THE TRAMP.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 2711, 15 January 1910, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE TRAMP.

By Robert Blatchford.

It was a blazing, breathless August Jay,. The. heat was tropical, the sky without a cloud, the garden without shade. Alice, the buxom housemaid, who was gathering a nosegay for Aliss Bertha, felt tbe bite of the hot sun on her neck below the curtain of her hood, like the glow of her own kitchen fire. Aliss Bertha, aged five, sat upon the grass-plot, panting under her great white, sun-hat. The flower stalks, as Alice snapped them, were ask and dry; the flowers seemed faint and flaccid. The specks of feldspar amongst the gravel of the walks flashed like gems; the pansies, picotees, anemones, and yellow sultans in the beds looked almost colorless in the blinding glare; the great vivid blooms of tbe hollyhocks. seemed to radiate light and heat. Charlie, the fat spaniel, who affected to serve as guardian of Albert Lodge, had curled himself up into the farthest corner of his brightly-painted kennel, and Jay there, uttering' intermittent short gasps of dissatisfaction. The roads without were inches deep in hot white dust; the fields were parched and hare. Sussex had not tasted rain ior seven weeks.

“I’m sure it’s a kindness to pluck these flowers,” quoth Alice; “it'll be a real treat to ’em to feel water again. Aliss Bertha, dear, just look—” As she spoke the smart servant raised her head and saw gazing at her from across the fuchsia hedge, and between the purple hollyhocks, the face of a man.

It was an old face, rough and .stern —a face tanned and furrowed, wrinkled and seamed by the suns and winds, and labors and cares of fifty long dull years. “What do yen want here?” said Alice, sharply, as she drew up her plump figure and turned her scornail young eyes upon the intruder. The man walked to the garden gate and laid his hand on the latch. “Could you give a feller a job? he asked. “It’s hard work -trampin’ the roads i’ this weather. That theer kitchen garden o’ yourn ’ud be no worse for a touch o’ the spade.” “Not to-day,” said the girl, shaking her head decidedly. “Alake a good job on it,” urged the man. “No,” said Alice. ••Yer might be so kind as ax the missus,” ho persisted. ••Alice,” called a clear treble voice from the drawing-room window, “come in at one©'and bring ALiss Bertha in out of the sun.” * The tramp looked towards the window. and, seeing a lady there, removed his cap and asked her, respectfully : “i reckon yer couldn’t give me a hit <■>’ work, • diggin' nor nothin,' missus?” The lady .shook her head and frowned. Alice repeated, carrying little Bertha with her. “Dig yer garden over fer a cup o tea an’ a- bit o’ bread, inarm. I'm very ‘ard up—” •■We have nothing’to spare,*’ said the lady, and closed tbe easement. Alice went round the side of the house and closed the door. The tramp gave a heavy sigh, wiped his furrowed forehead on his big bronze-brown hand, replaced liis nap, and walked slowly away. He glanced sr the little orchard as he passed, and .saw the golden pippins shining amongst the thin aiid dusty foliage. “Jl’m!” he soliloquised, “might come to that, later on.” A couple of hundred yards from the house, at a turn of the road, there was a small triangular patch of grass, partly sheltered from the sun by a clump of chestnut trees. On the opposite side of the road was a high bank of gravel crowned by an overhanging hedge of low quicksets. A barrow stood in the road, and in the barrow was a well-worn spade.

The tramp, after looking at these implements critically, threw hinisell down on flic grass-plot in the. narrow fringe of shadow and went to sleep. A couple -of hours later lie was awakened by a ringing scream. Ho sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked about him. Another scream, and another, still wilder, brought him to his feet.

Within a few yards of him was the buxom Alice, mad with terror, shrieking, wringing her hands, and running frantically up and down the road before the gravel bank. A glance at this bank gave the navvy a shrewd idea of her trouble.

Half tlio face of the white cliff had fallen out. Half the edge at the top was gone; the other hall, and with it a mass of many tons weight, was hanging forward. A cloud of sand filled the air; a heap of new-fallen gravel lay in the road.

The navvy ran to the girl, and, seizing her arm in his iron grasp, said, quickly: “Stop that yellin’! AYhat’s up? Tell me. quick.” Alice uttered a frantic shriek. “The child!” she gasped, “the child! Aliss Bertha—oh, for God’s sake—”

The tramp had slipped off his jacket, tightened his strap, and taken up the spade. The girl began..to scream again, beating her breast, stamping, and rapidly working herself into a lit of hysterics. The man turned round, and, in a sharp, firm tone, said: “Drop it. D’ye hear? Squealin’s no use. Run for help, and get a doctor fast as yer legs ’ll take yer. Go!” ' The strong voice and firm air of command sobered and controlled the. girl. She struggled for a moment with her terror, then, turning, ran towards the house.

