The Slowcoach

CHAPTER 9

THE FIRST NIGHT

"Well," said Janet, "that's a very nice start. It would have been horrid if the first farmer had been crusty."

"Ah," said Mary Rotheram, "but you should see his wife! It was she who did it for us really. Perhaps after dinner we might walk up there to thank her."

After dinner! How recklessly young caravaners can talk. But you shall hear....

Kink with much skill got Moses and the Slowcoach into the field and shut the gate, and then the great carriage rocked and swayed over the grass, making no sound but a mixture of creaking and crockery. At last he brought it to a stand just under a tall hedge, and Moses was at once taken out and roped to a crowbar driven in the ground.

"The first thing," said Janet, "is the fire," and Jack and Horace were sent off to collect wood and pile it near the Slowcoach, and fix the tripod over it. As it was quite dry, one of Mr. Scott's lighters soon had it blazing, and Mary, as chief cook, threw quickly into the water in the pot the large piece of brisket they had bought at Woodstock, together with potatoes and carrots and little onions and pepper and salt.

That done, and leaving Horace with strict orders to keep the fire fed, the others began to unpack. First of all mackintosh sheets and rugs were thrown on the ground round the fire, and then Robert and Jack drew out their tent and set it up on the farther side of the fire, some four or five yards away, so that the fire was midway between the tent and the caravan.

The tent was similar to those which gipsies use—not with a central pole, but stretched over half-hoops which were stuck in the ground. It was wide enough for three boys to lie comfortably in their sleeping-bags side by side. Gregory was to sleep in the caravan with the girls; Kink was to go to Woodstock.

Meanwhile, with all of them, except Mary and Gregory, who had done well with Mrs. Gosden's tea, the pangs of hunger were at work, and the steam of the great iron pot hanging over the fire did nothing to allay them. Mary and Janet every now and then thrust a fork into the meat, but its resistance to the point was heart-breaking.

"Hadn't you better have some biscuits to go on with?" Janet said at last; but the others refused. It would spoil the stew, they thought.

"At any rate," Janet said, "let's get everything ready, not only for supper,"—you see, it wasn't called dinner any longer,—"but for washing-up afterwards."

So Kink went off for some more water, and a large basin was set on a box, and dishcloths were put by it; and a rackety search began for plates, and knives and forks, and mugs, and tinned fruits, and more plates and spoons and moist sugar, and all the other things which appear on our tables at mealtimes as naturally as leaves on the trees, but which in a caravan mean so much fuss and perplexity. In fact, all the children returned home with a vastly increased respect for the ability and punctuality of Collins and Eliza Pollard and Jan Masters.

For a while the air was simply full of questions and remarks, some of which I copy down, and you may guess who asked them.

"I say, Janet, where's the tin-opener?"

"Janet, dear, ought we to have napkins?"

"Hester, you little nuisance, get off that box; it's got the bread in it."

"Hester, stop reading and come and help."

"Horace, the fire's nearly out."

"I wish some of you would stop talking and tell me where the tin-opener is."

"Jack, you lazy ruffian, why don't you get some more sticks?"

"I say, Kink, do you think this old brisket will ever be done?"

"Kink, does it ruin potatoes and things to stew too long?"

"Kink, is there any decent way of opening a tin without a tin-opener?"

"I'm perfectly certain the sugar was in this cupboard. Gregory, have you been at the sugar?"

"It's a good deal harder than a rock, still."

"Can you make a tin-opener out of a fork?"

"I am perfectly certain I saw the corkscrew this morning."

"Oh, I say, I didn't come out in this old caravan to die of hunger and neglect."

"Mary, where did you put the milkjug?"

"Let's have that beast of a brisket out and cut him up, and put him in again in smaller pieces."

"Oh, Jack, how clever you are! However did you think of that?"

"I expect it's hunger sharpening his wits."

"I say, it's all very well to say cut him up small; but he's red hot. I'm scalded horribly."

"So am I."

"Yes, and so am I, the way you make him jump about. It splashed right over here."

"Kink, come and help us hold the brisket down while we cut him up."

The result of all this confusion was the appointment of two or three new officials. Horace was made Keeper of the Tinopener, and Gregory Keeper of the Cork screw, while Jack was given the title of Preserver of Enough Oil in the Beatrice Stove, because you can do wonders with a Beatrice stove while waiting for the real fire to burn up—but only if there's oil in it.

Jack's brilliant device of slicing the brisket was successful, and by half-past seven they were seated on their rugs round the fire eating the most supreme stew of the century, as Mary Rotheram called it. They ate it in soup-plates, with a great deal of juice, into which they dropped their bread.

Suddenly old Kink, who had been eating steadily for a quarter of an hour just outside the circle, stepped up to what we may call the supper-table, with his watch in his hand.

"Miss Janet," he said, "there's only a quarter of an hour to get to Woodstock to send off the telegram."

Janet looked at the official telegraphist in alarm. "Oh, Bobbie," she said, "how dreadful if we had missed it! You must simply run!"

Robert sprang to his feet in a moment.

"Give me a shilling," he said. "I'll make it up as I go along. Keep some tinned pears for me."

"I'll come too," said Jack, and off they bolted.

They reached the post-office just in time to despatch this message:

"Avory Gables Chiswick just finished glorious brisket all well love."

On their return Robert and Jack found washing-up in full swing, and were not sorry to be able to eat their pears in comfort and watch the others being busy.

The light was now going fast; the bats flitted over their heads, and there was no sound save the talking and clattering of the washers-up and the grinding of Diogenes's teeth on the brisket bone. Various projects for spending the last hours of the day had been talked of, but now that it was here no one seemed to have the slightest energy left either to walk into Blenheim Park or cross the three or four fields to Blackett's. In fact, they wanted but one thing, and that was to creep into their very novel beds and see what it was like to sleep like gipsies.

Everything was therefore put ready for breakfast. A last load of wood was brought for the fire, Diogenes was transferred to the long rope which enabled him to range all round the camp, and Kink said good night and trudged off to the village inn.

And so the first night began.

Gregory was a little fractious for a while, considering it an indignity to be sleeping in the caravan instead of with the men; but he was no sooner tucked into his berth than he fell asleep and forgot the insult. The girls were also very soon on their little shelves, either sleeping or drowsily enjoying the thought of sleep; but Robert and Jack and Horace did not hurry. The fire was still warm, and they huddled round it with Diogenes, and talked, and listened to Moses crunching the grass, and made plans for the morrow. Then at last they carried the sheeting and the rugs to the tent, and crept into their sacks and prepared to sleep.

With the exception of Gregory, no one slept very well. Hester was frightened by an owl which hooted close to the caravan, and Janet had to hold her hand for quite a long time, which is a very uncomfortable thing to do when you are in the berth below, and then, just as she was going off again, a rabbit, pursued by a stoat, screamed right under their wheels, as it seemed, and Hester's fright began anew.

Jack and Horace were probably a little over excited, for they were very restless; and to be restless on the hard ground—with no springs, as in our beds at home—is to get sore and wakeful; while Robert was intently conscious of every sound and if you sleep in a field you hear thousands of them—all the rustlings of the little shy nocturnal animals, tiny squeakings and shrillings in the grass, as well as the cries of the birds of prey. Now and then, too, a spider ran over his face and made him jump, and very early the strong light poured into the mouth of the tent and made it seem absurd to be in bed any longer.

The result was, that it was not till the morning that they began to sleep properly at all, and that made them much less ready to get up than they had expected to be.