Chapter 13 — Master Huckaback comes in
Mr. Reuben Huckaback， whom many good folk in Dulverton will remember long after my time， was my mother‘s uncle， being indeed her mother’s brother. He owned the very best shop in the town， and did a fine trade in soft ware， especially when the pack-horses came safely in at Christmas-time. And we being now his only kindred （except indeed his granddaughter， little Ruth Huckaback， of whom no one took any heed）， mother beheld it a Christian duty to keep as well as could be with him， both for love of a nice old man， and for the sake of her children. And truly， the Dulverton people said that he was the richest man in their town， and could buy up half the county armigers； ‘ay， and if it came to that， they would like to see any man， at Bampton， or at Wivelscombe， and you might say almost Taunton， who could put down golden Jacobus and Carolus against him.
Now this old gentleman—so they called him， according to his money； and I have seen many worse ones， more violent and less wealthy—he must needs come away that time to spend the New Year-tide with us； not that he wanted to do it （for he hated country-life）， but because my mother pressing， as mothers will do to a good bag of gold， had wrung a promise from him； and the only boast of his life was that never yet had he broken his word， at least since he opened business.
Now it pleased God that Christmas-time （in spite of all the fogs） to send safe home to Dulverton， and what was more， with their loads quite safe， a goodly string of packhorses. Nearly half of their charge was for Uncle Reuben， and he knew how to make the most of it. Then having balanced his debits and credits， and set the writs running against defaulters， as behoves a good Christian at Christmas-tide， he saddled his horse， and rode off towards Oare， with a good stout coat upon him， and leaving Ruth and his head man plenty to do， and little to eat， until they should see him again.
It had been settled between us that we should expect him soon after noon on the last day of December. For the Doones being lazy and fond of bed， as the manner is of dishonest folk， the surest way to escape them was to travel before they were up and about， to-wit， in the forenoon of the day. But herein we reckoned without our host： for being in high festivity， as became good Papists， the robbers were too lazy， it seems， to take the trouble of going to bed； and forth they rode on the Old Year-morning， not with any view of business， but purely in search of mischief.
We had put off our dinner till one o‘clock （which to me was a sad foregoing）， and there was to be a brave supper at six of the clock， upon New Year’s-eve； and the singers to come with their lanthorns， and do it outside the parlour-window， and then have hot cup till their heads should go round， after making away with the victuals. For although there was nobody now in our family to be churchwarden of Oare， it was well admitted that we were the people entitled alone to that dignity； and though Nicholas Snowe was in office by name， he managed it only by mother‘s advice； and a pretty mess he made of it， so that every one longed for a Ridd again， soon as ever I should be old enough. This Nicholas Snowe was to come in the evening， with his three tall comely daughters， strapping girls， and well skilled in the dairy； and the story was all over the parish， on a stupid conceit of John Fry’s， that I should have been in love with all three， if there had been but one of them. These Snowes were to come， and come they did， partly because Mr. Huckaback liked to see fine young maidens， and partly because none but Nicholas Snowe could smoke a pipe now all around our parts， except of the very high people， whom we durst never invite. And Uncle Ben， as we all knew well， was a great hand at his pipe， and would sit for hours over it， in our warm chimney-corner， and never want to say a word， unless it were inside him； only he liked to have somebody there over against him smoking.
Now when I came in， before one o‘clock， after seeing to the cattle—for the day was thicker than ever， and we must keep the cattle close at home， if we wished to see any more of them—I fully expected to find Uncle Ben sitting in the fireplace， lifting one cover and then another， as his favourite manner was， and making sweet mouths over them； for he loved our bacon rarely， and they had no good leeks at Dulverton； and he was a man who always would see his business done himself. But there instead of my finding him with his quaint dry face pulled out at me， and then shut up sharp not to be cheated—who should run out but Betty Muxworthy， and poke me with a saucepan lid.
‘Get out of that now， Betty，’ I said in my politest manner， for really Betty was now become a great domestic evil. She would have her own way so， and of all things the most distressful was for a man to try to reason.
‘Zider-press，’ cried Betty again， for she thought it a fine joke to call me that， because of my size， and my hatred of it； ‘here be a rare get up， anyhow.’
‘A rare good dinner， you mean， Betty. Well， and I have a rare good appetite.’ With that I wanted to go and smell it， and not to stop for Betty.