The tramp took up the> spado, and, by half-a-dozen rapid jerks, flung almost as many bucketfuls of gravel

from the heap. Then another scream from the girl made him pause. She had stopped a few yards from him, and now called out, “Oh, oh! mister, you'll be killed—killed!” The tramp did not raise his eves. He knew what sire was pointing at. Above his head, suspended only by a few over-strained fibres of thorn root, hung a mass of gravel sufficient to have buried a. waggon and horses. “The doctor, and help; go, God damn it, go!” he thundered, and resumed his work. Alice, stopping her ears for fear she should hear the crash of the avalanche, ran towards the cottage. There she found the milk boy gossiping with the cook over his can. She sent him for the doctor, told the cook to “'run, run, run down the road,” and, bursting into the drawing-room, fell, fainting, into the arms of her mistress. “Bertha!” That was all she said; but it was enough. Bertha’s mother was already on the road, hatless, slipperless, running madly towards the gravel bank. Meanwhile the tramp, with set teeth and braced nerves, dug at the gravel heap with the strength, courage, and steady skill which had served him before in many a similar danger. In a few minutes he had hacked a huge wedge-shaped hole in the mass, ami had come upon a branch of quickset. “Hope in that,” lie panted; “may have served her fro’ being crushed.” He gave a mighty wrench, and brought up a mass of shattered brushwood. At the same moment some sand and stones came clattering down from above. “Now for it,” said the tramp. There was a .sharp crack overhead. He looked up. The roots were giving way; the immense mass of gravel and earth, hanging by a thread, was leaning farther out. A piercing scream from the corner of the road' made him turn his head. The mother of the buried child had arrived, and, seeing the terrible danger, had fallen senseless in the dust. Another clatter of stones came down. The tramp stooped, drove his powerful arms into the ragged hole, and dragged the child, bleeding and ghastly , into the light. As lie did .so there was a sharp crac-k above him like the report- of a rifle. The rock was coming down. ••Crash!” The earth shook under the shock. The air was filled with dust and sand. But the tramp, springing hack, had avoided death by a hand s breadth, and now, with the lifeless form of little Bertha in his arms, was rolling on his hack in the shallow of the opposite hedge. The next instant he was on his feet. “Now,” he said, in a voice like the hark of a dog, “where the hell's that doctor?” The doctor, and with him two farm hands, drove up in a gig as he spoke. “Safe?” cried the doctor, excitedly; then, seeing blood on the face of the tramp, “are you much hurt, my man.-' “Look 'ere, guv’nor," the tramp said, sternly, “you jest- chuck talkin' an’ look after this babby. I m able to look to meself.” With that he placed Bertha in the arms of the astonished doctor, and, crossing the road, lifted the lady and bore her to the gig. “Now,” he said, “git forrard; wliafs the use o’ jaw when life’s at stake?' And with that the gig drove off, and the tramp, returning to the. shadow of the chestnuts, sat down to wipe his streaming face and throat and get his breath again. “That were a damned near shave, that were,” he muttered, glancing at the riven face cf the sand bank and the great pile of debris at its feet; “Id near’st ’a’ died i’ good company, bless ’er —she's a bonny child.”

An hour later, Bertha, already pronounced out of danger, was lying in her snowy bed, her mother kneeling by her side. Her rescuer, meanwhile, refreshed by a sluice at the pump, was seated in the kitchen at dinner. “Will you have beer or coffee?” asked the cook. Alice had been ordered to bed. “Beer, please.” The beer was brought in a pitcher. The tramp cut- himself an enormous slice of beef, and began to eat eagerly. The cook sat at a distance and watched him silently. The man never spoke, except to say, “I’ll take another mug o’ beer, please,” or, “If yer don t mind, marm. I could do wi’ a raw ingVun.” At last he paused, pushed away his plate, and took a final draught of nearly a. pint from the big brown jug. “I Vpos-e,” be said, “you ain’t got sicli a thing as a pipe o’ baccy in the ’ouse?” The cook smiled. “Nobody smokes here,” she said. “Ah!” said the tramp; “an’ it would be axin’ too much maybe ” “No.” said the cook, rising, “nothin’s too much for you to ask, I m sure, let alone a pipe of baccy, an’ I'll fetch it mceelf.” x The tramp bowed his head and said, with grave dignity, “Thankee, marm.” vSoon afterwards, as the man sat smoking silently in the porch, the cook came to him and said, “Please, missus an’ master would like to see you in the drawin’-rcom.” “Tell ’em,” said the tramp, slowly, and without turning his head, “my respecks, an’ not bein’ used to nothin’ fine could they come an’ speak to me ’ere?” They came to him through the garden. He stood up as they approached, and lifted his cap from his head. “Sarvice, marm,” he said. The master of the house was a welldressed man of thirty-five, with face smooth-shaven, eyes quick and keen, manner that of the successful man of business.

