Travers Minor, Scout
Before the fearful war with Germany began, Dr. Dunston was not very keen about us joining the Boy Scouts on half-holidays. He liked better for us to play games; and if you didn’t play games, he liked you to go out with Brown to botanize in the hedges. It was a choice of evils to me and Travers minor, because we hated games and we fairly loathed botanizing with Brown. Unluckily for us, he was the Forum master of the Lower Fourth, and so we had more than enough of him in school, without seeing him pull weeds to pieces on half-holidays and talk about the wonders of Nature. For that matter, he was about the wonderfullest wonder of Nature himself, if he’d only known it.
But after the War began, old Dunston quite changed his attitude to the Boy Scouts, and, in some ways, that was the best thing that ever happened for me and Travers minor, though in other ways it was not.
I’m called Briggs, and Travers minor and I came the same term and chummed from the first. We had the same opinions about most things, and agreed about hating games and preferring a more solitary life; but we were very different in many respects, for Travers minor was going to be a clergyman, and I had no ideas of that sort, my father being a stock broker in the “Brighton A” market. Travers minor was more excitable than Travers major, though quite as keen about England, and after being divided for some time between the Navy and the Church, he rather cleverly combined the two professions, and determined to be the chaplain of a battleship. His enthusiasm for England was very remarkable, and after a time, though I had never been the least enthusiastic about England before, yet, owing to the pressure of Travers minor, I got to be. Nothing like he was, of course. He used to fairly tremble about England, and once, when an Irish boy, who didn’t know Home Rule had been passed, said he’d just as soon blow his nose on the Union Jack as his handkerchief—which was rot, seeing he never had one—young Travers flew at him like a tiger from a bow, and knocked him down and hammered the back of his head on the floor of the chapel. As soon as he had recovered from his great surprise, the Irish boy—Rice he was called—got up and licked Travers minor pretty badly, which he could easily do, being cock of the Lower School; but, all the same, Rice respected Travers, for doing what he did, and when he heard that Home Rule was passed, he said that altered the case, and never cheeked the English flag again.
Then Dunston changed towards the Boy Scouts, and said such of us as liked might join them; and about twenty did. We were allowed to hunt about in couples on half-holidays; and the rule for a Boy Scout is always to be on the look-out to justify his existence when scouting, and to assist people, and help the halt and the lame, and tell people the way if they want to know it, and buck about generally, and, if possible, never stop a bit of scouting till he’s done a good action of some kind to somebody. Of course, we had to do our good actions in bounds, and Travers minor often pointed out, as a rather curious thing, that over and over again there were chances to do good actions if we’d gone out of bounds—sometimes even over a hedge into a field.
But he generally found something useful to do, and I generally didn’t. The good action that occurred oftenest was to give pennies to tramps, but Travers did not support this. He said:
“I dare say you’ve noticed, Briggs, that all these chaps who ask us for money have got starving families at home. Well, if it’s true, they ought to be at home looking after them. But it isn’t true. As a rule, they spend the money on beer. And when you ask them why they haven’t enlisted, they all say they’re too short, or too tall, or haven’t got any back teeth, or something.”
We were scouting the day Travers minor pointed this out, and that was the very afternoon that we met the best tramp of the lot. I should have believed him myself and tried to help him; but Travers, strangely enough, is much kinder to animals and dumb creatures in general than he is to men, especially tramps, and it took a very clever tramp to make him believe him. But this one did.
He was old and grizzled and grey, and his moustache was yellow with tobacco. He was sitting rolling a cigarette in the hedge, and as we passed together in uniform with our scout poles, he got up and saluted us with a military salute.
“What a bit of luck!” he said. “You’re just the chaps I’m on the look-out for.”
Travers stopped and so did I.
“D’you want anything, my good man?” said Travers.
“Yes, I do. I want a sharp Boy Scout to listen to me. I’m telling secrets, mind you; but you’re in the Service just as much as I am, and I can trust you.”
“What Service?” asked Travers minor. “What Service are you in?”
“The Secret Service,” said the tramp. “I dare say you think I’m only a badgering old loafer, and not worth the price of the boots on my feet. Far from it. I’m Sir Baden-Powell’s brother! That’s why I was glad to see you boys come along.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Travers.
