Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 22

Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 22

"Did ye ever see siccan auld fules," said Tam Fraser, as he and his

wife went home, "rubbin' her cheek again his airm, that's as thick as a

pump theekit frae the frost wi' strae rapes?"

 

"Haud your tongue, Tam," said his wife, whose temper had suffered; "if

I had a man like that I wad rub my cheek against his trouser leg, gin

it pleasured him, the day by the length."

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURE XLIII.

 

TOWN KNIGHT AND COUNTRY KNIGHT.

 

 

Mr. Cleg Kelly awoke early on the day upon which he was to make the

bold adventure of getting to Netherby Junction without enriching the

railway company by the amount of his fare. But his conscience was

clean; he was going to work his passage. It is true that neither the

general manager nor yet the traffic inspector had been consulted in

the matter. But for the sake of Cleg's friend (to be exact, Cleaver's

boy's sweetheart's fellow-servant, cook at Bailie Holden's), Duncan

Urquhart was willing (and he believed able) to engineer Cleg's passage

to Netherby without fee or reward.

 

Duncan was friendly with the guard of his goods train, which is a thing

not too common with those who have to run goods trains together, week

in and week out. The shunting at night in particular is wearing to the

temper, especially in the winter time, when it is mostly dark in an

hour or two whenever your train happens to start.

 

"Can you stand there and turn a brake?" said Duncan to Cleg, setting

him in a small compartment by himself; "screw her up whenever we are

running downhill. Ye will ken when by the gurring and shaking."

 

Mr. Duncan Urquhart was a very different man during the day, to the

gay and gallant evening caller who had won the easy-melted heart of

the cook at Holden's—which a disappointed suitor once said bitterly

was made of dripping. He was very grimy; he spoke but seldom, and then

mostly in the highly imaginative and metaphorical language popular on

the Greenock and South-Eastern. Duncan Urquhart, as has already been

mentioned, was quite a first-class swearer, and had an originality

not common among engineers, which he owed to his habit of translating

literally from the Gaelic. Also, though he swore incessantly, he never

defiled his mouth with profanity, but confined himself assiduously to

personal abuse, which, if less sonorous, is infinitely more irritating

to the swearee.

 

So hour after hour Cleg stood in the train and was hurled and shaken

southwards towards Netherby. He helped at the shunting, coupling,

and uncoupling with the best. For, from his ancient St. Leonards

experience, he could run the coal-waggons to their lies as well as a

professional. And though his occupations had been varied and desultory,

Cleg was a born worker. He always saw merely the bit of work before

him, and he set his teeth into it (as he said picturesquely) till he

had clawed his way through.

 

Thus it was that Cleg found himself at Netherby Junction one Saturday

night at six o'clock. It was the first time he had ever been further

than the confines of the Queen's Park. And his vision of the country

came to him as it were in one day. He saw teams driving afield. He saw

the mowers in the swathes of hay. He watched with keen delight the

grass fall cleanly before the scythe, and the point of the blade stand

out at each stroke six inches from under the fallen sweep of dewy grass.

 

"Netherby Junction! Guidnicht!" said Duncan Urquhart, briefly. He had

an appointment to keep with the provost's cook, who was also partial to

well-bearded men with blue pilot-cloth jackets. Duncan would not have

been in such a hurry, but for the fact that it took him half an hour to

clean himself. He knew that half an hour when you go a-courting, and

when the other fellow may get there first, is of prime importance.

 

Now, as Cleg Kelly stepped out upon the cattle-landing bank, he caught

a glimpse of the biggest man he had ever seen, walking slowly along

the white dusty road which led out of the passenger station. He was

swinging his arms wide of his sides, as very big and broad men always

do.

 

Cleg sped after him at top speed and took a tour round him before he

spoke. The big man paid no attention, walking with his eyes fixed on

the ground.

 

"Are ye the man that pitched oot the drovers?" said Cleg at last,

coming to anchor in front of the giant.

 

Muckle Alick stopped in the road, as much surprised as though the town

clock had spoken to him. For Cleg put a smartness and fire in his

question to which the boys about Netherby were strangers.

 

"Where come ye frae?" he said to Cleg.

 

"I come from Edinburgh to see Vara Kavannah," said Cleg. "Is she biding

wi' you?"

 

"She was, till yestreen," said Alick.

 

"And where is she noo?" said Cleg, buckling up his trousers.

 

"She is gane to serve at Loch Spellanderie by the Water o' Ae!" said

Alick.

 

"And how far micht that be?" asked Cleg, finishing his preparations.

 

"Three mile and a bittock up that road!" said Muckle Alick, pointing

with his finger to a well-made dusty road which went in the direction

of the hills.

 

"Guidnicht!" cried Cleg, shortly. And was off at racing pace.

