CHAPTER XIII

MASTER HUCKABACK COMES IN

[Illustration: 103.jpg Illustrated Capital]

Mr. Reuben Huckaback, whom many good folk in Dulverton will remember

long after my time, was my mother's uncle, being indeed her mother's

brother. He owned the very best shop in the town, and did a fine

trade in soft ware, especially when the pack-horses came safely in at

Christmas-time. And we being now his only kindred (except indeed his

granddaughter, little Ruth Huckaback, of whom no one took any heed),

mother beheld it a Christian duty to keep as well as could be with him,

both for love of a nice old man, and for the sake of her children. And

truly, the Dulverton people said that he was the richest man in their

town, and could buy up half the county armigers; 'ay, and if it came to

that, they would like to see any man, at Bampton, or at Wivelscombe,

and you might say almost Taunton, who could put down golden Jacobus and

Carolus against him.

Now this old gentleman--so they called him, according to his money;

and I have seen many worse ones, more violent and less wealthy--he must

needs come away that time to spend the New Year-tide with us; not that

he wanted to do it (for he hated country-life), but because my mother

pressing, as mothers will do to a good bag of gold, had wrung a promise

from him; and the only boast of his life was that never yet had he

broken his word, at least since he opened business.

Now it pleased God that Christmas-time (in spite of all the fogs) to

send safe home to Dulverton, and what was more, with their loads quite

safe, a goodly string of packhorses. Nearly half of their charge was

for Uncle Reuben, and he knew how to make the most of it. Then having

balanced his debits and credits, and set the writs running against

defaulters, as behoves a good Christian at Christmas-tide, he saddled

his horse, and rode off towards Oare, with a good stout coat upon him,

and leaving Ruth and his head man plenty to do, and little to eat, until

they should see him again.

It had been settled between us that we should expect him soon after noon

on the last day of December. For the Doones being lazy and fond of bed,

as the manner is of dishonest folk, the surest way to escape them was

to travel before they were up and about, to-wit, in the forenoon of

the day. But herein we reckoned without our host: for being in high

festivity, as became good Papists, the robbers were too lazy, it seems,

to take the trouble of going to bed; and forth they rode on the Old

Year-morning, not with any view of business, but purely in search of

mischief.

We had put off our dinner till one o'clock (which to me was a sad

foregoing), and there was to be a brave supper at six of the clock, upon

New Year's-eve; and the singers to come with their lanthorns, and do

it outside the parlour-window, and then have hot cup till their heads

should go round, after making away with the victuals. For although there

was nobody now in our family to be churchwarden of Oare, it was well

admitted that we were the people entitled alone to that dignity; and

though Nicholas Snowe was in office by name, he managed it only by

mother's advice; and a pretty mess he made of it, so that every one

longed for a Ridd again, soon as ever I should be old enough. This

Nicholas Snowe was to come in the evening, with his three tall comely

daughters, strapping girls, and well skilled in the dairy; and the

story was all over the parish, on a stupid conceit of John Fry's, that

I should have been in love with all three, if there had been but one of

them. These Snowes were to come, and come they did, partly because Mr.

Huckaback liked to see fine young maidens, and partly because none but

Nicholas Snowe could smoke a pipe now all around our parts, except of

the very high people, whom we durst never invite. And Uncle Ben, as we

all knew well, was a great hand at his pipe, and would sit for hours

over it, in our warm chimney-corner, and never want to say a word,

unless it were inside him; only he liked to have somebody there over

against him smoking.

[Illustration: 105.jpg Uncle Ben in our warm chimney-corner]

Now when I came in, before one o'clock, after seeing to the cattle--for

the day was thicker than ever, and we must keep the cattle close at

home, if we wished to see any more of them--I fully expected to find

Uncle Ben sitting in the fireplace, lifting one cover and then another,

as his favourite manner was, and making sweet mouths over them; for he

loved our bacon rarely, and they had no good leeks at Dulverton; and

he was a man who always would see his business done himself. But there

instead of my finding him with his quaint dry face pulled out at me,

and then shut up sharp not to be cheated--who should run out but Betty

Muxworthy, and poke me with a saucepan lid.

“Get out of that now, Betty,” I said in my politest manner, for really

Betty was now become a great domestic evil. She would have her own

way so, and of all things the most distressful was for a man to try to

reason.

“Zider-press,” cried Betty again, for she thought it a fine joke to call

me that, because of my size, and my hatred of it; “here be a rare get

up, anyhow.”