“Quite right not to,” answered the old man. “That is, till I explain. As you know, the country’s fairly crawling with German spies at present, and it takes a pretty good chap to smell them out. That’s my game. I’ve run down thirty-two during the last month, and I’m on the track of a lot more; but to keep up my character of an old tramp, I dress like this; and then they don’t suspect me, and I just meet ’em in pubs and stand ’em drinks, and tip ’em a bit of their lingo and pretend I’m German, too.”
I was a good deal impressed by this, and so was Travers minor.
“I’ve been standing drinks to a doubtful customer only this morning, and spent my last half-crown doing it,” went on the great Baden-Powell’s brother. “That’s why I stopped you boys. I’m a good way from my base for the moment, and I shall be obliged if you can lend me half a sovereign, or whatever you’ve got on you, till to-morrow. If you let me have your address, you shall get it by midday; and I’ll mention your names to ‘B.-P.’ next time we meet.”
Travers minor looked at the spy in a spellbound sort of way.
“It’s a wonderful disguise,” he said.
“Not one of my best, though,” answered the man. “I never look the same two days running. Very likely to-morrow I shall be a smart young officer; and then, again, I may look like a farmer, or a clergyman, or anything. It’s part of my work to be a master of the art of disguises.”
Travers minor began to whisper to me, and asked me how much money I had. Then the great spy spoke again.
“I might give you boys a job next Saturday afternoon, but you’ll have to be pretty smart to do it. I’m taking a German then. I’ve marked him down at Little Mudborough—you know, a mile from Merivale—and on Saturday next, at ‘The Wool Pack’ public-house, I meet him and arrest him. I shall want a bit of help, I dare say.”
Travers fairly trembled with excitement after that. Then he felt in his pocket and found he’d only got a shilling, and this he gave to the spy without a thought; but I happened to have five shillings by an extraordinary fluke, it being my birthday, and Brown had changed a postal order from my mother; so I was not nearly so keen about the spy as Travers minor. Travers was a good deal relieved to hear I’d got as much, and even then apologised that we could only produce six bob between us.
The spy seemed rather disappointed, and I made a feeble effort to keep my five shillings by saying:
“Couldn’t you get to the police-station? They’d be sure to have tons of money there.”
But at the mention of a police-station he showed the utmost annoyance, combined with contempt. He said: “What’s your name?”
And I said: “Briggs.”
“Well, Briggs,” he said, “let me tell you, if there’s one thing the Secret Service hates and despises more than another, it’s a police-station; and if there’s one bigger fool on earth than another, it’s a policeman. It would very likely be death to my whole career as a spy, if I went to a policeman and told him who I was.”
“Don’t you ever work with them, Mr. Baden-Powell?” asked Travers; and he said:
“Never, if I can help it.”
So he had the six bob, much to my regret, and told us to be at “The Wool Pack” public-house at Mudborough on the following Saturday afternoon. He asked what would be the most convenient time for us to be there, and we said half-past three, and he said “Good!”
Then Travers asked rather a smart question and said—
“How shall we know you?”
And the spy said:
“I shall be disguised as a farmer, in gaiters and the sort of clothes farmers go to market in on Saturdays; and I shall be in the bar with other men. And one of these men will be a very dangerous German secret agent, who has a ‘wireless’ at his house. And when we’ve got him, we shall go to his house and destroy the ‘wireless.’ And now you’d better be getting on, or people will think it suspicious. And you shall have your money again next Saturday.”
So we left him, and the six shillings with him, and I was by no means so pleased and excited about it as Travers minor. Still, I was excited in a way, and hoped the following Saturday would be glorious; and Travers said it would undoubtedly be the greatest day we had spent up to that time.
We had gone two hundred yards, and were wondering what the German would look like, and if he’d make a fight, when we were much startled by a man who suddenly jumped out of the hedge and stopped us.
It was a policeman in a very excited frame of mind.
“What did that bloke up the road say to you?” he began; and Travers minor, remembering what contempt the great spy had for policemen, was rather haughty.
“Our conversation was private,” he answered, and the policeman seemed inclined to laugh.
“I know what your conversation was, very well,” he answered. “Soapy William wouldn’t tire himself talking to you kids for fun. Did you give him any money?”
In this insolent way the policeman dared to talk of Baden-Powell’s brother!
“His name is not Soapy William,” answered Travers, who had turned red with anger, “and he’s got no use for policemen, anyway.”