 

Muckle Alick watched him out of sight.

 

"That cowes a'!" he said, "to think that I could yince rin like that

to see a lass. But the deil's in the loon. He's surely braw an early

begun!"

 

Then Muckle Alick went round and told his wife.

 

"It will be the laddie frae Enbra that got them the wark in the mill,

and gied up his wood hut to the bairns to leeve in. What for did ye no

bring him to see Hugh Boy and the bairn?"

 

"I dinna ken that he gied me the chance," said Alick. "He was aff like

a shot to Loch Spellanderie. I wad gie a shilling to hear what Mistress

McWalter will say to him when he gets there. I houp that it'll no make

her unkind to the lassie! If it does, I'll speak to her man. And at

the warst she can aye come back to us. At a pinch we could be doing

without her wage!"

 

"Aweel," said his wife, "the loon will be near there by this time."

 

And the loon was.

 

Cleg was just turning up over the hill road towards Loch Spellanderie,

when he heard that most heartsome sound to the ear of a country boy—the

clatter of the pasture bars when the kye are coming home. It is a sound

thrilling with reminiscences of dewy eves, or heartsome lowsing times,

of forenichts with the lasses, and of all that to a country lad makes

life worth living.

 

But to Cleg the rattle of the bars meant none of these things. Two

people were standing by the gate—a boy and a girl. Cleg thought he

would ask them if this was the right road to Loch Spellanderie.

 

But as he came nearer he saw that the girl was Vara herself. She was in

close and, apparently, very friendly talk with a stranger—a tall lad

with a face like one of the white statues in the museum, at which Cleg

had often peeped wonderingly on free days when it was cold or raining

outside.

 

"Vara!" cried Cleg, leaping forward towards his friend.

 

"Cleg! What are you doing here?" said Vara Kavannah, holding out her

hand.

 

But there was something in her manner that froze Cleg. He had come with

a glowing heart. He had overcome difficulties. And now she did not seem

much more glad to see him than she had been to talk with this young

interloper at the gate of the field.

 

"This is Kit Kennedy," said Vara, with a feeling that she must by her

tactfulness carry off an awkward situation.

 

"O it is, is it?" said Cleg, ungraciously.

 

Vara went on hastily to tell Cleg about the children—how well and how

happy they were, how Gavin was twice the weight he had been, how Hugh

Boy ran down the road each night to meet Muckle Alick, and how she was

now able to keep herself, besides helping a little to support Hugh and

Gavin also.

 

Cleg stood sulkily scraping the earth with the toe of his boot. Kit

Kennedy left them together, and was going off with the cows towards the

byre. He had seen a tall, gaunt woman, who was not to be trifled with,

walking through the courtyard, and he knew it was time to take the kye

in.

 

Vara stopped talking to Cleg somewhat quickly. For she also had seen

Mistress McWalter. She walked away towards the farm. Cleg and Kit were

left alone.

 

Quick as lightning Cleg thrust his arm before Kit Kennedy's face.

 

"Spit ower that!" he said.

 

Kit hesitated and turned away.

 

"I dinna want to fecht ye!" he said, for he knew what was meant.

 

"Ye are feared!" said Cleg, tauntingly.

 

Kit Kennedy executed the feat in hydraulics required of him.

 

"After kye time," said he, "at the back o' the barn."

 

Cleg nodded dourly.

 

"I'll learn ye to let my lass alane!" said the town boy.

 

"I dinna gie a button for your lass, or ony ither lass. Forbye there

was nae ticket on her that I could see!" answered he of the country.

 

"Aweel," said Cleg; "then I'll warm ye for sayin' that ye wadna gie a

button for her. I'm gaun to lick ye at ony rate."

 

"To fecht me, ye mean?" said Kit Kennedy, quietly.

 

Thus was gage of battle offered and accepted betwixt Cleg Kelly and Kit

Kennedy.

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURE XLIV.

 

CLEG RELAPSES INTO PAGANISM.

 

 

The lists of Ashby were closed. The heralds and pursuivants did their

devoirs, and the trumpets rang out a haughty peal. Or at least to that

effect, as followeth:

 

"Come on!" said Cleg Kelly.

 

"Come on yoursel'!" said Kit Kennedy.

 

"Ye're feared," cried the Knight of the City, making a hideous face.

 

"Wha's feared?" replied the Knight of the Country, his fists twirling

like Catherine wheels. The boys slowly revolved round one another. It

was like the solar system, only on a somewhat smaller scale. For first

of all their fists revolved separately round each other, then each

combatant revolved on his own axis, and lastly, very slowly and in a

dignified manner, they revolved round one another.

