Chapter VI I. In the Yard
Ah, good to be out in the open air again! Beyond all telling good! Those indoor rooms were like coffins. To be dead, and to writhe unreleased in the coffin, that was what those indoor rooms were like.
“God, when I die, let me pass right away,” prayed Jack. “Lord, I promise to live my life right out, so that when I die I pass over and don’t lie wriggling in the coffin!”
Mary had come as soon as it was light, and found Herbert asleep and Jack staring at him in a stupor.
“You go to sleep now, Bow,” said Mary softly, laying her hand on his arm.
He looked at her in a kind of horror, as if she were part of the dark interior. He didn’t want to go to sleep. He wanted to wake. He stood in the yard and stared around stupefied at the early morning. Then he went and hauled Lennie and the twins out of their bunks. Tom was already up. Then he went, stripped to the waist, to the pump.
“Pump over my nut, Lennie,” he shouted, holding his head at the pump spout. Oh, ’twas so good to shout at somebody. He must shout.
And Lennie pumped away like a little imp.
When Jack looked out of the towel at the day, he saw the sky fresh with yellow light, and some red still on the horizon above the grey gum-trees. It all seemed crisp and snappy. It was life.
“Ain’t yer goin’ ter do any of yer monkey trickin’ this morning?” shouted Lennie at him.
Jack shook his head, and rubbed his white young shoulders with the towel. Lennie, standing by the wash-tin in his little undervest and loose little breeches, was watching closely.
“Can you answer me a riddle, Lennie?” asked Jack.
“Til try,” said Len briskly, and Og and Magog jumped up in gay expectation.
“What is God, anyhow?” asked Jack.
“Y’d better let my father hear y’,” replied Lennie, with a dangerous nod of the head.
“No, but I mean it. Suppose Herbert had died. I want to know what God is.”
Jack still had the inner darkness of that room in his eyes.
“I’ll tell y’,” said Len briskly. “God is a Higher Law than the Constitution.”
Jack thought about it. A higher law than the law of the land. Maybe!—The answer left him cold.
“And what is self?” he asked.
“Crikey! Stop up another night! It ’ud make ye sawney.—But I’ll tell y’ what self is.”
“Self is a wilderness of sweets. And selves
They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet
Quaff immortality and joy.”
Len was pleased with this. But Jack heard only words.
“Ask me one, Jack! Ask me one!” pleaded Og.
“All right. What’s success, Og? asked Jack, smiling.
“Success! Success! Why, success—”
“Success is t’grow a big bingy like a bloke from town, ’n a watch-chain acrost it with a gold dial in y’ fob, and ter be allowed ter spout as much gab as y’ve got bref left over from y’ indigest,” cut in Lennie, with delight.
“That was my riddle,” yelled Og, rushing at him.
“Ask me one! Ask me one, Jack! Ask me one,” yelled Magog.
“What’s failure?” asked Jack, laughing.
“T’ be down on y’ uppers an’ hev no visible means of supportin’ y’r pants up whilst y’ slog t’ the’ nearest pub t’cadge a beer spot,” crowed Lennie in delight, while he fenced off Og.
Both twins made an assault and battery upon him.
“D’ye know y’r own answers?” yelled Len at Jack.
“No.”
The brazenness of the admission flabbergasted the twins. They stalked off. Len drew up a three-legged stool, and sat down to milk, explaining impatiently that success comes to those that work and don’t drink.
“But”—he reverted to his original thought—“ye’ve gotta work, not go wastin’ y’r feme as you generally do of a morning-boundin’ about makin’ a kangaroo of y’self; tippin’ y’ elbows and holdin’ back y’ nut as if y’ had a woppin’ fine drink in both hands, and gone screwed with joy afore you drained it; lyin’ flat on y’ hands an’ toes, an’ heavin’ up an’ down, up an’ down, like a race-horse iguana frightened by a cat; an’ stalkin’ an’ stoopin’ as if y’wanted ter catch a bird round a corner; or roundin’ up on imaginary things, makin’ out t’hit ’em slap-bang-whizz on the mitts they ain’t got; whippin’ round an’ bobbin’ like a cornered billy-goat; skippin’ up an’ down like sis wif a rope, an’ makin’ a general high falutin’ ass of y’self.”
“I see you and the twins with clubs,” said Jack.
“Oh, that! That’s more for music an’ one-two-three-four,” said Len.
“You see I’m in training,” said Jack.
“What for? Want ter teach the old sows to start dancin’ on th’ corn-bin floor?”
“No, I want to keep in training, for if I ever have a big fight.”
“Who with?”
“Oh, I don’t know. But I love a round with the fists. I’ll teach you.”
“All right. But why don’t y’ chuck farmin’ an’ go in f’ prize fightin’?”
“I wish I could. But my father said no. An’ perhaps he’s right. But the best thing I know is to fight a fair round. I’ll teach you, Len.”
“Huh! What’s the sense! If y’ want exercise, y’ c’n rub that horse down a bit cleaner than y’ are doin’.”
“Stop y’ sauce, nipper, or I’ll be after y’ with a strap!” called Tom. “Come on, Jack. Tea! Timothy’s bangin’ the billy-can. And just you land that nipper a clout.”
“Let him ’it me! Garn, let him!” cried Len, scooting up with his milk-stool and pail and looking like David skirmishing before Goliath. He wasn’t laughing. There was a demonish little street-arab hostility in his face.
“Don’t you like me, Len?” Jack asked, a bit soft this morning. Len’s face at once suffused with a delightful roguishness.
“Aw, yes—if y’ like!—I’ll be dressin’ up in Katie’s skirts n’ spoonin’ y’ one of these bright nights.”
He whipped away with his milk-pail, like a young lizard.