“A rare good dinner, you mean, Betty. Well, and I have a rare good

appetite.” With that I wanted to go and smell it, and not to stop for

Betty.

“Troost thee for thiccy, Jan Ridd. But thee must keep it bit langer, I

reckon. Her baint coom, Maister Ziderpress. Whatt'e mak of that now?”

“Do you mean to say that Uncle Ben has not arrived yet, Betty?”

“Raived! I knaws nout about that, whuther a hath of noo. Only I tell 'e,

her baint coom. Rackon them Dooneses hath gat 'un.”

And Betty, who hated Uncle Ben, because he never gave her a groat,

and she was not allowed to dine with him, I am sorry to say that

Betty Muxworthy grinned all across, and poked me again with the greasy

saucepan cover. But I misliking so to be treated, strode through the

kitchen indignantly, for Betty behaved to me even now, as if I were only

Eliza.

“Oh, Johnny, Johnny,” my mother cried, running out of the grand

show-parlour, where the case of stuffed birds was, and peacock-feathers,

and the white hare killed by grandfather; “I am so glad you are come at

last. There is something sadly amiss, Johnny.”

Mother had upon her wrists something very wonderful, of the nature of

fal-lal as we say, and for which she had an inborn turn, being of good

draper family, and polished above the yeomanry. Nevertheless I could

never bear it, partly because I felt it to be out of place in our good

farm-house, partly because I hate frippery, partly because it seemed to

me to have nothing to do with father, and partly because I never could

tell the reason of my hating it. And yet the poor soul had put them on,

not to show her hands off (which were above her station) but simply

for her children's sake, because Uncle Ben had given them. But another

thing, I never could bear for man or woman to call me, “Johnny,”

“Jack,” or “John,” I cared not which; and that was honest enough, and no

smallness of me there, I say.

“Well, mother, what is the matter, then?”

“I am sure you need not be angry, Johnny. I only hope it is nothing to

grieve about, instead of being angry. You are very sweet-tempered, I

know, John Ridd, and perhaps a little too sweet at times”--here she

meant the Snowe girls, and I hanged my head--“but what would you say if

the people there”--she never would call them “Doones”--“had gotten your

poor Uncle Reuben, horse, and Sunday coat, and all?”

“Why, mother, I should be sorry for them. He would set up a shop by the

river-side, and come away with all their money.”

“That all you have to say, John! And my dinner done to a very turn, and

the supper all fit to go down, and no worry, only to eat and be done

with it! And all the new plates come from Watchett, with the Watchett

blue upon them, at the risk of the lives of everybody, and the capias

from good Aunt Jane for stuffing a curlew with onion before he begins to

get cold, and make a woodcock of him, and the way to turn the flap over

in the inside of a roasting pig--”

“Well, mother dear, I am very sorry. But let us have our dinner. You

know we promised not to wait for him after one o'clock; and you only

make us hungry. Everything will be spoiled, mother, and what a pity to

think of! After that I will go to seek for him in the thick of the fog,

like a needle in a hay-band. That is to say, unless you think”--for she

looked very grave about it--“unless you really think, mother, that I

ought to go without dinner.”

“Oh no, John, I never thought that, thank God! Bless Him for my

children's appetites; and what is Uncle Ben to them?”

So we made a very good dinner indeed, though wishing that he could have

some of it, and wondering how much to leave for him; and then, as no

sound of his horse had been heard, I set out with my gun to look for

him.

I followed the track on the side of the hill, from the farm-yard, where

the sledd-marks are--for we have no wheels upon Exmoor yet, nor ever

shall, I suppose; though a dunder-headed man tried it last winter, and

broke his axle piteously, and was nigh to break his neck--and after

that I went all along on the ridge of the rabbit-cleve, with the brook

running thin in the bottom; and then down to the Lynn stream and leaped

it, and so up the hill and the moor beyond. The fog hung close all

around me then, when I turned the crest of the highland, and the gorse

both before and behind me looked like a man crouching down in ambush.

But still there was a good cloud of daylight, being scarce three of the

clock yet, and when a lead of red deer came across, I could tell them

from sheep even now. I was half inclined to shoot at them, for the

children did love venison; but they drooped their heads so, and looked

so faithful, that it seemed hard measure to do it. If one of them had

bolted away, no doubt I had let go at him.

