Chapter One.

Rodd the Pickle.

“Here’s another, uncle.”

This was shouted cheerily, and the reply thereto was a low muttering, ending with a grunt.

It was a glorious day on Dartmoor, high up in the wildest part amongst the rugged tors, where a bright little river came flashing and sparkling along, and sending the bright beams of the sun in every direction from the disturbed water, as an eager-looking boy busily played the trout he had hooked, one which darted here and there in its wild rush for freedom, but all in vain, for after its little mad career it was safely brought to bank, and landed. There was no need to use the light net which hung diagonally and unnecessarily across its owner’s back, for the glittering little speckled trout was only about the size of a small dace, though it fought and kicked as hardily as if it had weighed a pound, and indulged in a series of active leaps as it was slipped through the hole in the lid of a creel, to drop into companionship with half-a-score of its fellows, which welcomed the new prisoner with a number of leaps almost as wild as its own.

The utterer of the grunt, a stoutly-built man who might have been of any age, though he could not have been very young, judging from his bristly greyish whiskers, was also busily occupied, but in a calmer, more deliberate way.

He had no creel slung from his shoulder, but a coarse clean wallet that was rather bulgy, its appearance suggesting that it was carried because it contained something to eat, while its owner held in one hand, slung by a stoutish lanyard, a big, wide-mouthed glass bottle half full of water, and in the other hand a little yellow canvas net attached to a brass ring at the end of a stick, the sort of implement that little boys use when bound upon the chase and capture of the mighty “tittlebat.” And as his younger companion shouted and landed his little mountain trout, the net was being carefully passed under water, drawn out and emptied upon the fine lawn-like grass, and what looked like a little scrap of opalescent jelly was popped into the wide-mouthed bottle.

“You got one too, uncle?” shouted the boy, who was higher up the stream.

“Yes; some very nice specimens down here. Are you getting plenty of sport, Rodd?”

“Yes, uncle,” replied the boy, who was carefully examining his tiny artificial gnat before beginning to whip the stream again. “They are rising famously; but they are awfully small. I shall get a dish, though, for supper.”

“Uncle,” as he was called, grunted again, and went on searching amongst the water-weeds with his net, his tendency being with the stream, while the boy, who did not scruple about stepping into the shallows from time to time, went on whipping away upward towards where one of the tors rose in a chaotic mass of broken, lichen-covered, fragmentary granite, apparently hiding in the distance the source of the little bubbling and sparkling stream.

Sometimes, as the boy struck in unison with the rise, he missed his fish, at others he hooked and held it till it broke away, and then again he transferred another to his creel, as intent upon his sport as his uncle was upon his pursuit, but still adding and adding to the contents of the creel for quite an hour. Then, in an interval when the fish had ceased to rise, the boy began to look downward, finding to his surprise that he was quite alone and close up to the towering mass of time-worn granite, many of whose blocks sparkled in the summer sun with crystals of quartz, and specks of hornblende, and were rendered creamy by the abundant felspar which held the grains together in a mass.

“I wonder what’s become of Uncle Paul,” muttered the boy. “Have I lost him, or has he lost me? What stuff! One’s only got to go down the stream, and he’s sure to be there somewhere, dipping for his what-do-you-call-’ems—hydras and germs and buds, and the rest of them. But oh, what a jolly morning it is, and what a jolly place Dartmoor is now the sun shines! Not very jolly yesterday, though, when the wind was sweeping the rain across in clouds and you couldn’t see the tops of the tors for the mist. Oh, but it is beautiful to-day. I do feel jolly!”

The boy let his light tapering rod fall into the hollow of his arm, swung round his creel to the front, and, raising the lid, peered down at his speckled prizes lying upon a bed of newly-picked bracken fronds.

“Why, there must be fifty,” he cried. “There, I won’t stop to count. I’ll catch a few more, and guess at fifty. That’ll be enough for a nice lot for tea and some more for to-morrow morning’s breakfast. Uncle Paul does enjoy a dish of trout. Humph! So do I. I suppose it’s this beautiful fresh air up among the tors, and the tramping. It was a good long way up here from the cottage. I suppose it’s that makes me feel so jolly hungry. Oh, look at that now! Uncle would carry the wallet, and he’s got all the sandwiches. Never mind; I’ll catch a few more of the little beauties, and then toddle back to meet him.”

