The Wolf Patrol: A Tale of Baden-Powell's Boy Scouts

In another moment a big, heavy car, flying at terrific speed, came shooting round the bend, and as it flew it gathered the deep white dust, and hurled it thirty feet into the air; leaving the road in the wake of the car one utterly blinding, choking mass of eddying dust. The scouts threw themselves into the bank and covered their faces with their hats: it was the only way of drawing some sort of breath, and even then their throats were choked with dust till they coughed.

'Nice thing, a motor-car running forty miles an hour over two inches of dust,' remarked Dick in ironical tones.

'It 'ud serve 'em right to bust their tyres on a broken bottle end,' murmured Chippy. 'It ain't safe to scoot along like that on these 'ere narrow roads.'

'It's to be hoped they eased up before passing the old man and his donkey-cart,' said Dick. 'The wind of their passing would be enough almost to upset him.'

'That's wot they've done,' cried Chippy suddenly. 'Look! look! his cart's in the ditch.'

Dick looked, and saw through the thinning cloud that the poor old man was in distress. His cart was turned over, and the donkey was struggling on its side. The scouts ran back at full speed to help him.

'What's wrong?' cried Dick. 'Did the car hit you?'

''Twor comin' a main sight too fast,' cried the old man, 'an' just as it passed, the noise o' it med Jimmy start round an' swerve a bit, an' suthin' stickin' out caught him on the shoulder an' knocked him into the ditch as if he'd been hit wi' a cannon-ball.'

'And they never stopped or asked what was the matter?' cried Dick.

'Not they,' said the old man; 'on they went as fast as iver.'

'What cads!' cried Dick. 'Did you see the number, Chippy?'

'No,' replied the Raven. 'Too much dust.'

'There were four men in it,' went on the old man, 'an' they looked back at me, but they niver pulled up.'

The scouts were loud in their anger against the inconsiderate motorists, and they were perfectly right. The truth was that the men had fled in fear. A chauffeur had taken his master's car without permission to give some of his fellow servants a run, and they dreaded detection, which would get them into trouble at home. However, the car had gone, and its number was not known, and within half a mile there was a meeting of cross roads where the motorists could turn aside without passing through the village. The comrades gave their attention to the matter immediately in hand, and helped the old man to unharness the struggling donkey and draw the little cart back.

The poor beast did not attempt to rise when it was freed. There was a cut on the shoulder where it had been struck, but the wound was not bleeding much, and the old man did not think the hurt was so bad as it proved to be.

'S'pose we tried to get Jimmy on his legs,' he proposed, and the two scouts sprang to help him. They were trying to raise the poor brute when a gamekeeper with his gun under his arm came through a gate near at hand.

'Hallo, Thatcher, what's wrong?' he called out.

'Why, 'tis one o' these here danged motor-cars,' replied the old man. 'Gooin' faster than an express train along this narrow way, an' knocked Jimmy into the ditch.'

The gamekeeper came up, and at the first glance called upon them to lay the donkey down again.

'Let me have a look at him,' he said. 'That cut's nothing. There's worse than that cut, I fancy.'

'I hope no bones have a-gone,' said the donkey's master.

'That's just where it is, Thatcher,' said the gamekeeper, after a short examination. 'The poor beast's shoulder is a-broke right across. He'll ne'er stand on his four legs again.'

Thatcher uttered a cry of distress.

'Broke across, ye say, keeper! Then what's to be done with him?'

'Nothing,' said the keeper; 'there's nothing ye can do to cure him. The poor brute's in agony now. Look at his eyes!'

'Nothin' ye can do,' repeated the owner in a dull voice, his eyes almost as full of distress as those of his injured helpmate. 'An' Jimmy were the best donkey as iver pulled a cart.'

'Nothin' at all,' said the keeper, ''cept a charge o' No. 6,' and he tapped the breech of his gun significantly.

'Shoot him?' cried old Thatcher.

'It's that or let him die slowly in misery,' replied the keeper. 'If ye like I'll put him out of his pain before I go on, but I can't stay long, for I've got to meet someone in Hayton Spinney, and I ought to be there now.'

'You're quite sure nothing can be done?' said Dick to the keeper.

'Perfectly sure, sir,' replied the man; 'the shoulder bone's clean gone. If it wor' a hunter worth three hundred guineas nothing could be done to save the creature's life.'

Jimmy was not worth three guineas, let alone three hundred, but when the keeper had mercifully ended the poor brute's sufferings with a cartridge, and hurried on to his appointment, he left old Thatcher heart-broken beside the body of his faithful servant.

'I dunno what I'm goin' to do now!' cried the poor old fellow to the scouts, who remained at his side to see what help they could render. 'Ye see, wi' Jimmy to help me I've med a few shillin's a week, doin' a bit o' higgling an' odd jobs in carryin' light things. That's kept me out o' the Work'us. But I'm a lost man now. There's nowt but the Union for me, I doubt. An' I've fowt hard to keep out o' that.'

The scouts tried to console him, but the loss of his donkey was a heavy blow to the old higgler.

'Where am I goin' to get another?' he said. 'I'm a bit short-handed now wi' my rent, for I've been ill a good bit on an' off last winter. Eight-an'-twenty shillin' I gave for Jimmy; an' I ain't got eight-an'-twenty fardens to spare.'

He heaved a bitter sigh, and began to strip the harness off the companion of his daily journeys. The scouts helped, and the harness was tossed into the little cart. That had escaped very well in the overset: one shaft was cracked, and that was all.

'Joseph Thatcher, Little Eston,' read Dick, from the side of the cart.

'Ay, that's me,' said the higgler. 'Joe Thatcher: lived in Little Eston all my life.'

'And you were on your road home?' went on Dick.

'Just comin' back from town,' replied the old man. 'I'd been wi' a load of butter an' fowls an' what-not for two or three neighbours, an' left the things at different shops. An' now I must get my cart home somehow an' tell my neighbours what's happened.'

'I see,' said Chippy. 'That's aw' right. I'll run yer cart home for ye.'

'Yes,' said Dick; 'we'll soon run it home for you.'

'No, yer don't,' said the Raven to his friend. 'Ye'll stop here an' tek' care o' the traps till I get back;' and with these words he whipped off haversack and jacket, and tossed them on to the bank.

'Oh, that won't do, Chippy,' cried Dick; 'that's just a trick to prevent me lending a hand.'

'Trick or no trick, it's just wot 'ull happen,' said the Raven firmly. 'It's rather more'n two miles back to Eston – that's four goin' an' comin', an' you wi' a game foot. No, not an inch back do ye stir. Besides, it gies me the chance to strip to the work nice an' comfortable.'

'But you can't shift that cart by yourself,' cried Dick.

Chippy uttered a grunt of scorn.

'There's nothing in it 'cept the harness,' he said. 'Can't shift that, eh?'

He took the shafts and ran the cart into the way as if it had been a big wheelbarrow: there was surprising strength in his slight but sinewy figure.

'Come on, gaffer!' cried Chippy, and he trundled the cart rapidly away down the road, leaving Dick on guard perforce beside his comrade's equipment.