Mr. MacAngus had just finished his ham and eggs, and was lighting his pipe.
"Good morning, Slowcoaches," he said. "I'm very pleased to see you. Sit down wherever you like. Furniture by Dame Nature; everything as nice as Mother makes it. This is a friendly, reasonable hour to meet. That young brother of yours—I suppose he is your brother"—pointing to Robert—"pays calls in the middle of the night. He seems to think every caravan in the world belongs to him. How a man who lives in a London terrace knows his house I never could understand, but to recognize one's own caravan ought to be quite easy."
Mr MacAngus, you must understand, did not say all this in one breath, for he was a slow man. But it reads as if he did, because none of the others uttered a word. It was all too bewildering and also too amusing. He was so big and so strange, and he had such a twinkle in his eye, that they preferred to let him go on, knowing that whatever he said would be entertaining.
"Well," he said at last, "now we must stop talking nonsense and introduce ourselves. But first I should like you all to guess who I am and what I do for a living. You first," he said, pointing to Janet.
"I think you are a kind of hermit," she said at last.
"Right," he said. "But that's not enough. What do I do? You," he added, pointing to Mary, "what do you think I do?"
"Perhaps you lecture," said Mary, "or preach. No, I don't think you preach. I think very likely you speak to villagers about politics—tariff reform and things like that."
The big man laughed. "Very well," he said. "Now you," to Robert.
"I think you're a gentleman gipsy," said Robert. "Like Lavengro. Are you?"
"In a way," said the stranger, "but I shan't tell you till you've all guessed."
Jack Rotheram then guessed that he was a spy, and this amused him immensely.
"In a kind of way I am that too," he answered. "At any rate, I am always looking out for the fatness of the land."
Hester guessed he had a broken heart because of a disappointment in love, and was living all alone because he hated the world, like Lord Byron.
He liked this most of all, and laughed for a long time—much longer, he explained afterwards, than a broken-hearted Lord Byron would have done.
Horace Campbell did not exactly guess, but said that he hoped that the stranger was a gentleman burglar—a kind of Raffles and Robin Hood in one—who robbed only the wicked rich and helped the poor. "As," he added, "I want to."
"Oh, do you?" said the big man. "Well, don't rob me, anyway. Wait till I have led the Snail to a place of safety."
And lastly Gregory guessed. "I think," he said, "you are a vagabond."
"Gregory!" cried Janet; "you mustn't say things like that," while the stranger laughed again.
"Why not?" Gregory inquired. "I mean like the Wandering Jew Mr. Crawley told us about. He called him the prince of vagabonds."
"Well," said the stranger, "Gregory's right. I am a vagabond. But I'm something else too, and I'll tell you. I'm an artist. My name is Hamish MacAngus. I live in the Snail most of the summer, and in London in the winter. I cover pieces of cardboard and canvas with paint more or less like trees, and cows, and sheep, and skies, and people who have more pennies than brains buy them from me; and then I take the pennies, and change them for the nice sensible things of life, such as bacon, and tobacco, and oats. My horse's name is Pencil. I came here from Banbury, and I am making slowly for Cropthorne. Now tell me all about yourselves. Tell me in the order of age."
The children looked at each other, and laughed.
"You first," said Mr. MacAngus, again to Janet; "you're the eldest, I can see."
"My name," said Janet, "is Janet Avory. I live in Chiswick. Our caravan is the Slowcoach. We are going to Stratford-on-Avon. Our horse is called Moses. Our—"
"Oh, Janet," said Hester, "you're not leaving anything for us to tell!"
"Very well," said Janet, "that's all."
"My name," said Mary, "is Mary Rotheram. I am the daughter of a doctor at Chiswick. My brother and I are the Avories' guests. I am fourteen. Father has one of your pictures."
"Good judge!" Mr. MacAngus said.
"Now, Macbeth," he said, pointing to Robert.
"My name isn't Macbeth," said Robert.
"No," said the artist, "but that's how I think of you. Why? Can anyone tell me?"
"I can," said Hester. "Because he woke you up—'Macbeth hath murdered sleep.'"
"Splendid!" said Mr. MacAngus. "As a reward you shall tell your story before Macbeth does."
"I am nine," said Hester. "My name is Hester. I adore Shakespeare. I am Janet's sister."
"Good!" said Mr. MacAngus. "We will read Shakespeare together this afternoon. From the way you walk I can see that this is blister day. We will all take it easy and be happy, and you shall cure your lameness. Now, Mac."
"I am thirteen," said Robert. "I am the geographer of the party. I am sorry for murdering your sleep, but glad, too, because you're so jolly."
"Now you," said Mr. MacAngus to Jack Rotheram.
"I am not an Avory," said Jack. "I am Mary's brother. I am twelve. I am going to Osborne next year."
"Very sensible of you," said Mr. MacAngus. "And you, sir," he added to Horace Campbell, "the burglar's friend."
"My name is Horace Campbell," he replied. "I am the son of the Vicar of Chiswick. I am nine. I am also the Keeper of the Tin-opener."
"Oh, yes," said Jack, "I forgot that. I am the Preserver of Enough Oil in the Beatrice Stove."
"I am proud to meet such important personages," said Mr. MacAngus. "And now, lastly, you,"—he said to Gregory,—"the little nipper, the tiny tot of the party."
Gregory was furious. He scowled at the artist like thunder.
"Go on," said Mr. MacAngus; "don't mind me. I always tease little important boys."
"My name is Gregory Bruce Avory," said Gregory, "and I am seven. I am going to be an aviator. I have to ask the farmers if we may camp in their fields, and I keep the corkscrew. Please tell me," he added, "why you call your horse Pencil?"
"Because he draws me," said Mr. MacAngus.
"And now," he continued, "let us do the most interesting thing in the world to people like ourselves: let us examine each other's caravans."
After they had finished visiting each other, and Mr. MacAngus had given them, speaking as an old campaigner, some very useful if simple hints, such as always pitching the tent with its back to the wind; and keeping inside a supply of dry wood to light the fires with; and tying fern on Moses's head, against the flies; and carrying cabbage leaves in their own hats, against the heat; and walking with long staves instead of short walking sticks—after this he made them all sit round their fire, and sketched them, and the picture hangs at this very moment in Mrs. Avory's bedroom at "The Gables."
After lunch, which he shared with them, adding to the pot some very fragrant mixed herbs from a little packet, they lay on the grass round him, and he read to them from Shakespeare—first from "Macbeth," which was very dreadful, but fine, and then from "Midsummer Night's Dream" and the "Winter's Tale."
After supper he took them outside the Hollow, and they lay on their backs and studied the stars, about which he knew everything that can be known, and nothing whatever that Gregory wanted to know.
And they went to bed early, to be ready for the long journey on the morrow—with their feet covered with Mr. Lenox's ointment—declaring it was one of the most delightful days they had ever spent.
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