Part 4 (1/2)

”Well, I don't know,” said Eric. ”She did when we chose it last spring. She liked it very much.”

”It is a very nice house,” said the old man.

”She finds it a little oppressive lately, I'm afraid,” said Eric. ”She says she has to get out to breathe.”

”It is the difference in the air,” said the old man. ”After living on the East Coast.”

”Probably it's that,” said Eric.

By this time they had reached the front door. The old man ushered Eric in. They entered a very snug, trim little room, the furniture all well polished and everything meticulously arranged. ”This is my little sitting-room,” the old man said. ”My dining-room, too, these days. The drawing-room and the little study beyond I have given over entirely to my museum. Here we are.”

He threw open a door. Eric stepped in, looked around, and stared in amazement. He had been expecting the usual sort of thing: a neat cabinet or two with Roman coins, flint implements, a snake in alcohol, perhaps a stuffed bird or some eggs. But this room and the study, seen through the connecting doorway, were piled high with the most broken, battered, frowzy, gimcrack collection of junk he had ever seen in his life. What was oddest of all was that no item in this muddle of rubbish had even the excuse of a decent antiquity. It was as if several cartloads of miscellaneous material had been collected from the village dump and spilled over the tables, sideboards, chairs, and floors of these two rooms.

The old man observed Eric's astonishment with the greatest good humor. ”You are thinking,” said he, ”that this collection is not the sort of thing one usually finds in a museum. You are right. But let me tell you, Mr. Gaskell, that every object here has a history. These pieces are pebbles rolled and broken by the stream of time as it flows over the villages in our quiet little district. Taken together, they are a - a record. Here is a souvenir from the War: a telegram to the Bristows in Upper Medium, saying their boy was killed. It was years before I could get it from poor Mrs. Bristow. I gave her a pound for it.”

”Very interesting,” said Eric.

”That wheelbarrow,” said the old man, pointing out a splintered wreck, ”was the cause of two deaths. It rolled down a bank into the lane here just as a car was coming along. It was in all the papers. 'Local Tragedy.'”

”Extraordinary!” said Eric.

”It all makes up life,” said the old man, ”Here is a belt dropped by one of the Irish haymakers when they fought the gypsies. This hat belonged to the man who had Church Farm, near you. He won a prize in the Irish Sweep and drank himself to death, poor fellow! These are bricks from my gardener's cottage. It burned down, you know, and n.o.body knows how the fire started. This is a snake which somehow got into the church during service last year. Captain Felton killed it. He's a very handsome man, don't you think?”

”Yes. I suppose so. I hardly know him.”

”That's funny. I thought you and Mrs. Gaskell were very great friends of Captain Felton.”

”What gave you that idea?”

”Perhaps it was just my fancy. Here is a rather sad exhibit. These horns came from a bull that Farmer Lawson put into my meadow. Somebody left the gate open; it got out and gored a man on the road.”

”We scarcely know Captain Felton,” said Eric. ”We met him when first we came here, but -”

”Quite, quite,” said the old man. ”Here is an anonymous letter. We have them now and then in this district, as in most places. Mr. Coperus gave me this.”

”Are they usually well founded, the hints in your local brand of anonymous letters?” asked Eric.

”I believe they are,” said the old man. ”Someone seems to know what goes on. Here's something that I fear won't last very long - a giant puffball from the graveyard. They grow larger there than elsewhere. Feel how light it is.”

He thrust it toward Eric. Eric had been fumbling with his pipe and tobacco pouch and now put them down to take the puffball. ”Very light,” said he. ”Wonderful.”

”Come through here,” cried the old man eagerly. ”I was forgetting my boots.” Eric followed him, still carrying the giant fungus. ”These boots,” said the old man, ”came off a tramp found drowned in a pond. That little pond near Captain Felton's house.”

”What does Felton do?” asked Eric.

”He has an income. He amuses himself.”

”What is his amus.e.m.e.nt?” said Eric very casually.

”I'm afraid,” said the old man, with a twinkle, ”that Captain Felton is rather one for the ladies.”

”Indeed?” said Eric.

”There are stories,” said the old man. ”The captain is very discreet, but - you know how it is. That big crystal up there - that was found in the quarry half a mile down our little road here. Well now, that quarry had been out of use for many years. You can drive into it from the road, and I'm told the captain finds it a very secluded rendezvous. Dear me, I ought not to gossip. But the fact is the shepherd boys have been known to look over the top, and of course stories get round. People love to chuckle over such matters. I'm afraid that someday one of the worthy gentlemen whose domestic relations the captain has, so to speak, trespa.s.sed upon will look over the top and - well, there are some very large stones lying about. Here is a cat I had stuffed. Now there is a very extraordinary story connected with this cat.”

”Tell me,” said Eric, ”is Felton here now?”

”He's here,” said the old man. ”I saw his car go by only an hour ago. It's a red car. One doesn't often see a red car, though as a matter of fact another red one came by just after his.”

”I - I think I must be off,” said Eric.

”Must you go?” said the old man. ”I was just going to tell you about this unhappy cat.”

”Another time,” said Eric.

”Another time, then. Let me see you to the gate.”

Eric hurried through the gate.

”You are not going back the way you came?” said the old man. ”It's quicker.”

”No. No. I have to go round this way,” said Eric.

”That will lead you past the captain's quarry,” said the old man. ”Well, good-by. Come again soon.”

He watched Eric stride rapidly down the road and even climbed a bank to watch him farther. When he saw him leave the road and strike over the face of the down, toward the upper lip of the quarry, he went placidly back to his museum.

There he took up Eric's pipe and tobacco pouch and fondled them with infinite affection. It was quite a long time before he could bring himself to place them carefully on a shelf and return to his pottering in the garden.

M. R. JAMES.

OH, WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD.

”I suppose you will be getting away pretty soon, now Full term is over, Professor,” said a person not in the story to the Professor of Ontography, soon after they had sat down next to each other at a feast in the hospital hall of St. James's College.

The professor was young, neat, and precise in speech. ”Yes,” he said, ”my friends have been making me take up golf this term, and I mean to go to the East Coast - in point of fact to Burnstow (I dare say you know it) - for a week or ten days to improve my game. I hope to get off tomorrow.”

”Oh, Parkins,” said his neighbor on the other side, ”if you are going to Burnstow, I wish you would look at the site of the Templars' preceptory, and let me know if you think it would be any good to have a dig there in the summer.”

It was, as you might suppose, a person of antiquarian pursuits who said this, but, since he merely appears in this prologue, there is no need to give his ent.i.tlements.

”Certainly,” said Parkins the professor, ”if you will describe to me whereabouts the site is, I will do my best to give you an idea of the lay of the land when I get back; or I could write to you about it, if you would tell me where you are likely to be.”