But the boy did not begin to fish directly, but stood gazing round at the glorious prospect of hill and dale and miniature mountain, here grey and sparkling, there flushed as if with the golden sheen of blossoming furze, while the lower slopes were of the magnificent purple of the abundant heath.

“Beautiful!” cried the boy ecstatically. “I am glad that we came up here to stay. So is dear old uncle. He’s revelling in the specimens he gets, and we shall have another jolly night with the microscope. He’ll give me a lecture upon all the little Latin beggars he pops into his bottle, and another for being so stupid in not recollecting all their cranky names. Never mind; it is jolly. Pity it isn’t later, for then there’d be plenty of blackberries and whorts. I dare say there’d be lots of the little tiny button mushrooms, too, in the lower parts among the soft grass. But what’s the use of grumbling? Uncle says that I am never satisfied, and that I am always restless, and I suppose it’s because I am a boy. Well, I can’t help being a boy,” he mused thoughtfully. “I might have been a girl. Well, girls are restless too. I say, what’s that?”

He shaded his eyes again and gazed at a speck of something that looked bright scarlet in the distance, and then not very far away he made out another, and again another speck or blotch of bright red. “Now, I wonder what’s growing there,” muttered the boy. “I don’t remember anything scarlet growing and blowing. Poppies? No, I don’t think they are poppies. They are at the edges of the cornfields, and there are no cornfields up here.”

He fixed his eyes more intently upon the scarlet specks, and then burst out laughing.

“Well, they are not poppies,” he said aloud. “Poppies don’t move, and those are moving, sure enough. There, one of them has gone behind that block of stone. Pooh, how stupid! Why, of course!”

He jerked himself round to look in another direction, so sharply that his creel swung out for a moment from the strap, and came back against his hip with a bang, as he stood with his back to the sun, gazing at a distant grey, gloomy-looking pile of stone building, and then nodded his head with satisfaction.

“Poppies, indeed! My grandmother! That’s what they are. Soldiers from over yonder. Part of the guard from the great prison, I suppose. Oh, poor beggars! How miserable, when you come to think of it—shut up yonder in that great gloomy place, for I don’t suppose they let them come out much without soldiers to watch them—and all for doing nothing. Doing nothing! Mustn’t say that, though, before Uncle Paul, or he’ll go into a rage and begin preaching about Bony and the war, and going on about the French. Hullo!”

The boy started, for there was a dull thud, apparently from the prison, miles away, followed by a loud echo which seemed to come from close at hand, making him turn again as if to look for the spot from which it came, and seeing it too, for the report of the gun had as it were struck against the face of the tor above him, and then glanced off to strike elsewhere.

“How queer echoes are!” he muttered. “Yes, and how queer I feel—all hollow. That’s made me think about it. I suppose that means twelve or one o’clock dinner-time. Oh, how stupid to go right away from uncle like this! I wish he’d come. But I won’t go till I have made my fifty trout.”

Turning his attention now to the stream, he began whipping away again, and finding that the little trout were rising as well as ever, with the result that Rodney Harding once more forgot everything else in his pursuit and went on up-stream nearer and nearer to the great tor, till at last he found himself in a little hollow amongst the rocks where the river had widened into a pool, hollowed out as it were at the base of a great cliff.

“Why, this is the end of it,” he said, pausing to look round and upward at the towering pile of rocks. “No, it isn’t. It must be the beginning—the source, I suppose they call it. Yes, the stream begins here, comes right from under that cliff. Why, it’s like a little cave out of which the water streams.”

He stopped short and threw his fly once or twice without effect, and then, moved by curiosity, waded into the shallow rippling water, which rose a little way above his boots, but as it began to invade his trousers he rolled them up to his knees, before wading onward till he was stopped by the piled-up cliff face where the water came gliding out and rippled about his legs.

“Why, it ought to be quite cold,” he muttered, “instead of which it is warm.”

Then, standing up his rod so that the top rested among the stones, he stooped down, bending nearly double before he could pass in beneath a rough stony natural arch and slowly force his way along a narrow passage for a few feet, before stopping short where the water nearly reached his knees.

