The Wind in the Willows
and began to nibble the grass; and Toad, waking up, just saved himself
from falling off by an effort. He looked about him and found he was on
a wide common, dotted with patches of gorse and bramble as far as he
could see. Near him stood a dingy gipsy caravan, and beside it a man
was sitting on a bucket turned upside down, very busy smoking and
staring into the wide world. A fire of sticks was burning near by, and
over the fire hung an iron pot, and out of that pot came forth
bubblings and gurglings, and a vague suggestive steaminess. Also
smells—warm, rich, and varied smells—that twined and twisted and
wreathed themselves at last into one complete, voluptuous, perfect
smell that seemed like the very soul of Nature taking form and
appearing to her children, a true Goddess, a mother of solace and
comfort. Toad now knew well that he had not been really hungry before.
What he had felt earlier in the day had been a mere trifling qualm.
This was the real thing at last, and no mistake; and it would have to
be dealt with speedily, too, or there would be trouble for somebody or
something. He looked the gipsy over carefully, wondering vaguely
whether it would be easier to fight him or cajole him. So there he sat,
and sniffed and sniffed, and looked at the gipsy; and the gipsy sat and
smoked, and looked at him.
Presently the gipsy took his pipe out of his mouth and remarked in a
careless way, “Want to sell that there horse of yours?”
Toad was completely taken aback. He did not know that gipsies were very
fond of horse-dealing, and never missed an opportunity, and he had not
reflected that caravans were always on the move and took a deal of
drawing. It had not occurred to him to turn the horse into cash, but
the gipsy’s suggestion seemed to smooth the way towards the two things
he wanted so badly—ready money, and a solid breakfast.
“What?” he said, “me sell this beautiful young horse of mine? O, no;
it’s out of the question. Who’s going to take the washing home to my
customers every week? Besides, I’m too fond of him, and he simply dotes
on me.”
“Try and love a donkey,” suggested the gipsy. “Some people do.”
“You don’t seem to see,” continued Toad, “that this fine horse of mine
is a cut above you altogether. He’s a blood horse, he is, partly; not
the part you see, of course—another part. And he’s been a Prize
Hackney, too, in his time—that was the time before you knew him, but
you can still tell it on him at a glance, if you understand anything
about horses. No, it’s not to be thought of for a moment. All the same,
how much might you be disposed to offer me for this beautiful young
horse of mine?”
The gipsy looked the horse over, and then he looked Toad over with
equal care, and looked at the horse again. “Shillin’ a leg,” he said
briefly, and turned away, continuing to smoke and try to stare the wide
world out of countenance.
“A shilling a leg?” cried Toad. “If you please, I must take a little
time to work that out, and see just what it comes to.”
He climbed down off his horse, and left it to graze, and sat down by
the gipsy, and did sums on his fingers, and at last he said, “A
shilling a leg? Why, that comes to exactly four shillings, and no more.
O, no; I could not think of accepting four shillings for this beautiful
young horse of mine.”
“Well,” said the gipsy, “I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll make it
five shillings, and that’s three-and-sixpence more than the animal’s
worth. And that’s my last word.”
Then Toad sat and pondered long and deeply. For he was hungry and quite
penniless, and still some way—he knew not how far—from home, and
enemies might still be looking for him. To one in such a situation,
five shillings may very well appear a large sum of money. On the other
hand, it did not seem very much to get for a horse. But then, again,
the horse hadn’t cost him anything; so whatever he got was all clear
profit. At last he said firmly, “Look here, gipsy! I tell you what we
will do; and this is _my_ last word. You shall hand me over six
shillings and sixpence, cash down; and further, in addition thereto,
you shall give me as much breakfast as I can possibly eat, at one
sitting of course, out of that iron pot of yours that keeps sending
forth such delicious and exciting smells. In return, I will make over
to you my spirited young horse, with all the beautiful harness and
trappings that are on him, freely thrown in. If that’s not good enough
for you, say so, and I’ll be getting on. I know a man near here who’s
wanted this horse of mine for years.”
The gipsy grumbled frightfully, and declared if he did a few more deals
of that sort he’d be ruined. But in the end he lugged a dirty canvas
bag out of the depths of his trouser pocket, and counted out six
shillings and sixpence into Toad’s paw. Then he disappeared into the
caravan for an instant, and returned with a large iron plate and a
knife, fork, and spoon. He tilted up the pot, and a glorious stream of
hot rich stew gurgled into the plate. It was, indeed, the most
beautiful stew in the world, being made of partridges, and pheasants,
and chickens, and hares, and rabbits, and pea-hens, and guinea-fowls,
and one or two other things. Toad took the plate on his lap, almost
crying, and stuffed, and stuffed, and stuffed, and kept asking for
more, and the gipsy never grudged it him. He thought that he had never
eaten so good a breakfast in all his life.
When Toad had taken as much stew on board as he thought he could
possibly hold, he got up and said good-bye to the gipsy, and took an
affectionate farewell of the horse; and the gipsy, who knew the
riverside well, gave him directions which way to go, and he set forth
on his travels again in the best possible spirits. He was, indeed, a
very different Toad from the animal of an hour ago. The sun was shining
brightly, his wet clothes were quite dry again, he had money in his
pocket once more, he was nearing home and friends and safety, and, most
and best of all, he had had a substantial meal, hot and nourishing, and
felt big, and strong, and careless, and self-confident.
