“What else can he do here?” he thought. “The place would drive me to drink the first night.”
He found Tim unshaven and dirty, at work on nesting-boxes for the spring season. His pets, the tame goose and partridge, came forward to meet the visitor, with the comment of their kind. Afterwards, the goose returned to watch Tim at his work.
“Look here,” Frampton said, “I’ve been wanting to speak to you. This goose and partridge may be better company than most of the people round here; I don’t say they’re not; but they aren’t enough for you. You feel it yourself, and that’s why you’re in the pubs half your time. What I want you to do this spring is to get the Boy Scouts keen about this. There’s a very good chap in charge of them at Tatchester. I want some of the best of the boys to come out here, and help put up the boxes, and help you in the nesting season, watching and filling in the notes. There’s nothing the keen boy would love more. It would do you good to have the boys around; and you’ve got a lot of talents that would do the boys good. Only this pub business has got to stop, understand? It’s doing your talent no good.”
Tim had heard more than once that the pub business was doing his talent no good. He brightened at the thought of the boys, and said that he would be glad to have them, if they were at all keen. From this, he went on to show that he was himself keen. He had had the luck to see and draw some fire-crests during the day before. He spoke of them as a divine might talk of little angels. Frampton left him, thinking that the chances were, that Tim had ceased to grow at the age of fourteen or so. Something had stopped him, then, and had kept his mind that of a boy.
“Possibly, the Scouts’ll buck him up,” Frampton thought, “and he may buck them up; he’s a boy himself in most ways.”
He had never liked Tim, yet as he came away from the dirty hut, where the goose was talking, he thought of a look of Tim’s, which recalled Margaret to him.
“O God,” he cried again, “I wish you’d killed me instead of Margaret. He’s like her, when he looks up suddenly. I’m really responsible to Margaret for him, and I hope the boys will do the trick. If I sack him, he’ll be on the Embankment in a month and in the Morgue within the year.”
However, the suggestion of the Scouts came from the source of all good suggestions. Some of them came over on that Saturday afternoon. Tim had prepared for their coming and gave them a wonderful time. He was not only a boy himself, he was an inspired boy. Thenceforward they were frequent visitors to Spirr.
Meanwhile, the Council in Stubbington debated the matter of the bronzes. They did not like the look of the photographs, but then they were somewhat staggered by Frampton’s declaration that Faringdon was a genius. Mr. Harold supported this, when asked, by saying that sooner or later the world would recognise Faringdon as a genius, and then the statues would be worth their weight in gold. It would be very nice to find people coming from all over the world to look at the end of their bridge.
They went out to look at the end of the bridge. Now that you came to think of it, it did look a little bare. It was a pity they hadn’t brought the gas across in Old Joe’s time. If there had been lamp-posts at the bridge-end, why, all this talk of statues would never have arisen.
But it wasn’t going to cost the town a penny; that they had had repeated, as well as in Mr. Mansell’s hand. If the things were not to cost a penny anyhow, ever, and might (as they were assured), become worth their weight in gold, almost overnight, why, then, would they not be failing in their duty to the rate-payers if they turned the scheme down?
This was the problem which perplexed them. But, then, the photographs did look very queer. Well, that was the art coming out, the queerness. You got used to that, the papers said. Then, if these statues were so very precious, why did this Mr. Mansell, who was a queer fish, anyway, always putting people’s backs up, why did he want to get rid of them, especially for a place like the bridge-end. This, too, was a problem which perplexed them. The other end of the bridge would have been all right; but not that end, where no one of the town would see them, unless they walked out on Sunday.
They debated and debated. They felt sure that there must be a snag, but could not see where, nor what. Time went by, yet they could not make up their minds. Frampton said nothing about the rejection of the figures from Snipton. They knew nothing about that. Presently, as he grew weary of waiting for a reply from them, he wrote to tell them that if they did not want the bronzes, he would be glad to know, so that he might offer them to the Tate. This made it necessary for them to make up their minds.