The lady was some five years younger, slight, fair, and pale, and of refined and rather haughty bearing. “I am sure,” began the gentlemen, “I hardly know how to thank you. 1 >) “No need fur to try,” said the tramp, with grave dignity. “You have rendered me such a service,” said the lady, the tears coming into her eyes, “that nothing we •cunsay ” “Marm,” said the tramp, “sayin’ ain’t no use; ‘t:s nothin’ nohow. tbi chaps does such things common. i wanted a job, an’ I got it. Mere quits.” “ft was really very brave of you 'file tramp shook his head. “Not that,” he answered. “I’d ha' boon a swine if I’d hanged back, not a man.” “But, my good fellow,” said the gentleman, “you risked your life, an 1 surely- ” The tramp uttered a short laugh. “My life,” he said, “ain’t so u.~-:;::l nor so sweet as I should care swA riskin’ of it.” Then, glancing over his shoulder, he pointed with his pipe bo the great joint of beef on the table. “That theer,” he said, “is the i.;rt meat as I’ve lasted for three w*rk. You said as you ’ad nothin’ to spare, marm; you might ’a’ spared a per.chap a meal out’er all that.” The lady blushed and lowered beeves. The gentleman said: “'Well—er —of course, one cannot—er —feed every tramp—and no doubt my wife—ov —thought that— ” “Naterally,” said the tramp, “tho Jadv. not havin’ no need of me ’erse f, thought as I were a thing no use to •nobody. That’s : ow sich as me steps down when we is down, an’ stops whon we wants work.” “Cannot you get work—anywhere?’’ asked tiie gentleman. “1 didn’t get none ’ere, guv’ni r,” said the tramp. “But surely ” “Surely, mister, I knows what ! knows. Is the young un doing well?” “Thanks to your heroism, she is.” “H’m! heroism. Lookee, master, Lyo’ad childer o ’me own, an’ I knows the wo’th on ’em ; an’ I knows the wo’th o’ work, an’ what starvin' means. h:'i hadn’t- been fur what’s ’appened, I a -s helped meself to your apples at darir. An’ I’m precious tired o’ apples, tea, I can tell yer. But, as luck ’ac ’are it, I done yer ai service, an’ I got square feed. ir-s^p ~ & job as a man likes payin’ nir,'TrnT“'it':; fair, all t a ken in-”

“I assure you.” sa:d the gentleman, “I am exceedingly grateful to you, an a I can see that you are worthy of —- spect. Suppose I can find you wort. The tramp shook his head. “I thing; not,” he said. “I’m a navvy, an' you can mek nothin’ else on me. The-er s no navvy work here, an' I in go;n "• look fur it wheer it is. You can g;' me a few shilling if you will, that- s all.” “Do you mean,” asked the la-ay. “that you will take no merer ' “No. inarm, no more.” Tlie gentleman drew out- his purse. “And where are you going to now r he asked. “On tramp !” He accepted half-a-sovereign, mat, although much more was offered, re fused to take more. Then, touching his hat to the lady, he walked into tr.e garden. The lady, much distressed, turned towards him. “I hope,” she said, anxiously, “'that you are not offended. “No, marm.” said the tramp, in the same grave, steady way, “not the. ; but meybe fur future you’ll be kinder, an’ not- think as them as arn’t- no us" to you arn’t no use to nobody. Tranirr is men, an’ does men’s work. These ’ere roads was made by tramps. -'• was the railways. Them things don tgrow, marm, tho 5 yer might seem rethink so. They’re made, an’ we mane:, ’em; when we’re makin 'em we r'• navvies; when we’ve finished me km ’em we're tramps. We’re allers industrious workin’ men when you want, us; when you don’t- want us no more , we’re vagrants. You might- remember them things. Good-evenin’, marm; ar,’ thankee.” And with a gesture of quiet dignit; the tramp departed. “Well,” said the gentleman, “that’s a remarkable man, and a very fine specimen of his class. Now, it all wor.-i----ing men were like him there would r-o some hopes of them.” The lady sighed.