'Miaow miaow! Butt'fly, mouse, birdie, nice. Mowwwrrr! Winnie Winn give 'Ratio sardine an' milky milky tea, purrrr
nice!' '
Ben chuckled. 'Keep at him. I'm sure Horatio will improve.'
The Labrador stared forlornly at the cat. 'Little savage, scoffing butterflies, mice, and birds. Ugh! What are you
going to do for the rest of the day, Ben, sit out here and snooze?'
The boy rose quietly from his deck chair. 'No, I'm off to do a bit of exploring by myself... See you back here ...
shall we say about six?'
Ned waved a paw. 'Six it is. Dinner will prob'ly be about seven. Mind how you go, Ben. Shout if you need me.'
Ben walked briskly to the gate. 'Righto, and you bark out loud if you want me for anything. See you later,
mate.'
21.
CHAPELVALE VILLAGE SQUARE LAY DEserted and still in the summer afternoon, Ben was the only one
about. Crossing the square, he strolled up to the almshouse fence. Only the unruly lilac and privet bushes held the
rickety, sagging palings upright. He stood at the gate, weighing the ancient building up. A poor jumble, its thick
hanging thatch, long overdue to be rethatched. Ben unlooped a faded noose of cord that kept the gate fastened, which
creaked protestingly as he opened it, and started down the weed-scarred gravel path. A gruff voice cut the air with
thunderous power.
'Out! Get out, you're trespassin'! Out, out!' Ben stopped and held his arms out sideways. 'Excuse me, I was
only—'
The voice from behind the almshouse door roared threateningly. 'Out, I said! I'll give you a count of three. I'm
loading my shotgun! Out, d'ye hear.... One!... Two!'
Ben ran then, clearing the gate with a leap. Behind him he heard the click of shotgun hammers being cocked.
The voice called out in menace-laden tones. 'Ye'll get both barrels if ye come back! Be off now!'
Ben knew it was little use arguing with a double-barreled shotgun. Thrusting both hands deep in his pockets, he
walked off across the square.
Dropping into the alley alongside Evans Tea Shoppe, the boy cut around the back of the stone buildings,
circling the square furtively until he arrived in the shade of some hawthorn trees behind the almshouse. He stood still
and silent there for several minutes, checking that his presence was unnoticed. Then, with a silent bound, he cleared
the back wall, sinking down in a crouch amid the long grass and weeds. Three warped and weatherbeaten wood
shutters covered the almshouse rear windows, with neither glass nor blinds behind them. Ben moved stealthily on all
fours, over to the center window. He found it was not difficult to spy inside through the ancient elmwood planks,
which were riddled with knotholes and cracks.
A high, circular stained-glass window let in a pool of sunlight in faded hues. The rest of the illumination was
provided by two storm lamps suspended from a crossbeam. A tall, heavyset, elderly man with a full grey beard,
wearing bell-bottom pants and a close-fitting dark blue seaman's jersey, with a spotted red-and-white neckerchief, was
seated at a table. Upon it was a welter of cardboard filing boxes and books, parchments and scrap paper. Around him,
the interior appeared to be covered in dust and draped with cobwebs. The man was poring over a document on the
table, leaning on one elbow, holding a pencil poised.
Suddenly he sat upright, moving a much-repaired pair of glasses from his face. He looked to the front door, as if
he had heard a noise from outside. Rising slowly, he crept to the door and placed an ear against it. From his pocket he
took a child's toy, a cheap green metal clicker in the shape of a frog, and taking a deep breath he bellowed out angrily,
'I know you're still out there! Shift yourself quick! I never miss with this shotgun! Ye'll get a full blast through this
door if ye don't move, I warn ye!' He clicked the tin frog twice. Ben wrinkled his face in amusement—it sounded just
like a shotgun. The old fraud!
Satisfied the intruder had fled, the big man went back to his table, where he lit a small paraffin stove and placed
a whistling kettle upon it. From a box under the table he brought forth a large enamel mug, brown cane sugar, and a
can of condensed milk. Whilst doing this, he sang in a fine husky baritone. Ben recognized the song as an old sea
shanty he was familiar with. He listened to the man sing:
'I thought I heard the cap'n say,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
Tomorrow is our sailin' day,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
O you pinks and posers,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!'
The big fellow paused, scratching his beard thoughtfully, obviously having forgotten the rest of the words. With
the danger of being shot no longer a threat, Ben could not resist supplying a verse to help the singer's memory. So he
sang out through a knothole in a raucous voice.
'And now we're wallopin' 'round Cape Horn,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
I wish t'God I'd ne'er been born,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!
O you pinks and posers,
Go down you bloodred roses, go down!'
The man began moving toward the shutter, a smile forming on his rough-hewn features as he took a turn with a
verse.
