Robert Michael Ballantyne - Freaks on the Fells - Three Months' Rustication

Jacky advanced with hesitation. Hector bent down playfully and seized him by both arms, turning his back upon the party, and thus bringing his own bulky figure between them and young Hopeful.

“Jack, I want you to be good.”

“I won’t!” promptly said, and with much firmness.

“Oh, yes, you will!” A stern masculine countenance within an inch of his nose, and a vigorous little shake, somewhat disconcerted Jacky, who exhibited a tendency to roar; but Hector closed his strong hands on the little arms so suddenly and so powerfully, that, being unexpectedly agonised, Jacky was for a moment paralysed. The awful glare of a pair of bright blue eyes, and the glistening of a double row of white teeth, did not tend to re-assure him.

“Oh, yes, you will, my little man!” repeated Hector, tumbling him over on his back with a smile of ineffable sweetness, but with a little touch of violence that seemed inconsistent therewith.

Jacky rose, gasped, and ran away, glancing over his shoulder with a look of alarm. This little piece of by-play was not observed by any one but Flora, who exchanged a bright glance and a smile with her brother.

The imp was quelled—he had met his match! During the remainder of the picnic he disturbed no one, but kept at the farthest possible distance from Hector that was consistent with being one of the party. But it is not to be supposed that his nature was changed. No—Jacky’s wickedness only sought a new channel in which to flow. He consoled himself with thoughts of the dire mischief he would perpetrate when the dinner was over. Meanwhile, he sat down and gloated over the jam tart, devouring it in imagination.

“Is that water boiling yet?” cried Mr Sudberry.

“Just about it. Hand me the eggs, Fred.”

“Here they are,” cried Flora, going towards the fire with a basket.

She looked very sweet at that moment, for the active operations in which she had been engaged had flushed her cheeks and brightened her eyes.

George and Fred gazed at her in undisguised admiration. Becoming suddenly aware of the impoliteness of the act, the former ran to relieve her of the basket of eggs; the latter blushed, and all but upset the kettle in an effort to improve the condition of the fire.

“Fred, you goose, leave alone, will you?” roared George, darting forward to prevent the catastrophe.

“This is really charming, is it not, Mr Macgregor?” said Mrs Sudberry, with a languid smile.

“Macdonald, madam, if I may be allowed to correct you,” said Hector, with a smile and a little bow.

“Ah, to be sure!” (with an attempt at a laugh.) “I have such a stupid habit of misnaming people.”

If Mrs Sudberry had told the exact truth she would have said, “I have such difficulty in remembering people’s names that I have made up my mind to call people by any name that comes first into my head rather than confess my forgetfulness.” But she did not say this; she only went on to observe that she had no idea it would have been so charming.

“To what do you refer?” said Hector,—“the scenery, the weather, or the prospect of dinner?”

“Oh! you shocking man, how can you talk of food in the same breath with—”

“The salt!” exclaimed Lucy with a little shriek. Was there ever a picnic at which the salt was not forgotten, or supposed to have been forgotten? Never!

Mr Sudberry’s cheerful countenance fell. He had never eaten an egg without salt in his life, and did not believe in the possibility of doing so. Everyone ransacked everything in anxious haste.

“Here it is!” (hope revived.)

“No, it’s only the pepper.” (Mitigated despair and ransacking continued.)

“Maybe it’ll be in this parcel,” suggested McAllister, holding up one which had not yet been untied.

“Oh! bring it to me, Mr Macannister!” cried Mrs Sudberry with unwonted energy, for her happiness was dependent on salt that day, coupled, of course, with weather and scenery. “Faugh! no, it’s your horrid onions, Mr MacAndrews.”

“Why, you have forgotten the potato salad, Mr Macdonald,” exclaimed Lucy.

“No, I have not: it can be made in five minutes, but not without salt. Where can the salt be? I am certain it could not have been forgotten.”

The only individual of the party who remained calmly indifferent was Master Jacky. That charming creature, having made up his mind to feed on jam tart, did not feel that there was any need for salt. An attentive observer might have noticed, however, that Jacky’s look of supreme indifference suddenly gave place to one of inexpressible glee. He became actually red in the face with hugging himself and endeavouring to suppress all visible signs of emotion. His eye had unexpectedly fallen on the paper of salt which lay on the centre of the table-cloth, so completely exposed to view that nobody saw it!

“Why, here it is, actually before our eyes!” shouted George, seizing the paper and holding it up.

A small cheer greeted its discovery. A groan instantly followed, as George spilt the whole of it. As it fell on the cloth, however, it was soon gathered up, and then Mr Sudberry ordered everyone to sit down on the grass in a circle round the cloth.

“What a good boy Jacky has suddenly become!” remarked Lucy in some surprise.

“Darling!” ejaculated his mother.

“A very good little fellow,” said Flora, with a peculiar smile.

Jacky said nothing. Hector’s eye was upon him, as was his upon Hector. Deep unutterable thoughts filled his swelling heart, but he spoke not. He merely gazed at the jam tart, a large portion of which was in a few minutes supplied to him. The immediate result was crimson hands, arms, and cheeks.

While Hector was engaged in concocting the potato salad the kettle upset, extinguished the fire, and sent up a loud triumphant hiss of steam mingled with ashes. Fortunately the potatoes were cooked, so the dinner was at last begun in comfort—that is to say, everyone was very hot, very much exhausted and excited, and very thirsty. Jacky gorged himself with tart in five minutes, and then took an opportunity of quietly retiring into the bushes, sheltered by which he made a détour unseen towards the place where the boat had been left.

Alas for the picnic party that day, that they allowed Hector to prevail on them to begin with his potato salad! It was partly composed of raw onions. After having eaten a few mouthfuls of it, their sense of taste was utterly destroyed! The chickens tasted of onions, so did the cheese and the bread. Even the whiskey was flavoured with onions. The beefsteak-pie might as well have been an onion-pie; indeed, no member of the party could, with shut eyes, have positively said that it was not. The potatoes harmonised with the prevailing flavour; not so the ginger-bread, however, nor the butter. Everything was oniony; they finished their repast with a sweet onion-tart! To make things worse, the sky soon became overcast, a stiff breeze began to blow, and Mr McAllister “opined” that there was going to be a squall.

A piercing shriek put an abrupt termination to the meal!

Intent on mischief; the imp had succeeded in pushing off the boat and clambering into it. For some time he rowed about in a circle with one oar, much delighted with his performances. But when the breeze began to increase and blow the boat away he became alarmed; and when the oar missed the water and sent him sprawling on his back, he gave utterance to the shriek above referred to. Luckily the wind carried him past the place where they were picnicking. There was but one mode of getting at the boat. It was at once adopted. Hector threw off his coat and vest, and swam out to it!

Ten minutes later, they were rowing at full speed for the foot of the loch. The sky was dark and a squall was tearing up the waters of the lake. Then the rain came down in torrents. Then it was discovered that the cloaks had been left at Hazlewood Creek, as the place where they had dined was named. To turn back was impossible. The gentlemen’s coats were therefore put on the ladies’ shoulders. All were soaked to the skin in a quarter of an hour. Jacky was quiet—being slightly overawed, but not humbled! His mother was too frightened to speak or scream. Mr Sudberry rubbed his hands and said, “Come, I like to have a touch of all sorts of weather, and won’t we have a jolly tea and a rousing fire when we get home?” Mrs Sudberry sighed at the word “home.” McAllister volunteered a song, and struck up the “Callum’s Lament,” a dismally cheerful Gaelic ditty. In the midst of this they reached the landing-place, from which they walked through drenched heather and blinding rain to the White House.