 

All this happened in the cool of the evening, at the back of the

barn at the farmhouse of Loch Spellanderie. It was after the kye had

all been milked and Vara Kavannah was in the house clearing away the

porridge dishes, while the mistress put the fretful children to bed

with an accompanying chorus of scoldings, slappings, and wailings of

the smitten.

 

As the lads stood stripped for fight Cleg was a little taller than Kit

Kennedy, and he had all the experience which comes of many previous

combats. But then he was not, like Kit Kennedy, thrice armed, in the

consciousness of the justice of his quarrel.

 

"Come on," cried Cleg again, working up his temperature to flash point,

"ye gawky, ill-jointed, bullock-headed, slack-twisted clod-thumper, ye!

See gin I canna knock the conceit oot o' ye in a hop, skip, and jump!

I hae come frae Edinburgh to do it. I'll learn you to tak' up wi' my

lass! Come on, ye puir Cripple-Dick!"

 

And at that precise moment Kit Kennedy, after many invitations, very

suddenly did come on. Cleg, whose passion blinded him to his own

hurt, happened to be leaning rather far forward. It is customary in

the giving of "dares" round about the Sooth Back, for the threatener

to stick his head as far forward as he can and shake it rapidly up

and down in a ferocious and menacing manner. This ought to continue,

according to the rules, for fully ten minutes, after which the

proceedings may commence or not according to circumstances. But Kit

Kennedy, farm assistant to Mistress McWalter of Loch Spellanderie,

was an ignorant boy. He had had few advantages. He did not even know

the rules appertaining to personal combats, nor when exactly was the

correct time to accept an invitation and "come on."

 

So that was the reason why Cleg Kelly's left eye came unexpectedly in

violent contact with Kit's knuckles. These were as hard with rough

labour as a bullock's hind leg.

 

The sudden sting of the pain had the effect of making Cleg still more

vehemently angry. "I'll learn you," he shouted, "ye sufferin', shairny

blastie o' the byres, to strike afore a man's ready. You fecht! Ye can

nae mair fecht than a Portobello bobbie! Wait till I hae dune wi' ye,

my man. There'll no be as muckle left o' ye as wad make cat-meat to a

week-auld kittlin'. What for can ye no fecht fair?"

 

Our hero's cause was so bad, and his lapse into heathenism became at

this point so pronounced, that for the sake of all that has been we

decline to report the remainder of his speech.

 

But Kit Kennedy did not wait on any further preliminaries.

 

_Ding-dong!_ went his fists, one on Cleg's other eye and the other

squarely on his chest. Cleg was speaking at the time, and the latter

blow (as he afterwards said) fairly took the words from him and made

him "roop" like a hen trying to crow like a cock.

 

At this terrible breach of all laws made and promulgated for the proper

conduct of pitched battles, what remained of Cleg's temper suddenly

gave way. He rushed at Kit Kennedy, striking at him as hard as he

could, without the slightest regard to science. But Kit Kennedy was

staunch, and did not yield an inch. Never had the barn end of Loch

Spellanderie witnessed such a combat. Cleg, on his part, interpolated

constant remarks of a disparaging kind, such as "Tak' that, ye seefer!"

"That'll do for ye!" But Kit Kennedy, on the other hand, fought

silently. The most notable thing, however, about the combat was that in

the struggle neither of the knights took the slightest pains to ward

off the other's blows. They were entirely engrossed in getting in their

own.

 

The dust flew bravely from their jackets, until the noise resembled

the quick, irregular beating of carpets more than anything else. But,

after all, not very much harm was done, and their clothes could hardly

have been damaged by half a dozen Waterloos. It was like to be a drawn

battle, for neither combatant would give in. All Cleg's activity

and waspishness was met and held by the country boy with dogged

persistency and massive rustic strength. Cleg was lissom as a willow

wand, Kit tough and sturdy as an oak bough. And if Cleg avoided the

most blows, he felt more severely those which did get home.

 

Thus, not unequally, the battle raged, till the noise of it passed all

restraint. John McWalter of Loch Spellanderie was making his evening

rounds. As he went into the barn he heard a tremendous disturbance

at the back among his last year's corn-stacks. He listened eagerly,

standing on one foot to do it. The riot was exceedingly mysterious.

Very cautiously he opened the top half of the barn door and peered

through. It might be an ill-set tinker come to steal corn. John

McWalter had Tweed and Tyke with him, and they frisked their tails and

gave each a little muffled bark to intimate that they should much like

to join in the fray.

 

John McWalter was not used to facing difficult positions on his own

responsibility, so quite as cautiously he slipped back again through

the barn, and crossed the yard to the house.

 

His wife was actively engaged scolding Vara for wasting too much hot

water in cleaning the supper bowls. This happened every evening,

and Vara did not greatly mind. It saved her from being faulted for

something new.