After that I kept on the track, trudging very stoutly, for nigh upon

three miles, and my beard (now beginning to grow at some length) was

full of great drops and prickly, whereat I was very proud. I had not so

much as a dog with me, and the place was unkind and lonesome, and the

rolling clouds very desolate; and now if a wild sheep ran across he was

scared at me as an enemy; and I for my part could not tell the meaning

of the marks on him. We called all this part Gibbet-moor, not being in

our parish; but though there were gibbets enough upon it, most part

of the bodies was gone for the value of the chains, they said, and the

teaching of young chirurgeons. But of all this I had little fear, being

no more a schoolboy now, but a youth well-acquaint with Exmoor, and

the wise art of the sign-posts, whereby a man, who barred the road, now

opens it up both ways with his finger-bones, so far as rogues allow him.

My carbine was loaded and freshly primed, and I knew myself to be

even now a match in strength for any two men of the size around our

neighbourhood, except in the Glen Doone. “Girt Jan Ridd,” I was called

already, and folk grew feared to wrestle with me; though I was tired of

hearing about it, and often longed to be smaller. And most of all upon

Sundays, when I had to make way up our little church, and the maidens

tittered at me.

The soft white mist came thicker around me, as the evening fell; and the

peat ricks here and there, and the furze-hucks of the summer-time, were

all out of shape in the twist of it. By-and-by, I began to doubt where

I was, or how come there, not having seen a gibbet lately; and then I

heard the draught of the wind up a hollow place with rocks to it; and

for the first time fear broke out (like cold sweat) upon me. And yet I

knew what a fool I was, to fear nothing but a sound! But when I stopped

to listen, there was no sound, more than a beating noise, and that was

all inside me. Therefore I went on again, making company of myself, and

keeping my gun quite ready.

Now when I came to an unknown place, where a stone was set up endwise,

with a faint red cross upon it, and a polish from some conflict, I

gathered my courage to stop and think, having sped on the way too hotly.

Against that stone I set my gun, trying my spirit to leave it so,

but keeping with half a hand for it; and then what to do next was the

wonder. As for finding Uncle Ben that was his own business, or at any

rate his executor's; first I had to find myself, and plentifully would

thank God to find myself at home again, for the sake of all our family.

The volumes of the mist came rolling at me (like great logs of wood,

pillowed out with sleepiness), and between them there was nothing more

than waiting for the next one. Then everything went out of sight, and

glad was I of the stone behind me, and view of mine own shoes. Then a

distant noise went by me, as of many horses galloping, and in my fright

I set my gun and said, “God send something to shoot at.” Yet nothing

came, and my gun fell back, without my will to lower it.

But presently, while I was thinking “What a fool I am!” arose as if from

below my feet, so that the great stone trembled, that long, lamenting

lonesome sound, as of an evil spirit not knowing what to do with it. For

the moment I stood like a root, without either hand or foot to help me,

and the hair of my head began to crawl, lifting my hat, as a snail lifts

his house; and my heart like a shuttle went to and fro. But finding

no harm to come of it, neither visible form approaching, I wiped my

forehead, and hoped for the best, and resolved to run every step of the

way, till I drew our own latch behind me.

Yet here again I was disappointed, for no sooner was I come to the

cross-ways by the black pool in the hole, but I heard through the patter

of my own feet a rough low sound very close in the fog, as of a hobbled

sheep a-coughing. I listened, and feared, and yet listened again, though

I wanted not to hear it. For being in haste of the homeward road, and

all my heart having heels to it, loath I was to stop in the dusk for the

sake of an aged wether. Yet partly my love of all animals, and partly

my fear of the farmer's disgrace, compelled me to go to the succour, and

the noise was coming nearer. A dry short wheezing sound it was, barred

with coughs and want of breath; but thus I made the meaning of it.

“Lord have mercy upon me! O Lord, upon my soul have mercy! An if I

cheated Sam Hicks last week, Lord knowest how well he deserved it, and

lied in every stocking's mouth--oh Lord, where be I a-going?”

These words, with many jogs between them, came to me through the

darkness, and then a long groan and a choking. I made towards the sound,

as nigh as ever I could guess, and presently was met, point-blank, by

the head of a mountain-pony. Upon its back lay a man bound down, with

his feet on the neck and his head to the tail, and his arms falling

down like stirrups. The wild little nag was scared of its life by the

unaccustomed burden, and had been tossing and rolling hard, in desire to

get ease of it.

Before the little horse could turn, I caught him, jaded as he was, by

his wet and grizzled forelock, and he saw that it was vain to struggle,

but strove to bite me none the less, until I smote him upon the nose.