“Oh, I say! I am not going to break my back short off at the hips by squeezing in here,” he grumbled. “Besides, it’s all dark; and what’s the good? Here, I know! This isn’t the source. This tor is only a piled-up heap of stones, and I dare say if I go round I shall find the little river coming in on the other side, and this is where it comes out. Well, let it. Here, I want my lunch.”

He made his way back into the sunshine where all was bright and clear again, and, taking his rod, stepped out to the edge of the pool, where the dry sand felt pleasant and comfortable to his feet, and there he went on fishing again with more or less success, till he passed out of the little amphitheatre to where the rocks fell away on either side, half hidden by the heath and furze.

“Must have got fifty by this time,” muttered the boy. “Now just one more to make sure, and then I’ll be off, and— Ugh! Who are you? How you made me jump!”

Chapter Two.

After French Prisoners.

There was some reason in Rodney Harding’s words, for as he turned from the little river he had come suddenly face to face with a thin gaunt-looking lad of about his own age, very shabbily dressed and almost ragged, who was gazing at him fiercely, and stood with one hand as if about to strike. Recovering himself on the instant, Rodney, obeying his first impulse, began to loosen the bottom joint of his rod ready to use it as a weapon—a defence against the expected attack—but in an instant the strange new-comer dropped his hand to his side, turned quickly away to look outward across the moor, and then cried wildly, his voice sounding strange of accent, and husky as if from exhaustion—

“No, no, don’t hit! I am so weak and so helpless. Help me. Tell me, which way can I go? They are close after me, and I can run no farther. Help!”

The poor wild-looking creature ended by sinking upon his knees amongst the heath, and raising his hands with a piteous gesture, while his imploring looks were quite sufficient to move the young fisherman’s heart.

“Why, who are you?” he cried. “You are not a beggar.”

“No, no! I confess. Oh, mon ami—I beg your pardon—sir! I forgot. I confess everything. It was for liberty; we were escaping, but the guard—the soldiers! They have been hunting us down like dogs.”

“A French prisoner?” cried the boy.

“Ah, oui—yes, monsieur. It is my misfortune. But the soldiers. We have been separated.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” said Rodney sharply.

“My father and I. I don’t know which way he has gone. They have taken him perhaps, and now it is no use; I may as well give up, for I can go no farther.”

He sank sideways amongst the heath and fern.

Rodd looked at him in horror, for the poor fellow seemed as if he was about to faint with weakness and misery, while he kept giving utterance to hysterical gasps as he was plainly enough struggling hard to avoid bursting into a passion of weak girlish tears.

“Here, I say, don’t do that!” cried Rodd, stooping and catching him by the arm to shake him violently. “You don’t know that the soldiers have caught your father.”

“No, but I feel sure that they must have done so,” cried the poor fellow, rising a little and gazing wildly in the speaker’s eyes, while Rodd’s energy seemed to galvanise him into action.

“Well, suppose they have? They’d only take him back into the prison again, would they?”

“I—I don’t know,” faltered the lad. “I heard firing, and they may have shot him down and taken him.”

“Yes—may, may, may!” cried Rodd angrily. “But I don’t believe our soldiers would be such brutes. It’s only Frenchmen that do such things as that.”

“What!” cried the lad, struggling to his feet. “How dare you speak so of our brave fellows! I appealed to you for help, and you insult me. Do you think if you were in France and flying for your life with your father—”

“Haven’t got one,” said Rodd shortly. “Died before I was born.”

“Do you think then that if you alone had appealed to me for help I would have treated a poor escaping prisoner like this?”

“Oh, come, I say, don’t go on like that. Any one would think you were a great girl. How can I help you? I daren’t. What would my uncle say if he knew I’d helped a French prisoner to escape from his guards? You shouldn’t, you know. It isn’t right nor fair. Just because you have got into trouble, that’s no reason why you should drag another fellow down too. Look here, what are you running away for?”

“Why?” cried the lad bitterly. “Because I am a prisoner, and I wanted to see my poor father free.”

“Well, look here,” said Rodd huskily; “I am very sorry, you know, and I’d help you if I could, but it’s against the law, and— I say! Quick! Don’t speak aloud. I can hear some one coming. Yes, it’s the soldiers, I think.”