 

"Ye lazy, guid-for-naething!" Mrs. McWalter was saying, "I wonder what

for my daft sister at Netherby sent a useless, handless, upsetting

monkey like you to a decent house—a besom that will neither work nor

yet learn——"

 

At this moment John McWalter put his head within the door.

 

"There's twa ill-set loons killin' yin anither ahint the barn!" he

said.

 

"What's that gotten to do wi' it, guidman," replied his wife. "Guid

life! Ye cry in that sudden I thought it was twa o' the kye hornin'

yin anither. But what care I for loons? Juist e'en let them kill yin

anither. There ower great plenty o' them aboot Loch Spellanderie at ony

rate! Ill plants o' a graceless stock. Never was a McWalter yet worth

his brose!"

 

"But," said her husband, "it's Kit Kennedy fechtin' wi' a stranger loon

that I never saw afore! And I dinna believe he has foddered the horse!"

 

Mistress McWalter snatched up the poker.

 

"Him," she cried, "the idle, regairdless hound, what can the like o'

him be thinkin' aboot? I'll learn him. Gin he gets himsel' killed

fechting wi' tinklers for his ain pleesure, wha is to look the sheep

and bring in the kye in the mornin'? And the morn kirnin' day too!"

 

So in the interests of the coming hour at which the week's cream was to

be churned into butter, and from no regard whatever for her nephew's

life or limb, the mistress of Loch Spellanderie hasted out to interfere

in the deadly struggle. But Vara Kavannah was before her. She flew out

of the kitchen door, and ran round the house. The McWalters followed as

best they could, her mistress calling vainly on her to go back and wash

the dishes.

 

When Vara turned the corner, Cleg and Kit were still pelting at it

without the least sign of abating interest. Cleg was now darting hither

and thither, and getting in a blow wherever he could. Kit was standing

doggedly firm, only wheeling on his legs as on a pivot, far enough to

meet the town boy's rushes. It was a beautiful combat, and the equality

of it had very nearly knocked all the ill-nature out of them. Respect

for each other was growing up in their several bosoms, and if only they

could have stopped simultaneously they would have been glad enough to

shake hands.

 

So when Vara came flying round the corner and ran between them, the

boys were quite willing to be separated, indeed even thankful.

 

"Run, quick!" she cried to Cleg, "they are comin'. O haste ye fast!"

 

But Cleg did not know any respect for the powers that be. He knew

that the ordinary bobby of commerce did not dwell in the country. And

besides, even if he did, the lad who could race red-headed Finnigan,

the champion runner of the Edinburgh force, and who had proved himself

without disgrace against the fastest fire engine in the city, was not

likely to be caught, even in spite of the fact that he had run all the

way from Netherby Junction that night already.

 

So Cleg turned a deaf ear to Vara's entreaties, and, very simply and

like a hero, wiped his face with the tail of his coat.

 

Kit Kennedy also kept his place, a fact which deserves recognition. For

he, on his part, faced a peril long known and noted. The mystery of

unknown and unproven danger did not fascinate him.

 

In a moment more Mistress McWalter, a tall, masculine woman, with

untidy hair of frosty blue-black, came tearing round the corner, while

at the same time out of the back barn door issued John McWalter, armed

with a pitchfork, and followed by Tweed and Tyke, the clamourous

shepherding dogs of Loch Spellanderie.

 

Cleg found his position completely turned, and he himself beset on

all sides. For behind him the Loch lay black and deep. And in front

the wall of the barn fairly shut him in between his enemies. Mistress

McWalter dealt Kit Kennedy a blow with the poker upon his shoulder as

she passed. But this was simply, as it were, a payment on account, for

_his_ final settlement could be deferred. Then, never pausing once in

her stride, she rushed towards Cleg Kelly. But she did not know the

manifold wiles of a trained athlete of the Sooth Back. For this kind of

irregular guerilla warfare was even more in Cleg's way than a plain,

hammer-and-tongs, knockdown fight.

 

As she came with the poker stiffly uplifted against the evening sky,

Mistress McWalter looked exceeding martial. But, as Cleg afterwards

expressed it, "A woman shouldna try to fecht. She's far ower flappy

aboot the legs wi' goons and petticoats." Swift as a duck diving, Cleg

fell flat before her, and Mistress McWalter suddenly spread all her

length on the ground. Cleg instantly was on his feet again. Had the

enemy been a man, Cleg would have danced on him. But since (and it was

a pity) it was a woman, Cleg only looked about for an avenue of escape.

 

Kit Kennedy pointed with his finger an open way round the milkhouse.

And Cleg knew that the information was a friendly enough lead. He had

no doubts as to the good faith of so sturdy a fighter as Kit Kennedy.

He was obviously not the stuff that traitors are made of.