“No, you take your dying oath he hasn’t,” said the policeman. “If he told you that, he’s broke the record and told you the truth. Did you give him money, or only a fag?’
“We lent him money for a private purpose, and I’ll thank you to let us pass,” said Travers minor.
But the policeman wouldn’t.
“He’s as slippery as an eel,” he said, “and I’ve been waiting to cop him red-’anded for a fortnight. So now you’d better come and overtake him, for he’s lame and can only crawl along. And when I talk to him, you’ll be surprised.”
“You’re utterly wrong,” Travers minor told the policeman. “You’re quite on the wrong scent, and if you interfere with that man, you’ll very likely ruin your own career in the Force. He’s much more powerful than you think.”
But the policeman said he’d chance that, and then, in the name of the law, he made us come and help him.
It was a most curious experience. When we got there, the spy had disappeared, and the policeman, knowing that he could only go about one mile an hour, said he must be hidden somewhere near.
“And if you chaps are any good as scouts, now’s your chance to show it,” he said.
By this time I began to believe the policeman, for he was a big man and very positive in his speech; but Travers hated him, and if he’d found the spy, I believe he would have said nothing. But I found him, or, rather, I found his boot. He had, no doubt, seen us stopped by the policeman, and then hastened to evade capture. There was a haystack in a field, and he had gone to it, and on one side, where it was cut open, there was a lot of loose hay, and he had concealed himself with the utmost cunning, all but one boot. This I observed just peeping out from a litter of loose hay, and not feeling equal to making the capture myself, I pretended I had not seen the boot, and went off and told the policeman, who was hunting some distance off, and also eating blackberries while he hunted.
He was much pleased and hastened to make the capture; and when he arrived and he saw the boot, he said: “Hullo, Soapy, old pard! Got you this time, my boy!”
Then the hay was cast aside, and the great spy; otherwise known as Soapy William, rose up.
It was rather a solemn sight in a way, for he took it pretty calmly, and said he’d been wanting a fortnight’s rest for a long time.
After the capture, the policeman seemed to lose interest in Travers minor and me. In fact, he didn’t even thank us, but he gave us back our money, and it was rather interesting to find that Soapy William, besides our six shillings, had the additional sum of two and sevenpence halfpenny also.
Travers minor didn’t speak one single word, going back to Merivale, until we were at the gates; then he said a thing which showed how fearfully he felt what had happened.
He said:
“It makes me feel almost in despair about going into the Church, Briggs, when there’s such wickedness as that about.”
And I said:
“I should think you would want to go in all the more.”
And afterwards, when we had changed and had tea, and we were in school, he got calmer and admitted I was right.
But he took a gloomier view of human nature afterwards, and often, on scouting days, he said there was more satisfaction in helping a beetle across a road, or making a snail safe, than there was in trying to be useful to one’s fellow-creatures.
We had to go and give evidence against Soapy William before a Justice of the Peace two days later. In fact, it was Sir Neville Carew, who lived at the Manor House, and he seemed to be very much amused at our evidence, and almost inclined to let Soapy off. But he gave him a fortnight, and Soapy said to us as he ‘oped we’d let the great Baden-Powell know how he was being treated; and everybody laughed, including Brown, who had gone to the court with us.
But, after that, Dr. Dunston cooled off to the Boy Scouts a lot; and when the terrific adventure to Travers minor finally occurred, about three weeks after, Travers major said it was a Nemesis on old Dunston; and so undoubtedly it was.
Though not actually in it, I heard all the particulars—in fact, everybody did, for naturally Dr. Dunston was the most famous person in Merivale, and when this remarkable thing overtook him, The Merivale Weekly Trumpet had a column about it, and everybody for miles round called to see him and say how jolly glad they were it wasn’t worse.
It was a fierce afternoon, with the leaves flying and the rain coming down in a squally sort of way, and Travers minor and I went for a drill, and after the drill we scouted a bit on rather a lonely road where nothing was in the habit of happening. But, as Travers truly said, the essence of scouting is surprise, and because a road is a lonely and uneventful sort of road, it doesn’t follow something may not happen unexpectedly upon it.
He said:
“No doubt the roads in the valley of the river Aisne, in France, have been pretty lonely in their time, but think of them last September!”