‘Troost thee for thiccy， Jan Ridd. But thee must keep it bit langer， I reckon. Her baint coom， Maister Ziderpress. Whatt’e mak of that now？‘
‘Do you mean to say that Uncle Ben has not arrived yet， Betty？’
‘Raived！ I knaws nout about that， whuther a hath of noo. Only I tell ’e， her baint coom. Rackon them Dooneses hath gat ‘un.’
And Betty， who hated Uncle Ben， because he never gave her a groat， and she was not allowed to dine with him， I am sorry to say that Betty Muxworthy grinned all across， and poked me again with the greasy saucepan cover. But I misliking so to be treated， strode through the kitchen indignantly， for Betty behaved to me even now， as if I were only Eliza.
‘Oh， Johnny， Johnny，’ my mother cried， running out of the grand show-parlour， where the case of stuffed birds was， and peacock-feathers， and the white hare killed by grandfather； ‘I am so glad you are come at last. There is something sadly amiss， Johnny.’
Mother had upon her wrists something very wonderful， of the nature of fal-lal as we say， and for which she had an inborn turn， being of good draper family， and polished above the yeomanry. Nevertheless I could never bear it， partly because I felt it to be out of place in our good farm-house， partly because I hate frippery， partly because it seemed to me to have nothing to do with father， and partly because I never could tell the reason of my hating it. And yet the poor soul had put them on， not to show her hands off （which were above her station） but simply for her children‘s sake， because Uncle Ben had given them. But another thing， I never could bear for man or woman to call me， ’Johnny，‘ ’Jack，‘ or ’John，‘ I cared not which； and that was honest enough， and no smallness of me there， I say.
‘Well， mother， what is the matter， then？’
‘I am sure you need not be angry， Johnny. I only hope it is nothing to grieve about， instead of being angry. You are very sweet-tempered， I know， John Ridd， and perhaps a little too sweet at times’—here she meant the Snowe girls， and I hanged my head—‘but what would you say if the people there’—she never would call them ‘Doones’—‘had gotten your poor Uncle Reuben， horse， and Sunday coat， and all？’
‘Why， mother， I should be sorry for them. He would set up a shop by the river-side， and come away with all their money.’
‘That all you have to say， John！ And my dinner done to a very turn， and the supper all fit to go down， and no worry， only to eat and be done with it！ And all the new plates come from Watchett， with the Watchett blue upon them， at the risk of the lives of everybody， and the capias from good Aunt Jane for stuffing a curlew with onion before he begins to get cold， and make a woodcock of him， and the way to turn the flap over in the inside of a roasting pig—’
‘Well， mother dear， I am very sorry. But let us have our dinner. You know we promised not to wait for him after one o’clock； and you only make us hungry. Everything will be spoiled， mother， and what a pity to think of！ After that I will go to seek for him in the thick of the fog， like a needle in a hay-band. That is to say， unless you think‘—for she looked very grave about it—’unless you really think， mother， that I ought to go without dinner.‘
‘Oh no， John， I never thought that， thank God！ Bless Him for my children’s appetites； and what is Uncle Ben to them？‘
So we made a very good dinner indeed， though wishing that he could have some of it， and wondering how much to leave for him； and then， as no sound of his horse had been heard， I set out with my gun to look for him.
I followed the track on the side of the hill， from the farm-yard， where the sledd-marks are—for we have no wheels upon Exmoor yet， nor ever shall， I suppose； though a dunder-headed man tried it last winter， and broke his axle piteously， and was nigh to break his neck—and after that I went all along on the ridge of the rabbit-cleve， with the brook running thin in the bottom； and then down to the Lynn stream and leaped it， and so up the hill and the moor beyond. The fog hung close all around me then， when I turned the crest of the highland， and the gorse both before and behind me looked like a man crouching down in ambush. But still there was a good cloud of daylight， being scarce three of the clock yet， and when a lead of red deer came across， I could tell them from sheep even now. I was half inclined to shoot at them， for the children did love venison； but they drooped their heads so， and looked so faithful， that it seemed hard measure to do it. If one of them had bolted away， no doubt I had let go at him.
