'll keep.”
So they got down on the towing-path again and Peter fished. He did not
catch anything.
It was almost quite dark, the girls were getting tired, and as Bobbie
said, it was past bedtime, when suddenly Phyllis cried, “What's that?”
And she pointed to the canal boat. Smoke was coming from the chimney of
the cabin, had indeed been curling softly into the soft evening air all
the time--but now other wreaths of smoke were rising, and these were
from the cabin door.
“It's on fire--that's all,” said Peter, calmly. “Serve him right.”
“Oh--how CAN you?” cried Phyllis. “Think of the poor dear dog.”
“The BABY!” screamed Bobbie.
In an instant all three made for the barge.
Her mooring ropes were slack, and the little breeze, hardly strong
enough to be felt, had yet been strong enough to drift her stern against
the bank. Bobbie was first--then came Peter, and it was Peter who
slipped and fell. He went into the canal up to his neck, and his feet
could not feel the bottom, but his arm was on the edge of the barge.
Phyllis caught at his hair. It hurt, but it helped him to get out. Next
minute he had leaped on to the barge, Phyllis following.
“Not you!” he shouted to Bobbie; “ME, because I'm wet.”
He caught up with Bobbie at the cabin door, and flung her aside very
roughly indeed; if they had been playing, such roughness would have made
Bobbie weep with tears of rage and pain. Now, though he flung her on
to the edge of the hold, so that her knee and her elbow were grazed and
bruised, she only cried:--
“No--not you--ME,” and struggled up again. But not quickly enough.
Peter had already gone down two of the cabin steps into the cloud of
thick smoke. He stopped, remembered all he had ever heard of fires,
pulled his soaked handkerchief out of his breast pocket and tied it over
his mouth. As he pulled it out he said:--
“It's all right, hardly any fire at all.”
And this, though he thought it was a lie, was rather good of Peter. It
was meant to keep Bobbie from rushing after him into danger. Of course
it didn't.
The cabin glowed red. A paraffin lamp was burning calmly in an orange
mist.
“Hi,” said Peter, lifting the handkerchief from his mouth for a moment.
“Hi, Baby--where are you?” He choked.
“Oh, let ME go,” cried Bobbie, close behind him. Peter pushed her back
more roughly than before, and went on.
Now what would have happened if the baby hadn't cried I don't know--but
just at that moment it DID cry. Peter felt his way through the dark
smoke, found something small and soft and warm and alive, picked it up
and backed out, nearly tumbling over Bobbie who was close behind. A dog
snapped at his leg--tried to bark, choked.
“I've got the kid,” said Peter, tearing off the handkerchief and
staggering on to the deck.
Bobbie caught at the place where the bark came from, and her hands met
on the fat back of a smooth-haired dog. It turned and fastened its teeth
on her hand, but very gently, as much as to say:--
“I'm bound to bark and bite if strangers come into my master's cabin,
but I know you mean well, so I won't REALLY bite.”
Bobbie dropped the dog.
“All right, old man. Good dog,” said she. “Here--give me the baby,
Peter; you're so wet you'll give it cold.”
Peter was only too glad to hand over the strange little bundle that
squirmed and whimpered in his arms.
“Now,” said Bobbie, quickly, “you run straight to the 'Rose and Crown'
and tell them. Phil and I will stay here with the precious. Hush, then,
a dear, a duck, a darling! Go NOW, Peter! Run!”
“I can't run in these things,” said Peter, firmly; “they're as heavy as
lead. I'll walk.”
“Then I'LL run,” said Bobbie. “Get on the bank, Phil, and I'll hand you
the dear.”
The baby was carefully handed. Phyllis sat down on the bank and tried to
hush the baby. Peter wrung the water from his sleeves and knickerbocker
legs as well as he could, and it was Bobbie who ran like the wind across
the bridge and up the long white quiet twilight road towards the 'Rose
and Crown.'
There is a nice old-fashioned room at the 'Rose and Crown; where Bargees
and their wives sit of an evening drinking their supper beer, and
toasting their supper cheese at a glowing basketful of coals that
sticks out into the room under a great hooded chimney and is warmer and
prettier and more comforting than any other fireplace _I_ ever saw.
There was a pleasant party of barge people round the fire. You might
not have thought it pleasant, but they did; for they were all friends
or acquaintances, and they liked the same sort of things, and talked
the same sort of talk. This is the real secret of pleasant society. The
Bargee Bill, whom the children had found so disagreeable, was considered
excellent company by his mates. He was telling a tale of his own
wrongs--always a thrilling subject. It was his barge he was speaking
about.
“And 'e sent down word 'paint her inside hout,' not namin' no colour,
d'ye see? So I gets a lotter green paint and I paints her stem to stern,
and I tell yer she looked A1. Then 'E comes along and 'e says, 'Wot yer
paint 'er all one colour for?' 'e says. And I says, says I, 'Cause I
thought she'd look fust-rate,' says I, 'and I think so still.' An' he
says, 'DEW yer? Then ye can just pay for the bloomin' paint yerself,'
says he. An' I 'ad to, too.” A murmur of sympathy ran round the
room. Breaking noisily in on it came Bobbie. She burst open the swing
door--crying breathlessly:--
“Bill! I want Bill the Bargeman.”
There was a stupefied silence. Pots of beer were held in mid-air,
paralysed on their way to thirsty mouths.
“Oh,” said Bobbie, seeing the bargewoman and making for her. “Your barge
cabin's on fire. Go quickly.”
The woman started to her feet, and put a big red hand to her waist, on
the left side, where your heart seems to be when you are frightened or
miserable.
“Reginald Horace!” she cried in a terrible voice; “my Reginald Horace!”
“All right,” said Bobbie, “if you mean the baby; got him out safe. Dog,
too.” She had no breath for more, except, “Go on--it's all alight.”
Then she sank on the ale-house bench and tried to get that breath of
relief after running which people call the 'second wind.' But she felt
as though she would never breathe again.