So we went, and one motor passed us in two miles; and two dogs poaching together also passed, and in a field was a sheep which had got on its back and couldn’t get up again, being too fat to do so. We pulled it up. In another field was a bull, and we tried to attract it, and scouted down a hedge within fifty yards of it, to see if it was dangerous, and warn people if it was; and I went to within forty yards of it, being a good twelve yards from the hedge at the time, but it paid no attention. Then, just at the end of the road, we came across an old woman sitting by the roadside in a very ragged and forlorn condition, with a basket of watercresses and also about twelve mushrooms.
Thinking she might be lame, or otherwise in difficulties, Travers minor went up to her and said:
“Good evening! D’you want anything?”
And she said:
“Yes, a plucky lot of things, but none of your cheek.”
“It wasn’t meant for cheek. I’m a Scout,” said Travers minor.
And she said:
“Oh, run along home and ask mother to let out your knickers, else you’ll bust ’em!”
Travers turned white with indignation, but such was his great idea of discipline, that he didn’t tell her she was a drunken old beast, which she was, but just marched off. But he was fearfully upset, all the same, and, instead of pouring out his rage on the horrid old woman, he poured it out on me. He’d been a bit queer all day, owing to a row with Brown over a history lesson, in which Travers minor messed up the story of Charles II; and now, what with one thing and another, he lost his usual self-control and got very nasty.
He said scouting with another person was no good—not with me, anyway.
And I said:
“What have I done?”
And he said:
“You’re such a fathead—nothing ever happens when you’re about!”
I told him to keep his temper and not make a silly ass of himself. I also asked him what he thought was going to happen. I said:
“We all know you’re always ready for anything—from an Uhlan to a caterpillar—but it seems to me the essence of scouting is to keep wide awake when nothing is happening, like the fleet in the North Sea. Any fool can do things; the thing is always to be ready to do them, and not get your shirt out and lose your nerve because there’s nothing to do.”
This good advice fairly settled Travers minor. He undoubtedly lost his temper, as he admitted afterwards, and he said:
“When I want you to tell me my business, Briggs, I’ll let you know.”
And I said:
“Your first business is to keep your hair on, whatever happens.”
And he said:
“Then I’ll relieve you of my company, Briggs.”
And, before I could answer, he had got through the hedge and gone off over a field which ran along a wood. I watched him in silent amazement, as they say, and he crossed the field and entered the wood and disappeared.
This action alone showed what a proper rage he was in, because he had gone into the Manor Woods, which was not only going out of bounds, but also trespassing—two things he never did. It was a fearful loss of nerve, and I stood quite still for a good minute after he vanished. Then my first idea was to go and lug him back; but discretion was always the better part of valour with me, and always will be, owing to my character; so I left Travers to his fate, and hoped he’d soon cool down and come back without meeting a keeper. It was growing dusk, too, and I went back to Merivale, and decided not to say anything about Travers minor, except that, while we were engaged in some scouting operations, I had missed him.
I only heard the amazing tale of his adventure afterwards, and though everybody had the story in some shape or form, I got the naked truth from Travers minor himself in his own words. Next morning, much to our surprise, it was given out that Dr. Dunston was unwell, and Fortescue read prayers; and during that event Travers told me all.
“When I left you,” he said, “I was in a filthy bate, and for once, instead of not wanting to trespass and break bounds, I did want to. And I went straight into the Manor Woods, and badly frightened some pheasants that had gone to roost, and was immediately soothed. They made a fearful row, and I thought a keeper would be sure to spring up from somewhere, and rather hoped one would, in order to afford me an opportunity for an escape. But nothing happened, and I decided to walk on till I came to the drive, and then boldly go along out of the lodge-gate. Well, I walked through the wood to the drive just before it got dark. I was looking out cautiously from the edge of the wood, to see that all was clear, when I observed a man sitting on the edge of the drive. For a moment I thought it was that wretched Soapy William again. He was humped up and nursing his foot which was evidently badly wounded. Then the man gave a sound between a sigh and a groan and a snuffle, and I saw it was Dr. Dunston!
“Of course, it was the moment of my life, and I felt, in a sort of way, that my whole future career depended upon my next action. My first instinct, remembering that Norris and Booth were both flogged when caught here, was a strategic retreat; but then my duty as a Boy Scout occurred to me. It was a fearful choice of evils, you may say; for if I cleared out, I was disgraced for ever, and my mind couldn’t have stood it, and if I went forward, I was also disgraced for ever, because to be flogged, to a chap with my opinions, is about the limit. I considered what should be done, and while I was considering, old Dunston groaned again and said out loud:
“‘Tut—tut! This is indeed a tragedy!’
