Authors: Henry Williamson
Donkey Boy (26 page)
However, once started, Phillip was not to be restrained. Jerking up head and shoulders, he shouted, “Sidney Sherrysoup.” Announcing to all and sundry, “I
love
jokes!” he vanished but to reappear with “Sidney Sugarsalt!” and going back to his retreat, bumped his head on the edge of the table and collapsed for the second time that evening with the tears of pain.
“There, you see,” remarked Richard, with a glance at Hetty, as though it were her fault because she had not spoken sternly enough to the boy.
Hughie had his banjo, and was testing the pitch of the strings. Mrs. Bigge leaned over and said something to Richard, but he did not catch what it was. Hughie struck a chord.
“I beg your pardon?” said Richard.
“I said, âBoys will be boys', Mr. Maddison.”
“Oh, yes,” he replied, airily. Mrs. Bigge nodded her head several times, glancing around to indicate sympathy for all concerned.
The room, with its undrawn plum-coloured curtains hanging on brass rings from poles above the windows was filled with the throb of the banjo. Hughie struck an attitude as he put on a straw hat, and began the song which had swept all London.
“
When
you've
shouted
âRule
Brittania
'â
when
you've
sung
âGod
Save
the
Queen'
â
When
you've
finished
killing
Kruger
with
your
mouth
â
Will
you
kindly
drop
a
shilling
in
my
little
tambourine
For
a
gentleman
in
khaki
ordered
south?
He's
an
absent-minded
beggar
and
his
weaknesses
are
great
â
But
we
and
Paul
must
take
him
as
we
find
him
â
He
is
out
on
active
service,
wiping
something
off
a
slate
â
And
he's
left
a
lot
o'
little
things
behind
him!
“Now chorusâyou all know it, ladies and gentlemen!”
Duke's
son
â
cook's
son
â
son
of
a
hundred
kings
â
(
Fifty
thousand
horse
and
foot
going
to
Table
Bay!
)
Each
of
'em
doing
his
country's
work
(
and
who's
to
look
after
their
things?)
Pass
the
hat
for
your
credit's
sake,
and
pay
â
pay
â
pay!
”
Phillip was enthralled. He had forgotten the crushed finger nail turning red, and the bump on his head. He did not know what all the words meant, but one here and another there, in the throbbing pulse of Uncle Hugh's music, gave him pictures. Horses, men marching, bands playing, people cheering; wonderful!
“
There
are
families
by
thousands,
far
too
proud
to
beg
or
speak
â
And
they'll put
their
sticks
and
bedding
up
the
spout
ââ”
Phillip saw silent women pushing hundreds of sticks and pillows and bedclothes ever so quickly up all the pipes of houses to stop the water from coming down.
“
And
they'll
live
on
half
o'nothing
paid
'em
punctual
once
a
week
'Cause
the
man
that
earned
the
wage
is
ordered
out.
He's
an
absent-minded
beggar,
but
he
heard
his
country's
call
And
his
reg'
ment
didn't
need
to
send
to
find
him:
He
chucked
his
job
and
joined
it
â
so
the
job
before
us
all
Is
to
help
the
home
that
Tommy's
left
behind
him.”
People coming down the Hill were stopping outside the gate, listening. When Hugh had finished, and the last chorus was sung, Sidney said,
“Now's the time to pass round the hat, and give the collection to the local fund,” but at once he saw that it was impracticable.
Hetty and Sarah had brought back two candles, for Tom's sight was not what it was.
“One more song,” said Hughie, strumming the guitar. With the straw hat on the back of his head, he sang:
“Goodbye
my
Bluebell,
farewell
to
you,
I
shall
be
dreaming
of
your
eyes
so
blue,
'
Mid
camp
fires
gleaming,
'mid
shot
and
shell,
I
shall
be
thinking
of
my
own
Bluebell.”
Phillip thought this was sad and lovely. He wanted Uncle Hugh to go on singing and playing for ever. Theodora watched the intense eagerness in his face, the boy's complete absorption, and thought that he might have a musical talent. And during the last verse of the song, which Hugh sang with a wistful melancholy, she glanced at Sidney, and knew that his feelings were as her own. The shock made her neck and forehead flush hotly. She lowered her gaze. The years between had made no change.
At last Mr. Turney, with two candles alight at his elbow, began reading.
“
Now
entertain
conjecture
of
a
time
When
creeping
murmur
and
the
poring
dark
Fills
the
wide
vessel
of
the
universe.
From
camp
to
camp,
through
the
foul
womb
of
night,
The
hum
of
either
army
stilly
sounds.”
Tom peered over his spectacles at the faces, and went on slowly and impressively.
“
That
the
fix'
d
sentinels
almost
receive
The
secret
whispers
of
each
other's
watch;
Fire
answers
fire,
and
through
their
paly
flames
Each
battle
sees
the
other's
umber'
d
face;
Steed
threatens
steed,
in
high
and
boastful
neighs
Piercing
the
night's
dull
ear;
and
from
the
tents
The
armourers,
accomplishing
the
knights,
With
busy
hammers
closing
rivets
up,
Give
dreadful
note
of
preparation.”
At this point the speaker blew out one of the candles, and went on in slow, sonorous tones.
“
The
country
cocks
do
crow,
the
clocks
do
toll,
And
the
third
hour
of
drowsy
morning
name.
Proud
of
their
numbers,
and
secure
in
soul,
The
confident
and
over-lusty
French
Do
the
low-rated
English
play
at
dice,
And
chide
the
cripple
tardy-gaited
night
Who,
like
a foul
and
ugly
witch,
doth
limp
So
tediously
away.
The
poor
condemned
English,
Like
sacrifices,
by
their
watchful
fires
Sit
patiently,
and
inly
ruminate
The
morning's
danger,
and
their
gesture
sad
Investing
lank-lean
cheeks
and
war-worn
coats
Presenteth
them
unto
the
gazing
moon
So
many
horrid
ghosts.
O!
now,
who
will
behold
The
royal
captain
of
this
ruined
band
Walking
from
watch
to
watch,
from
tent
to
tent,
Let
him
cry
âPraise
and
glory
on
his
head
'
For
forth
he
goes
and
visits
all
his
host,
Bids
them
good-morrow
with
a
modest
smile,
And
calls
them
brothers,
friends
and
countrymen.
Upon
his
royal
face
there
is
no
note
How
dread
an
army
hath
enrounded
him;
Nor
doth
he
dedicate
one
jot
of
colour
Unto
the
weary
and
all-watched
night;
But
freshly
looks
and
overbears
attaint
With
cheerful
semblance
and
sweet
majesty;
That
every
wretch,
pining
and
pale
before,
Behold
him,
plucks
comfort
from
his
looks.
A
largess
universal
like
the
sun
His
liberal
eye
doth
give
to
every
one,
Thawing
cold
fear.
Then
mean
and
gentle
all,
Behold,
as
may
unworthiness
define.
A
little
touch
of
Harry
in
the
night.
And
so
our
scene
must
to
the
battle
fly;
Where,
O
for
pity!
we
shall
much
disgrace
With
four
or
five
most
vile
and
ragged
foils,
Right
ill-disposed
in
brawl
ridiculous,
The
name
of
Agincourt.
Yet
sit
and
see;
Minding
true
things
by
what
their
mockeries
be.
”
Tom Turney laid down the book, and relit the other candle at the flame of its fellow.
*
“Well, my children,” he said, “that is William Shakespeare. And it is true to-day as it was in the times of which he wrote.”
“Thank you, sir, for reading the passage,” said Sidney.
“It was most impressive, Mr. Turney,” quavered old Mr. Newman.
