Part 44 (1/2)

Mr. Lambole took his son roughly by the arm and lifted him into the tax cart. The boy offered no resistance. His spirit was broken, his hopes extinguished. For months he had yearned for the red fiddle, price three-and-six, and now that, after great pains and privations, he had acquired it, the fiddle would not sound.

”Ain't you ashamed of yourself, giving your dear dada such trouble, eh, Viper?”

Mr. Lambole turned the horse's head homeward. He had his black patch towards the little Gander, seated in the bottom of the cart, hugging his wrecked violin. When Mr. Lambole spoke he turned his face round to bring the active eye to bear on the shrinking, crouching little figure below.

The Viper made no answer, but looked up. Mr. Lambole turned his face away, and the seeing eye watched the horse's ears, and the black patch was towards a frightened, piteous, pleading little face, looking up, with the light of the evening sky irradiating it, showing how wan it was, how hollow were the cheeks, how sunken the eyes, how sharp the little pinched nose. The boy put up his arm, that held the bow, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. In so doing he poked his father in the ribs with the end of the bow.

”Now, then!” exclaimed Mr. Lambole with an oath, ”what darn'd insolence be you up to now, Gorilla?”

If he had not held the whip in one hand and the reins in the other he would have taken the bow from the child and flung it into the road. He contented himself with rapping Joe's head with the end of the whip.

”What's that you've got there, eh?” he asked.

The child replied timidly: ”Please, father, a fiddle.”

”Where did you get 'un--steal it, eh?”

Joe answered, trembling: ”No, dada, I bought it.”

”Bought it! Where did you get the money?”

”Miss Amory gave it me.”

”How much?”

The Gander answered: ”Her gave me five s.h.i.+lling.”

”Five s.h.i.+llings! And what did that blessed” (he did not say ”blessed,”

but something quite the reverse) ”fiddle cost you?”

”Three-and-sixpence.”

”So you've only one-and-six left?”

”I've none, dada.”

”Why not?”

”Because I spent one s.h.i.+lling on a pipe for you, and sixpence on a thimble for stepmother as a present,” answered the child, with a flicker of hope in his dim eyes that this would propitiate his father.

”Dash me,” roared the roadmaker, ”if you ain't worse nor Mr.

Chamberlain, as would rob us of the cheap loaf! What in the name of Thunder and Bones do you mean squandering the precious money over fooleries like that for? I've got my pipe, black as your back shall be before to-morrow, and mother has an old thimble as full o' holes as I'll make your skin before the night is much older. Wait till we get home, and I'll make pretty music out of that there fiddle! just you see if I don't.”

Joe s.h.i.+vered in his seat, and his head fell.

Mr. Lambole had a playful wit. He beguiled his journey home by indulging in it, and his humour flashed above the head of the child like summer lightning. ”You're hardly expecting the abundance of the supper that's awaiting you,” he said, with his black patch glowering down at the irresponsive heap in the corner of the cart. ”No stinting of the dressing, I can tell you. You like your meat well basted, don't you? The basting shall not incur your disapproval as insufficient. Underdone? Oh, dear, no! Nothing underdone for me. Pickles? I can promise you that there is something in pickle for you, hot--very hot and stinging. Plenty of capers--mutton and capers. Mashed potatoes? Was the request for that on the tip of your tongue? Sorry I can give you only half what you want--the mash, not the potatoes. There is nothing comparable in my mind to young pig with crackling. The hide is well striped, cut in lines from the neck to the tail. I think we'll have crackling on our pig before morning.”

He now threw his seeing eye into the depths of the cart, to note the effect his fun had on the child, but he was disappointed. It had evoked no hilarity. Joe had fallen asleep, exhausted by his walk, worn out with disappointments, with his head on his fiddle, that lay on his knees. The jogging of the cart, the att.i.tude, affected his wound; the plaster had given way, and the blood was running over the little red fiddle and dripping into its hollow body through the S-hole on each side.

It was too dark for Mr. Lambole to notice this. He set his lips. His self-esteem was hurt at the child not relis.h.i.+ng his waggery.