After that I kept on the track， trudging very stoutly， for nigh upon three miles， and my beard （now beginning to grow at some length） was full of great drops and prickly， whereat I was very proud. I had not so much as a dog with me， and the place was unkind and lonesome， and the rolling clouds very desolate； and now if a wild sheep ran across he was scared at me as an enemy； and I for my part could not tell the meaning of the marks on him. We called all this part Gibbet-moor， not being in our parish； but though there were gibbets enough upon it， most part of the bodies was gone for the value of the chains， they said， and the teaching of young chirurgeons. But of all this I had little fear， being no more a schoolboy now， but a youth well-acquaint with Exmoor， and the wise art of the sign-posts， whereby a man， who barred the road， now opens it up both ways with his finger-bones， so far as rogues allow him. My carbine was loaded and freshly primed， and I knew myself to be even now a match in strength for any two men of the size around our neighbourhood， except in the Glen Doone. ‘Girt Jan Ridd，’ I was called already， and folk grew feared to wrestle with me； though I was tired of hearing about it， and often longed to be smaller. And most of all upon Sundays， when I had to make way up our little church， and the maidens tittered at me.
The soft white mist came thicker around me， as the evening fell； and the peat ricks here and there， and the furze-hucks of the summer-time， were all out of shape in the twist of it. By-and-by， I began to doubt where I was， or how come there， not having seen a gibbet lately； and then I heard the draught of the wind up a hollow place with rocks to it； and for the first time fear broke out （like cold sweat） upon me. And yet I knew what a fool I was， to fear nothing but a sound！ But when I stopped to listen， there was no sound， more than a beating noise， and that was all inside me. Therefore I went on again， making company of myself， and keeping my gun quite ready.
Now when I came to an unknown place， where a stone was set up endwise， with a faint red cross upon it， and a polish from some conflict， I gathered my courage to stop and think， having sped on the way too hotly. Against that stone I set my gun， trying my spirit to leave it so， but keeping with half a hand for it； and then what to do next was the wonder. As for finding Uncle Ben that was his own business， or at any rate his executor‘s； first I had to find myself， and plentifully would thank God to find myself at home again， for the sake of all our family.
The volumes of the mist came rolling at me （like great logs of wood， pillowed out with sleepiness）， and between them there was nothing more than waiting for the next one. Then everything went out of sight， and glad was I of the stone behind me， and view of mine own shoes. Then a distant noise went by me， as of many horses galloping， and in my fright I set my gun and said， ‘God send something to shoot at.’ Yet nothing came， and my gun fell back， without my will to lower it.
But presently， while I was thinking ‘What a fool I am！’ arose as if from below my feet， so that the great stone trembled， that long， lamenting lonesome sound， as of an evil spirit not knowing what to do with it. For the moment I stood like a root， without either hand or foot to help me， and the hair of my head began to crawl， lifting my hat， as a snail lifts his house； and my heart like a shuttle went to and fro. But finding no harm to come of it， neither visible form approaching， I wiped my forehead， and hoped for the best， and resolved to run every step of the way， till I drew our own latch behind me.
Yet here again I was disappointed， for no sooner was I come to the cross-ways by the black pool in the hole， but I heard through the patter of my own feet a rough low sound very close in the fog， as of a hobbled sheep a-coughing. I listened， and feared， and yet listened again， though I wanted not to hear it. For being in haste of the homeward road， and all my heart having heels to it， loath I was to stop in the dusk for the sake of an aged wether. Yet partly my love of all animals， and partly my fear of the farmer‘s disgrace， compelled me to go to the succour， and the noise was coming nearer. A dry short wheezing sound it was， barred with coughs and want of breath； but thus I made the meaning of it.
‘Lord have mercy upon me！ O Lord， upon my soul have mercy！ An if I cheated Sam Hicks last week， Lord knowest how well he deserved it， and lied in every stocking’s mouth—oh Lord， where be I a-going？‘
These words， with many jogs between them， came to me through the darkness， and then a long groan and a choking. I made towards the sound， as nigh as ever I could guess， and presently was met， point-blank， by the head of a mountain-pony. Upon its back lay a man bound down， with his feet on the neck and his head to the tail， and his arms falling down like stirrups. The wild little nag was scared of its life by the unaccustomed burden， and had been tossing and rolling hard， in desire to get ease of it.
Before the little horse could turn， I caught him， jaded as he was， by his wet and grizzled forelock， and he saw that it was vain to struggle， but strove to bite me none the less， until I smote him upon the nose.