As he tramped along gaily, he thought of his adventures and escapes,
and how when things seemed at their worst he had always managed to find
a way out; and his pride and conceit began to swell within him. “Ho,
ho!” he said to himself as he marched along with his chin in the air,
“what a clever Toad I am! There is surely no animal equal to me for
cleverness in the whole world! My enemies shut me up in prison,
encircled by sentries, watched night and day by warders; I walk out
through them all, by sheer ability coupled with courage. They pursue me
with engines, and policemen, and revolvers; I snap my fingers at them,
and vanish, laughing, into space. I am, unfortunately, thrown into a
canal by a woman fat of body and very evil-minded. What of it? I swim
ashore, I seize her horse, I ride off in triumph, and I sell the horse
for a whole pocketful of money and an excellent breakfast! Ho, ho! I am
The Toad, the handsome, the popular, the successful Toad!” He got so
puffed up with conceit that he made up a song as he walked in praise of
himself, and sang it at the top of his voice, though there was no one
to hear it but him. It was perhaps the most conceited song that any
animal ever composed.
“The world has held great Heroes,
As history-books have showed;
But never a name to go down to fame
Compared with that of Toad!
“The clever men at Oxford
Know all that there is to be knowed.
But they none of them know one half as much
As intelligent Mr. Toad!
“The animals sat in the Ark and cried,
Their tears in torrents flowed.
Who was it said, ‘There’s land ahead?’
Encouraging Mr. Toad!
“The army all saluted
As they marched along the road.
Was it the King? Or Kitchener?
No. It was Mr. Toad.
“The Queen and her Ladies-in-waiting
Sat at the window and sewed.
She cried, ‘Look! who’s that _handsome_ man?’
They answered, ‘Mr. Toad.’”
There was a great deal more of the same sort, but too dreadfully
conceited to be written down. These are some of the milder verses.
He sang as he walked, and he walked as he sang, and got more inflated
every minute. But his pride was shortly to have a severe fall.
After some miles of country lanes he reached the high road, and as he
turned into it and glanced along its white length, he saw approaching
him a speck that turned into a dot and then into a blob, and then into
something very familiar; and a double note of warning, only too well
known, fell on his delighted ear.
“This is something like!” said the excited Toad. “This is real life
again, this is once more the great world from which I have been missed
so long! I will hail them, my brothers of the wheel, and pitch them a
yarn, of the sort that has been so successful hitherto; and they will
give me a lift, of course, and then I will talk to them some more; and,
perhaps, with luck, it may even end in my driving up to Toad Hall in a
motor-car! That will be one in the eye for Badger!”
He stepped confidently out into the road to hail the motor-car, which
came along at an easy pace, slowing down as it neared the lane; when
suddenly he became very pale, his heart turned to water, his knees
shook and yielded under him, and he doubled up and collapsed with a
sickening pain in his interior. And well he might, the unhappy animal;
for the approaching car was the very one he had stolen out of the yard
of the Red Lion Hotel on that fatal day when all his troubles began!
And the people in it were the very same people he had sat and watched
at luncheon in the coffee-room!
He sank down in a shabby, miserable heap in the road, murmuring to
himself in his despair, “It’s all up! It’s all over now! Chains and
policemen again! Prison again! Dry bread and water again! O, what a
fool I have been! What did I want to go strutting about the country
for, singing conceited songs, and hailing people in broad day on the
high road, instead of hiding till nightfall and slipping home quietly
by back ways! O hapless Toad! O ill-fated animal!”
The terrible motor-car drew slowly nearer and nearer, till at last he
heard it stop just short of him. Two gentlemen got out and walked round
the trembling heap of crumpled misery lying in the road, and one of
them said, “O dear! this is very sad! Here is a poor old thing—a
washerwoman apparently—who has fainted in the road! Perhaps she is
overcome by the heat, poor creature; or possibly she has not had any
food to-day. Let us lift her into the car and take her to the nearest
village, where doubtless she has friends.”
They tenderly lifted Toad into the motor-car and propped him up with
soft cushions, and proceeded on their way.
When Toad heard them talk in so kind and sympathetic a way, and knew
that he was not recognised, his courage began to revive, and he
cautiously opened first one eye and then the other.
“Look!” said one of the gentlemen, “she is better already. The fresh
air is doing her good. How do you feel now, ma’am?”
“Thank you kindly, Sir,” said Toad in a feeble voice, “I’m feeling a
great deal better!” “That’s right,” said the gentleman. “Now keep quite
still, and, above all, don’t try to talk.”
“I won’t,” said Toad. “I was only thinking, if I might sit on the front
seat there, beside the driver, where I could get the fresh air full in
my face, I should soon be all right again.”
“What a very sensible woman!” said the gentleman. “Of course you
shall.” So they carefully helped Toad into the front seat beside the
driver, and on they went again.
Toad was almost himself again by now. He sat up, looked about him, and
tried to beat down the tremors, the yearnings, the old cravings that
rose up and beset him and took possession of him entirely.