Chapter 23
There you go now, repeated Lieutenant Peter Omenson, late of the hundred and first Falster Margeryland, I said firmly. It's no use your prodding round that tub, he won't come back. You sure he not devile? I think I got kill still. Displace uncommon like hail. If you're dead, I am, I said. The man's only a mad scientist, he's made rather a curious discovery. He played the same game on me years ago.
More than anything else in the world, said Omenson, inconsequentially. I like some beer. When we get home, I said, you can drink beer until you burst. Drink it out of a cow's horn like your ancestors did. But for goodness sake, let's get down into the hollow before it gets dark. At the mention of this refreshing drink, heir Omenson's eye brightened. I come with you, he said simply. What need to dwell much farther on the details of that journey back?
Those who know Peter Omenson will realize how the thought of the glorious prize in store would stimulate his manly spirit, and I did not need to look twice to see that his companionship was going to more than halve my difficulties for me. By the end of May, we were past the headwaters of the Seine, and I was jubilant at the thought of getting back to Margeryland with three looking glasses and a new friend. A friend, moreover, one could trust to the death, for we had already
encountered enough minor adventures on the way to prove that to the end. It was here, on the upper Seine, that we encountered the sheep. I have been accused of romancing, both with regard to this matter, the fight with the plesiosaurus and my killing of a stag with the velvet half of his antlers in June. Henry MacTavish is probably behind the libel. He has never seen sheep on the upper Seine. He has only been there twice, nor has he or any other man found a plesiosaurus knocking
about. Therefore, according to Henry, these things cannot exist. I can only assure my readers that these things I did meet with and remind Henry that he has never seen his own brains. We found a herd of about 50 sheep, I say, on the upper Seine. I shot six ewes and a ram, and we captured 10 lambs, four of which died on the voyage down. Peter will bear me out. After that, we were faced with the problem of getting our captives home, but we solved this by cutting down trees with my machete and
Peter's sword and building a raft. The current, the swift, is only dangerous in four places, and the worst of these we negotiated by letting the raft shoot the rapids by itself. We moored it to the bank and I waited above until Peter had traveled down to the smooth water below. Then I cast loose the painter and let the raft take its chance. It came through all right and Peter swam out and got it ashore. He was a strong swimmer and saved his life thereby when he got
knocked overboard shooting the first cataract. I was in a blue funk when I saw him go overboard, but the ruffian came up laughing. A useful man, Peter. So it came about that sleeping on the raft and only coming ashore to get fodder for the lambs, we've saved so much time that we sighted the foothills of the eastern range on the first of July. The river takes a big bend to the north here, approaching the southern end of the mountains. I suggested to Ommensen that in place of continuing
our journey by 60-mile camp in the cross tree, we should try to discover a shortcut across the mountains. We beached our raft and herded our lambs, now fairly docile, before us to the north. It was slow progress we made, but a week's travel found us amidst granite and heather at a point I judged to be not far off the headwaters of the east brook which flows into Lake Marjorie. I lost a day by getting into the wrong valley at first, but crossing a ridge we saw the forest
and downs in the distance and caught the glint of the lake. We struck another brook and late in the evening of the 10th we turned a corner and found ourselves at the eastern end of the little tarn we call Upper Lake. Ommensen gave a shout as his eye fell on the turf-roofed stone hut which stood in a walled enclosure on the south shore. We were pretty well petered out with hardship and I think he imagined the great moment had arrived and I was loathe to inform him that 16 miles of broken
ground yet intervened. That last is more than a day's travel when herding sickly lambs. We held a consultation over the six survivors of the flock and came to the conclusion it would be safer to rest them for a few days. I discovered that Marjorie had provisioned the hut in my absence so on the morrow I left Peter very happily engaged with our ham and home brood and dropped down the water alone. The murmur of the brook mingled with the swish of my sandals as I sped easily down the
faint trail our feet had already worn between Upper Lake and Limestone Meadow. I was on familiar ground again and my only anxiety was to discover how my family had fared in my absence. I was not long in discovering what I may call indications. It was just where the brook enters the forest by Lower Falls that I became aware of a high thin sound which rode clearly above the roar of the cascade. Peeping down through the bushes to investigate I saw Irene the beautiful standing
by the water's edge and howling as if her heart would break. She had both fat hands clasped to her hindquarters and my first idea was that she had merely sat down too abruptly. Rather annoyed to find the child straying about by herself I slid down over the rocks and picked her up. What's the matter Irene? I said. What are you doing here by yourself you naughty girl? Irene choked, gasped, and stared in bewilderment. The voice was the voice of Jacob but the beard
was an unfamiliar feature in her eyes. Daddy! She shouted triumphantly after a moment's hesitation. Then she threw her arms around my neck and began to cry louder than ever. For heaven's sake Irene! I cried. What is the matter? Are you hurt? No! The crying became louder and louder then choked off into stifled sobs as she buried her face on my shoulder. I saw that fright more than pain was at the root of her trouble. Did you come here
yourself Irene? Do be good now and stop crying. You're quite safe with daddy. Tell him what, Irene. Oh bad! Bad! Who's bad? Adela? Bad Mike! Shrieked Irene with a new tone of indignation. She is her mother's child and rage overcomes fear in her. Bad! Bad! Bad Mike! Just at this moment I caught sight of something unusual beneath the Banga head and I held Irene tighter and ran. Adela Watkins was crumpled up on her face
among the roots of a big beech tree. I thought at first that she was dead. Indeed, her injuries were such that I dropped Irene and forbade her to come closer. I was overcome with a horrible feeling of nausea and I dared not think what greater tragedy might be at the back of this. This discovery and Irene's incoherent wailings about Michael Quelch. Of course, as a hunter I was used enough to the sight of blood
but this was different somehow. I suppose the mere fact that the victim was a woman perhaps coupled with the additional fact that she was a personal friend helped to upset my control. Anyhow, it is providential that I did not lay hands on Michael Quelch that day and the less said about my thoughts on the matter the better. Briefly, what happened was this. Someone, presumably Quelch, for it could be no other, had struck at the head of the woman now lying
unconscious before me. I imagined at a moment when her attention was diverted. Luckily, the blow had been turned by an overhanging branch. She had gone down before a partly spent blow with the back or the flat. Following this, an attempt had been made to cut her throat, fortunately in a bungling manner, which argued extreme terror coupled with lack of anatomical knowledge. I remembered, as I noted all this, that Quelch never hunted or slaughtered,
he professing a horror of bloodshed. I tore the collar from her linen undershirt and started to bind up her wounds as best I could. Much as bloodshed revolts you, Mr. Quelch, I thought, I fear you are not done with the sight of it yet a while, that is to say if you live long enough. Then I lit a fire and called Irene to me. It was out of the question carrying Adela back at the moment for I was out of strength and I felt speed was essential. Irene, I said, you have got to be
a very good, brave girl and help Daddy. Do you understand? She clenched her baby teeth and nodded. She seemed to understand, although she was only four years old. Very well then, you must sit by this fire and Adela and not move until Daddy comes back. If bad beasts come, throw burning sticks at them. If Mike comes, show him this. I repeated my instructions again as I pegged out this, a square of linen torn from the shirt on the ground. I cut my arm and
scrawled my message to Quelch on it with the blood. What was it? Well, perhaps it were wise to forget that. I did not anticipate any further harm should Quelch happen that way again and read those words. He knew I was not given title promises. I repeated all that I had told Irene for the third time, picked up my weapons and ran on. End of chapter 23.