‘Good and worthy sir，’ I said to the man who was riding so roughly； ‘fear nothing； no harm shall come to thee.’
‘Help， good friend， whoever thou art，’ he gasped， but could not look at me， because his neck was jerked so； ‘God hath sent thee， and not to rob me， because it is done already.’
‘What， Uncle Ben！’ I cried， letting go the horse in amazement， that the richest man in Dulverton—‘Uncle Ben here in this plight！ What， Mr. Reuben Huckaback！’
‘An honest hosier and draper， serge and longcloth warehouseman’—he groaned from rib to rib—‘at the sign of the Gartered Kitten in the loyal town of Dulverton. For God’s sake， let me down， good fellow， from this accursed marrow-bone； and a groat of good money will I pay thee， safe in my house to Dulverton； but take notice that the horse is mine， no less than the nag they robbed from me.‘
‘What， Uncle Ben， dost thou not know me， thy dutiful nephew John Ridd？’
Not to make a long story of it， I cut the thongs that bound him， and set him astride on the little horse； but he was too weak to stay so. Therefore I mounted him on my back， turning the horse into horse-steps， and leading the pony by the cords which I fastened around his nose， set out for Plover‘s Barrows.
Uncle Ben went fast asleep on my back， being jaded and shaken beyond his strength， for a man of three-score and five； and as soon he felt assured of safety he would talk no more. And to tell the truth he snored so loudly， that I could almost believe that fearful noise in the fog every night came all the way from Dulverton.
Now as soon as ever I brought him in， we set him up in the chimney-corner， comfortable and handsome； and it was no little delight to me to get him off my back； for， like his own fortune， Uncle Ben was of a good round figure. He gave his long coat a shake or two， and he stamped about in the kitchen， until he was sure of his whereabouts， and then he fell asleep again until supper should be ready.
‘He shall marry Ruth，’ he said by-and-by to himself， and not to me； ‘he shall marry Ruth for this， and have my little savings， soon as they be worth the having. Very little as yet， very little indeed； and ever so much gone to-day along of them rascal robbers.’
My mother made a dreadful stir， of course， about Uncle Ben being in such a plight as this； so I left him to her care and Annie‘s， and soon they fed him rarely， while I went out to see to the comfort of the captured pony. And in truth he was worth the catching， and served us very well afterwards， though Uncle Ben was inclined to claim him for his business at Dulverton， where they have carts and that like. ’But，‘ I said， ’you shall have him， sir， and welcome， if you will only ride him home as first I found you riding him.‘ And with that he dropped it.
A very strange old man he was， short in his manner， though long of body， glad to do the contrary things to what any one expected of him， and always looking sharp at people， as if he feared to be cheated. This surprised me much at first， because it showed his ignorance of what we farmers are—an upright race， as you may find， scarcely ever cheating indeed， except upon market-day， and even then no more than may be helped by reason of buyers expecting it. Now our simple ways were a puzzle to him， as I told him very often； but he only laughed， and rubbed his mouth with the back of his dry shining hand， and I think he shortly began to languish for want of some one to higgle with. I had a great mind to give him the pony， because he thought himself cheated in that case； only he would conclude that I did it with some view to a legacy.
Of course， the Doones， and nobody else， had robbed good Uncle Reuben； and then they grew sportive， and took his horse， an especially sober nag， and bound the master upon the wild one， for a little change as they told him. For two or three hours they had fine enjoyment chasing him through the fog， and making much sport of his groanings； and then waxing hungry， they went their way， and left him to opportunity. Now Mr. Huckaback growing able to walk in a few days‘ time， became thereupon impatient， and could not be brought to understand why he should have been robbed at all.
‘I have never deserved it，’ he said to himself， not knowing much of Providence， except with a small p to it； ‘I have never deserved it， and will not stand it in the name of our lord the King， not I！’ At other times he would burst forth thus： ‘Three-score years and five have I lived an honest and laborious life， yet never was I robbed before. And now to be robbed in my old age， to be robbed for the first time now！’
Thereupon of course we would tell him how truly thankful he ought to be for never having been robbed before， in spite of living so long in this world， and that he was taking a very ungrateful， not to say ungracious， view， in thus repining， and feeling aggrieved； when anyone else would have knelt and thanked God for enjoying so long an immunity. But say what we would， it was all as one. Uncle Ben stuck fast to it， that he had nothing to thank God for.