“Good and worthy sir,” I said to the man who was riding so roughly;

“fear nothing; no harm shall come to thee.”

“Help, good friend, whoever thou art,” he gasped, but could not look at

me, because his neck was jerked so; “God hath sent thee, and not to rob

me, because it is done already.”

“What, Uncle Ben!” I cried, letting go the horse in amazement, that

the richest man in Dulverton--“Uncle Ben here in this plight! What, Mr.

Reuben Huckaback!”

“An honest hosier and draper, serge and longcloth warehouseman”--he

groaned from rib to rib--“at the sign of the Gartered Kitten in the

loyal town of Dulverton. For God's sake, let me down, good fellow, from

this accursed marrow-bone; and a groat of good money will I pay thee,

safe in my house to Dulverton; but take notice that the horse is mine,

no less than the nag they robbed from me.”

“What, Uncle Ben, dost thou not know me, thy dutiful nephew John Ridd?”

Not to make a long story of it, I cut the thongs that bound him, and

set him astride on the little horse; but he was too weak to stay so.

Therefore I mounted him on my back, turning the horse into horse-steps,

and leading the pony by the cords which I fastened around his nose, set

out for Plover's Barrows.

Uncle Ben went fast asleep on my back, being jaded and shaken beyond his

strength, for a man of three-score and five; and as soon he felt assured

of safety he would talk no more. And to tell the truth he snored so

loudly, that I could almost believe that fearful noise in the fog every

night came all the way from Dulverton.

Now as soon as ever I brought him in, we set him up in the

chimney-corner, comfortable and handsome; and it was no little delight

to me to get him off my back; for, like his own fortune, Uncle Ben was

of a good round figure. He gave his long coat a shake or two, and he

stamped about in the kitchen, until he was sure of his whereabouts, and

then he fell asleep again until supper should be ready.

“He shall marry Ruth,” he said by-and-by to himself, and not to me; “he

shall marry Ruth for this, and have my little savings, soon as they be

worth the having. Very little as yet, very little indeed; and ever so

much gone to-day along of them rascal robbers.”

My mother made a dreadful stir, of course, about Uncle Ben being in such

a plight as this; so I left him to her care and Annie's, and soon they

fed him rarely, while I went out to see to the comfort of the captured

pony. And in truth he was worth the catching, and served us very well

afterwards, though Uncle Ben was inclined to claim him for his business

at Dulverton, where they have carts and that like. “But,” I said, “you

shall have him, sir, and welcome, if you will only ride him home as

first I found you riding him.” And with that he dropped it.

A very strange old man he was, short in his manner, though long of body,

glad to do the contrary things to what any one expected of him, and

always looking sharp at people, as if he feared to be cheated. This

surprised me much at first, because it showed his ignorance of what we

farmers are--an upright race, as you may find, scarcely ever cheating

indeed, except upon market-day, and even then no more than may be helped

by reason of buyers expecting it. Now our simple ways were a puzzle to

him, as I told him very often; but he only laughed, and rubbed his mouth

with the back of his dry shining hand, and I think he shortly began to

languish for want of some one to higgle with. I had a great mind to give

him the pony, because he thought himself cheated in that case; only he

would conclude that I did it with some view to a legacy.

Of course, the Doones, and nobody else, had robbed good Uncle Reuben;

and then they grew sportive, and took his horse, an especially sober

nag, and bound the master upon the wild one, for a little change as they

told him. For two or three hours they had fine enjoyment chasing him

through the fog, and making much sport of his groanings; and then

waxing hungry, they went their way, and left him to opportunity. Now

Mr. Huckaback growing able to walk in a few days' time, became thereupon

impatient, and could not be brought to understand why he should have

been robbed at all.

“I have never deserved it,” he said to himself, not knowing much of

Providence, except with a small p to it; “I have never deserved it, and

will not stand it in the name of our lord the King, not I!” At other

times he would burst forth thus: “Three-score years and five have I

lived an honest and laborious life, yet never was I robbed before. And

now to be robbed in my old age, to be robbed for the first time now!”

Thereupon of course we would tell him how truly thankful he ought to be

for never having been robbed before, in spite of living so long in this

world, and that he was taking a very ungrateful, not to say ungracious,

view, in thus repining, and feeling aggrieved; when anyone else would

have knelt and thanked God for enjoying so long an immunity. But say

what we would, it was all as one. Uncle Ben stuck fast to it, that he

had nothing to thank God for.