Part 18 (1/2)

He had gone some distance when a granite roller lying on the ploughed slope beneath a clump of bushes invited him to rest. Mr. Fogo accepted the invitation, and seated himself to contemplate the scene.

The bush at his back was comfortable, and by degrees the bright intoxication of his senses settled to a drowsy content. He pulled out his pipe and lit it. Through the curls of blue smoke he watched the glitter on the water below, the prismatic dazzle of the clods where their glossy surface caught the sun, the lazy flap-flap of a heron crossing the valley, and he heard along the uplands the voice (sweetest of rural sounds, and, alas! now obsolete) of a farm-boy chanting to his team, ”Brisk and Speedwell, Goodluck and Lively”--and so sank by degrees into a soothing sleep.

When he awoke and looked lazily upwards, at first his eyes encountered gloom. ”Have I been sleeping all day?” was his first thought, not without alarm. But under the darkness a bright ray was stealing. Mr. Fogo put up his hand and encountered his umbrella, carefully spread over his face for shade.

This was mysterious; he could swear the umbrella was folded and lying at his side when he dropped asleep. ”It must be Caleb,” he thought, and stared around. No Caleb was in sight, but he noticed that the sun was dropping towards the west, and noticed also, not fifty yards to the left, and quietly cropping a tuft of bushes, a red bull.

Now Mr. Fogo had an extreme horror of bulls, especially red bulls, and this one was not merely red, but looked savage, to boot.

Mr. Fogo peered again round the corner of his umbrella. The brute luckily had not spied him, but neither did it seem in any hurry to move. For twenty minutes Mr. Fogo waited behind his shelter, and still the bull went on cropping.

It was already late, and the brute stood full in the homeward path to Kit's House. It was only possible to make a circuit around the ridge, as the cliff's edge cut off a _detour_ on the other side.

Weary of waiting, Mr. Fogo cautiously rose, pushed his easel under the bushes, and began to creep up towards the ridge, holding his umbrella in front of him as a screen. This was rather after the fas.h.i.+on of the ostrich, which, to avoid being seen, buries its head in the sand; nor was it likely that the beast, if irritated at sight of a man, would acquiesce in the phenomenon of an umbrella at large, and strolling on its own responsibility. But as yet the bull's back was towards it.

Stealthily Mr. Fogo crept round. He had placed about seventy yards between him and the animal, and had almost gained the summit when a dismal accident befell.

”_Cl'k--Whir-r-r-r-roo-oo-oo!_”

It was the alarum in his tail-pocket. The bull looked up, gazed wildly at the umbrella, snorted, lashed out with his tail, and started in pursuit. Quick as thought, Mr. Fogo dropped his screen, and, with a startled glance around, dashed at full speed for the ridge, the infernal machine still dinning behind him.

Luckily, the bull's onset was directed at the umbrella. There was a thundering of hoofs, a dull roar, and the poor man, as he gained the summit and cast a frantic look behind, saw a vision of jagged silk and flying ribs. With a groan he tore forwards.

There was a hedge about fifty yards away, and for this he made with panting sides and tottering knees. If he could only stop that alarum! But the relentless noise continued, and now he could hear the bull in fresh pursuit. However, the umbrella had diverted the attack. After a few seconds of agony Mr. Fogo gained the hedge, tore up it, turned, saw the brute appear above the ridge with a wreck of silk and steel upon his horns, and with a sob of thankfulness dropped over into the next field.

But alas! in doing so Mr. Fogo performed the common feat of leaping out of the frying-pan into the fire. For it happened that on the other side a tramp was engaged in his legitimate occupation of sleeping under a hedge, and on his extended body our hero rudely descended.

”Hi!” said the tramp, ”where be you a-comin' to?”

Mr. Fogo picked himself up and felt for his spectacles; they had tumbled off in his flight, and without them his face presented a curiously naked appearance. The alarum in his pocket had stopped suddenly with the jerk of his descent.

”I beg your pardon,” he mildly apologised, ”but a bull in the next field--”

”That's no cause for selectin' a gentl'm'n's stomach to tumble 'pon, growled the tramp.

”I beg your pardon, I'm sure,” repeated Mr. Fogo; ”you may be sure that had time for selection been allowed me--”

”Look 'ere,” said the tramp with sudden ferocity, ”will you fight?”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Look 'ere,” said the tramp . . . ”will you fight?”]

Mr. Fogo retreated a step.

”Really--”

”Come, look sharp! You won't? Then I demands 'arf-a-crown.”

With this the ruffian began to tuck up his ragged cuffs, and was grimly advancing. Mr. Fogo leapt back another pace.

”_Cl'k--Whir-r-r-r-roo-oo-oo!_”