Arthur Ransome - Swallows and Amazons (Complete Series)

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but are you Young Billy or Old Billy? It was Young Billy who had the adder, wasn’t it?”

The old man laughed.

“You remember that, do you? Aye, it was my adder you saw. I’m Young Billy, I am. It’s my dad’s Old Billy.”

“And where is he?” asked Titty. “Was he down there where you said they were loading trees?”

“Nay,” said young Billy. “It’s like this. There’s a hound-trail over Bigland way to-day, and a bit of a do, like, after it, and my old dad heard that old Jim Postlethwaite was going to be there, and thinking he’d be oldest of the lot. Now Jim Postlethwaite’s nobbut eighty-nine and my dad’s seen ninety-four this last back end. ‘I’m not going to be beat by a young chap like that,’ says my dad, and he was off to Bigland this morning, walking over the fell, and he’ll be stopping there the night with a young nephew of mine that has a mort of great-grandchildren to show him.”

Young Billy himself was over seventy and had grandchildren much older than the able-seaman, but she was more out of breath than he was as they climbed up the wood.

When they came near the top, Titty gathered all the breath she had left to give the owl call so as to let Roger know that help was at hand.

There was no answer.

“It wasn’t a very good one,” she said, and tried again.

This time a decidedly shrill young owl answered from close above them.

“To-whoooooooo,” called Titty again, and in another minute Roger, who had waked up suddenly in the lair by the stream where he had fallen asleep while trying what it was like to faint from pain, saw the able-seaman and the old charcoal-burner coming up out of the forest.

“Hurrah!” he shouted, “it’s the Billies.”

“Only the young one,” laughed Young Billy, who would have been called old if only his father had not been older still. “Well, lad, don’t you stir. Let’s have a look at that foot of yours. Properly puffed, it is. Is it broken?”

“I can waggle it,” said Roger, “and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did. It hurts a lot all the same.”

“That’s all right,” said the charcoal-burner, after holding the foot in his hands. “A poultice is what it wants. Now then, lassie, hold that leg of his off the ground while I heave him up on t’other. Steady. Up with him.”

Roger found himself standing on one leg, with Titty and the charcoal-burner holding him up.

“You can let go that leg of his now,” said the charcoal-burner.

“Ouch!” said Roger.

“Keep it off the ground. Now then.” He stooped. “Get you a good grip round my shoulders. So.” And the ship’s boy found himself clear off the ground and on the old charcoal-burner’s back.

“Heavy? Nowt to some faggots I’ve carried. Are you right, lad?”

The old charcoal-burner hitched the ship’s boy a little higher on his back and set off by the side of the stream down once more into the forest. Titty picked up the two knapsacks, put the compass in her pocket, and hurried after him.

When they came down to the open space with the wood stacked for burning and the charcoal-burners’ hut, they found two other, much younger natives, busy by the fire, filling tin mugs with hot tea from the kettle and pouring milk in out of a big green bottle.

“What’s amiss?” said one of them, looking up, and Titty knew him at once for Mary Swainson’s woodman. So this was the place he was bringing the logs from, and the horses she had heard stamping down below must be the three great horses they had seen the day Roger and she discovered Swallowdale, and again and again since, passing one way or the other along the road that went to the foot of the lake.

“Nothing much,” said the old charcoal-burner. “Lad’s turned his foot on wrong side. He’ll be right enough with a bracken poultice. Whoa, now. Steady, lad. Stand on the one leg and keep game one off the ground. Lend a hand, Jack, to lay him down.”

The two young woodmen helped and presently Roger was comfortably lying by the fire looking at the natives and over his shoulder at the charcoal-burners’ hut. What he was thinking about was, whether he had a chance of seeing the adder.

Titty was watching Young Billy, who was hunting about for old, dead bracken leaves from last year. He found the leaves he wanted and made a great bundle of them round Roger’s foot, and wrapped it over with a big red handkerchief damped in hot water from the kettle.

“But there’s tea in it,” said Titty.

“Water’s none the worse for a drop of good tea, take it inside or out. And now you’d best be taking a drop inside yourselves.”

He lifted the bit of sacking that did instead of a door, went into his hut and came out with two tin mugs, one for himself and the other, which was really Old Billy’s, his father’s, to be shared by the able-seaman and the boy. And Mary’s woodman poured them some milk in out of his green bottle and there they were all having tea together, and the woodmen were saying that it was no wonder Titty and Roger had missed their way, for you could have cut that sea fog with a blunt knife and used the bits to build a wall with.

It was very pleasant after being lost in the fog to be sitting there in the quiet wood having tea with a medicine man and other friendly natives, and Titty would have been happy if only she had not been thinking all the time of Susan and the others up in Swallowdale wondering what had happened. Time was going on. The sun was already low, and she would have to ask one of the natives to show her the way over the moor. And then there was Roger. How was he to get along with only one foot and the other a huge red bundle that must not be allowed to touch the ground?

“How soon will Roger be able to start?” she said.

“Nay, he won’t shift to-night,” said the old man. “He’ll have to bide here with me, and you can come for him in the morning. He’ll bide with me. You tell the Blackett lassies that the lad’s with Young Billy in the Heald Wood and they’ll bring you over the fell in the morning. You won’t mind biding here, will you, lad?”

“In the wigwam?” said Roger, almost jumping up, but reminded by his foot that he had better not. “With you? May I really? I’m sure Susan wouldn’t mind.”

Titty was not so sure, but after all the main thing was to let Susan and John know that Roger was all right, and of that she was sure enough. The boy had not squeaked even when the old man put the poultice on. He was being cured in the right way, by savage medicine, herbs, bracken leaves at least, and probably charms. She jumped up.

“Is it very far from here across the moor?” she asked.

THE RETURN OF THE ABLE-SEAMAN

The old charcoal-burner was talking to Mary’s woodman.

“There’s no two ways about it,” he was saying. “The lad must lie and the lass must away back to tell the others not to be in a taking. And it’s a poor road across the fell from this side for folk what don’t know it. You’d best take her with you, Jack. It’s nobbut a step for her from Swainson’s farm, and you’ll be stopping there likely. Bonny lass is Mary Swainson, aye, and a good wife she’ll make and all.” He laughed and the woodman reddened and then laughed too.

“And welcome,” he said. “She can ride on the log and the horses’ll not know the differ. Are you ready to be starting now?” he added, turning to Titty. “We’re more than a bit late to-night.”

Almost before she had time to say “Good-bye” to Roger, she was going down the wood with the two woodmen and the charcoal-burner. At the bottom of the wood in a clearing close to the road were the three great horses harnessed to a huge log resting on two pairs of big red wheels.