“That decided me, because the question of humanity came in, and looking on into the future in rather a remarkable way, I saw at once that if I retreated and heard next morning that old Dr. Dunston was found dead, I should feel the pangs of remorse for evermore, and they would ruin my life. I also felt that, if I saved him, he was hardly likely to flog me, because there would undoubtedly be a great feeling against him if he did.”
“You might have done this,” I said. “You might have retreated, and then gone down to the lodge and told the woman that there was an injured man, in great agony, lying half-way up the drive. You might have given a false name yourself, and then, when the rescuing party started, you might have cleared out and so remained anonymous. It would have gone down to the credit of the Boy Scouts, and old Dunston would have been the first to see that the particular Boy Scout in question preferred, for private reasons, to keep his identification a secret.”
Travers was much impressed by this view.
“I never thought of that,” he said. “Probably, if I had, I should have done it. Anyway, I’m sorry I swore at you and called you a fathead, Briggs. You’re not a fathead—far from it.”
He then continued his surprising narrative in these words:
“Anyway, I decided to rescue the Doctor, and stepped out of ambush and said:
“‘Good evening, sir. I’m afraid you’re hurt.’
“He was evidently very glad to see me; but you know his iron discipline. He kept it up even then.
“‘What boy are you?’ he asked, and I told him I was Travers minor from Merivale.
“‘And how comes it you are here?’ he asked again.
“‘I was operating in the woods on my way home, sir, and I heard your cry of distress.’
“‘We will investigate your operations on another occasion, then,’ said the Doctor. ‘For the moment mine are more important. I have had a bad fall and am in great pain. You had better run as quickly as possible to the Manor House, ask to see Sir Neville Carew, and tell him that I have met with a very severe accident half-way down his drive. Whether I have broken my leg, or put out my ankle, it is not for me to determine. I have been drinking tea with Sir Neville and learning his views as to the War. Be as quick as you can. You will never have a better opportunity to display your agility.’
“Then I hooked it and ran the half-mile or so to the Manor House, sprinting all the way. I soon gave the terrible news, and in about ten minutes Sir Neville Carew himself, with his butler and his footman, set off for the Doctor. And the footman trundled a chair which ran on wheels, and which Sir Neville Carew kindly explained to me he uses himself when he gets an attack of gout, which often happens, unfortunately.
“He didn’t ask me how I discovered the accident, which was naturally rather a good thing for me; and when we got back to the Doctor, he told me to hasten on in advance and break the evil tidings. So I cleared out. And I’ve heard no more yet; but no doubt I shall soon.”
That was the great narrative of Travers minor, and after morning school Brown gave out that the Doctor’s ankle was very badly sprained, but that things would take their course as usual, and a bulletin be put up on the notice-board in the evening.
And it was, and it said the Doctor was better.
Travers minor heard nothing until three days later, when the Doctor appeared on a crutch and read prayers. Then he had Travers up and addressed the school. And Travers saw at a glance that Dr. Dunston was still in no condition to flog him, even if the will was there.
It ended brilliantly for Travers, really, because the Doctor said he had been an instrument of Providence, and he evidently felt you ought not to flog an instrument of Providence, whatever he’s been doing. He reproved Travers minor pretty stiffly, all the same, and said that when he considered what a friend Sir Neville Carew was to the school, and how much he overlooked, and so on, it was infamous that any boy should even glance into his pheasant preserves, much less actually go into them. And Travers minor was finally ordered to spend a half-holiday in visiting Sir Neville Carew and humbly apologizing to him for his conduct. Which he did so, and Sir Neville Carew, on hearing from Travers that he would never do it again on any pretext whatever, was frightfully sporting and forgave him freely, and talked about the War, and reminded him about Sir Baden-Powell’s brother, and ended by taking Travers minor into a glass-house full of luscious peaches and giving him two.
And Travers kept one for me, because, he said, if it hadn’t been for getting into a wax with me, he would never have trespassed and never have had the adventure at all.
And I said it wasn’t so much me as that beast of an old woman who told him his knickers were too tight.
“In strict honesty,” I said, “she ought to have this peach.”
Then I ate it, and never want to eat a better. In fact, I kept the stone to plant when I went home.