“Oh!” cried the French lad wildly, and he gazed about him with every nerve quivering, his whole aspect being that of some hunted beast with the dogs close upon his track.

“Don’t get up,” cried Rodd. “I tell you, I mustn’t help you; it’s against the law; but if I were in your fix I know what I should do. Not afraid of the water, are you?”

“What, swim for my life? Nonsense! In a stream like this!”

“No, no. Wade into that hole opposite yonder, and hide there till the soldiers are gone.”

“But they’d be sure to look there.”

“Not they! They’d be afraid of spoiling their breeches and gaiters and washing out the pipe-clay.”

“Ready for you to betray me to them,” whispered the lad bitterly. “No; I’ll surrender like a man.”

“Oh!” growled Rodd, between his teeth. “If you weren’t such a poor, weak, helpless-looking chap I’d hit you on the nose. How dare you speak to me like that?”

He raised his hand as if to strike, but there was a ring in his words which had thrilled the fugitive, who to Rodd’s astonishment caught the hand in his, and quick as thought pressed it to his lips, and then dashed into the water and splashed his way to the mouth of the hole. The next moment the disturbed stream was the only trace left, for the fugitive had disappeared.

The young fisher stood gazing blankly at the low dark mouth of the hole, listening with every nerve on the strain for some sound from the hiding-place to strike his ear; but there was none. From behind, though, there came a loud voice, shouting—

“Here, this way; up by the stream!”

In an instant Rodd was full of action. Turning his back to the hole across the pool, he began to whip the surface with such effect that at the third cast there was a quick rise and he was fast in by far the biggest trout he had caught that day, though small enough all the same; and with knit brows he was playing it carefully just as a redcoat, followed by three or four more, came up at the double to the exit end of the pool and halted to stare at him wonderingly.

“Hi, young fellow!” shouted the leader, whose stripes betokened the sergeant. “What are you doing here?”

Rodd, whose heart was thumping against his ribs from excitement, did not so much as raise his eyes from the surface of the pool, but with teeth set, lips pursed up, and brows heavily knit, kept on playing his fish, paying not the slightest heed to the speaker and his companions.

“Fishing, eh?” said the sergeant, who, in spite of his important errand, could not take his eyes from the darting trout. “I say, we are after an escaped prisoner, and he came somewhere up here. Which way has he gone?”

Rodd did not take his eyes from the frantic darting of the fish, but gave line in silence as it flashed through the water to the far side of the pool, while the soldiers grounded arms and looked on with the deepest interest.

“Prisoners escaped,” said the sergeant loudly, as he, too, still gazed at the rushings of the trout—“Frenchman—came up this way—Yes, a big ’un, youngster—Mind! You’ll lose him!—One was quite a lad, and—Well done! You have got him yet!—We saw him run up this way, and—Well done!—You have handled a fly-rod before—Did you see anything of him?”

“Eh? What?” said another voice sharply, and a fresh comer suddenly appeared upon the scene in the shape of Uncle Paul, who stared in astonishment at the group as he stepped into the little amphitheatre from behind the rocks.

His appearance acted like magic upon the soldiers, who brought their muskets to the carry, while the sergeant sprang to attention and saluted.

“After escaped prisoners, sir. Asking the young gentleman if he had got one of them up here.”

“Pooh! Nonsense! Absurd!” cried the gentleman addressed, just as Rodd brought his fish to land and went down on one knee to grip it in his left hand. “Prisoners, no!” literally barked the fresh comer, setting down his bottle and net, and taking off his straw hat to wipe his streaming face with a big yellow and red bandanna handkerchief. “Here, Rodd, boy,” he cried, with a chuckle, “empty your pockets and then open your creel and show the sergeant how many prisoners you have caught. Hot up here, my lad!” he continued, and the sergeant and men grinned. “Thirsty?”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, grinning; “pretty tidy. We have had a precious good run.”

“Well, there’s plenty of beautiful water. Shall I lend you my drinking-cup?”

“Thankye, sir,” said the sergeant.

“Thankye, indeed!” said the bluff speaker, with a chuckle, and he thrust his hand into his pocket. “There you are; there’s a shilling for you to get some cider. I dare say you know where better than I can tell you. No, we have seen no prisoners.”