The Square Peg or The Gun Fella полностью

But, in the meantime, the work engrossed and delighted him. One of the pleasantest parts of the work was exploring the nooks and crannies of Mullples with Roly-Poly. They went up to the attics and got at the roofs; they groped in the cellars, tapped at old walls, broke off old plaster, laid bare fireplaces and powdering chambers, rafters with splendid chamfers cut on them, done by some sure hand with an adze, in the one stroke, and hinges forged by the smith during the Wars of the Roses. But like Roly-Poly, he was less in love with these things, than with the later work. The theatre gave him the intensest thrill. There, under the stage, in a big store-room, so admirably built that it was dry as dust, were things which delighted him. There, behind the shards, the straw, the worn tools, harness and other rubbish of a country house, was a stack of stuff laid edgewise. It looked, at first sight, like hurdling, but it proved to be scenery, much the worse for wear. It represented a classical park or woodland, of the time of Louis Seize; the sets were all of trees, or parts of temples. Pinned to some of the sets were papers which told what play they once had decorated. It was the play of Zimoire the Terrible, a play in verse, translated from the French of M. le Vicomte de Bellencourt, Ministre du Roi. On one of the slats was a programme, which gave the names of the players, but not the date, only the days of the week, “on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, at 3 p.m. precisely.” On the floor were some written bits of parts, half a page of a Female Slave’s part, and the song, in manuscript, to be sung by Master Nashe, “Alas, O tender Rapture.”

Nothing more remained of the theatrical ambitions of that ancient lord of Mullples; local memory had forgotten him; the guide-books ignored him. Frampton searched for more in the British Museum and the public records. Surely, a man who cared for poetry and the other arts to this point must have left a mark on his time. What was the soul who produced Zimoire the Terrible in such a place?

Meanwhile, there was much to do at Spirr. He found, in Weston Mullples, an oldish man who was said to be very good indeed at fencing. Frampton wanted the outer fence of Spirr to be thoroughly repaired, cut, laid and ditched. He employed this old man among others to do this work.

Going out one day, in February, to see how the work was getting on, he found this man, on the western hedge, and stopped to talk with him. The work was excellent, for the man, Zine, was perhaps the greatest living master of fencing, then alive.

“That’s beautiful fencing,” Frampton said.

The old man knew that it was.

“There’s not many can do it now, the old way, the way it ought to be done,” he said.

“Who taught you to do it?” Frampton asked.

“Why, my father, sir,” he said, “my father, who used to work at Sir Peter’s, him and old Will, who was at the Rectory: good fencers both, at the trimming and laying. They didn’t give prizes for ’un, then; no, it was a well-done job, then; no need to give prizes.”

“How old are you?” Frampton asked, expecting to get some clue to the date when fencing was well done.

“I’m seventy-two, sir,” the old man said. He worked on, for a time, then he said: “You see, there, sir, away yonder, the hill in like the blue? That’s Wicked Hill, as they call it.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes, sir: Wicked Hill. They was hunting out that way, yesterday, from the Fox Inn, a matter of twelve mile. Are you a hunting man, sir?”

“No,” Mansell said, “not in the least.”

“Well, that’s where they went yesterday,” the old man said, “out Wicked Hill way; and two of their horses laid down and died.”

“Did they kill their fox?” Frampton asked.

“No, sir,” the old man said. “He got away on ’em, being artful. Very artful things are foxes, sir, as all the world knows. And a fox is better than a man at it, for he can be tired and artful, and a man can’t, not when he’s tired. That’s why polices catch thieves and foxes get away.”

“That’s a very good point,” Frampton said. “I’ve never heard it put before. And what killed the horses? Did they fall?”

“No, sir; I reckon they was just ridden till their hearts burst. It’s a good galloping country, over ’twixt the Fox and the Hill.”

He bent to his task, plainly cheered by the image of something excessive; then, seeing that Frampton wished to talk, he grounded his slasher, and straightened up, glad of an opportunity to pass on his experience.