Chapter XIV: Butterfly

"I SAY, pater."

"Eh?" ejaculated Peter Barcroft without looking up from his work, which happened to be revising a proof.

"I saw Betty Deringhame last night. I forgot to tell you," began Billy as a "preliminary canter" to the recital of his raid-night adventure.

"More fool you," grumbled his parent.

"I beg your pardon----" began the flight-sub, rather taken aback not by his sire's brusqueness, for Barcroft Senior when engaged in the non-creative work of proof-reading was like a bear with a sore head, but by the off-hand manner in which he had received the announcement of the girl's name.

"Look here!" exclaimed Peter, throwing down his pen and incidentally bespattering with ink the long, narrow sheet of printed matter. "Why on earth you want me to preach you a homily on the evils of betting----"

"Betting?" interrupted Billy. "I said nothing about betting. What I said was: 'I--saw--Betty--Deringhame--last--night.'"

Peter swung round in his revolving chair, and raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.

"Did you?" he asked. "My mistake, but why did you murmur that most interesting news into my deaf ear? What's she doing in this part?"

Billy duly reported the state of affairs.

"Jolly hard lines on the girl and her mother, too," was his parent's verdict. "Of course women of all classes are making munitions now, and all praise to them for doing it. I am not referring to that, but to the fact that Mrs. Deringhame has had a come-down in life. Did you ever hear how it occurred?"

"No," replied the young officer. "You see, I really didn't like to ask Betty, and she's too jolly brave to whine over her troubles."

"Sit down and fill your pipe," continued Barcroft Senior. "No matches? Hang it, there were three or four boxes on my desk this morning. Here, never mind, use a spill."

Billy laid a restraining hand upon his father's arm.

"Don't use your precious proofs, pater," he observed.

"Bless my soul! You were only just in time, my boy. Another second and that printed stuff would have been mingling in the form of smoke with the Lancashire atmosphere. Ah, yes; we were discussing the Deringhames. The same old tale, Billy: an inexperienced woman and a rascally lawyer. Not that all lawyers are rascals, you understand, but the profession contains a high percentage of rogues who, but for their knowledge of the law and of how far to go without overstepping the lawyer made laws of the land, would be doing time. This chap was a cute one. He persuaded Mrs. Deringhame to invest most of her capital in certain concerns of which he was a sort of sleeping partner. In five years he had literally done her out of a cool 6,000 pounds; and then, pretending to set matters right, he prevailed upon her to mortgage her house at Alderdene. Nominally he was her agent; in reality he was agent for the mortgagee, who was himself. You see the move?"

"Then, when war broke out, he drew in the mortgage, bringing an excuse that tightness of money necessitated the step. Mrs. Deringhame was unable at short notice to meet the demand. In vain she pleaded for time. Her last remnant of capital vanished into the rogue's clutches."

"The rotter!" ejaculated Billy indignantly. "And what is the bounder's name. Do you happen to know?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Barcroft. "Let me see--yes I have it: Antonius Grabb, of the firm of Grabb and Gott, of Ely Place."

"By Jupiter!" muttered Billy.

Mr. Barcroft raised his eyebrows enquiringly, but his son made no further audible comment. He had made the unpleasing discovery that the man who had wronged Betty and her mother was Bobby Kirkwood's uncle, and when, in the natural course of events the aforementioned uncle died, the A.P., should he be still surviving, would benefit considerably under the will of Antonius Grabb.

"By the bye," said Peter abruptly changing the subject. "Seen anything of Entwistle?"

"Met him coming from the bath-room half an hour ago; he was limping a good deal," replied Billy. "I don't suppose it will be long before he's down."

"I've a job for you, my boy," continued Peter. "They've just telephoned through to say that Entwistle's car won't be able to fetch him. My perambulating box of tricks and petrol is out of action somewhere in the hills. So I want you to drive our guest in the trap to Barborough. I'd go myself if it weren't for these confounded proofs. That idiot of a comp, will persist in printing 'stem' for 'stern.' The drive will do you good--blow some of last night's cobwebs away."

"Steady, pater," protested Billy with a hearty laugh. "I am no hand at driving horseflesh. Give me something in the motor line and I'm all there."

"You'll be all right with Butterfly," declared Barcroft Senior. "She's the steadiest-footed quadruped that ever stepped it out in shafts. A perfect gem, and the envy of the countryside."

He spoke with conviction, but the good character bestowed upon the animal was based simply upon hearsay. "Butterfly" was a new importation, having joined the establishment of Ladybird Fold only a week previously, and during that period she had either rusticated in the adjoining meadow or in her stable.

The flight-sub walked across the study to the open window. Without, hill and dale were bathed in the autumnal sunlight, and, having reviled the neighbourhood of Tarleigh in the darkness of the previous night, Billy felt compelled to render ample reparation to its charms as revealed by the light of day.

For miles there was a succession of hills and valleys, until the vista was terminated by the frowning Pennines. The country was well wooded, except for the grassy moorlands and bare yet picturesque outlines of the pikes and fells. Here and there were signs of human habitation in the form of well-built stone cottages, while in some of the steeper valleys could be discerned the chimneys and roofs of various mills and bleaching works. Nor did these lofty "stacks" disfigure the landscape. They seemed to harmonise with nature. The only blot in the vista was perhaps the line of electric cables with which the Zeppelin's observation car had so nearly collided with disastrous result on the previous night.

In the middle distance a haze of smoke through which a regular forest of factory chimneys could be dimly discerned marked the position of Barborough. Distance had lent not exactly enchantment but a discreet contrast to the rural outlook, and while taking in the panoramic effect with its attendant peacefulness Billy Barcroft could hardly realise that eight hours previously a cowardly night-raider had been hurling down her death-dealing missiles upon this portion of Britannia's sea-girt domain.

"Right-o, pater!" he exclaimed. "I'll risk it."

He spoke feelingly. The perils of his profession he regarded with equanimity. It was his choice, and he had no cause to regret it. But the idea of driving a quadruped of sorts along those steep roads and through the crowded streets of Barborough filled him with genuine apprehension.

"Hang it!" he soliloquised. "There's no cut-out on a gee-gee. I know how to stop an engine right enough, but a horse has a brain of its own and can be jolly erratic when it wants to. What on earth possessed the governor to go in for a quadruped when he has a rattling good car?"

Just at that moment the harmony of the morning was interrupted by the high-pitched voice of Mrs. Carter engaged in animated conversation with Mrs. Sarah Crumpet, the D.T.--otherwise Domestic Treasure--who "did" for Andrew Norton, Esquire.

Although the two ladies were at a side door that opened directly into the scullery their voices could be heard with astounding clearness.

"Eh! An' tha' found tha bed not slept upon?" she exclaimed. "Mr. Norton may ha' been called away a-purpose."

"Nay, that 'e wur not, Jane," declared Mrs. Crumpet. "I'm a-tellin' on ye, sitha'. Mr. Norton 'e meant to come back, for the whisky was on th' table."

"Methinks he looks to my employer for his nightcap," remarked Mrs. Carter with asperity.

"An' I was so overcome like," continued Sarah ignoring the insinuation, "that I simply 'ad to 'ave a drop-the first time I ever 'ad a chance up yonder."

"'As 'e paid thee thy brass?" enquired the sympathetic Mrs. Carter.

"Ay, that 'e did, thanks be. But it seems most strange-like, this business."

"I'll tell th' master," asserted Mrs. Carter as the other woman walked away. "An' sitha', if you're feelin' out o' sorts again, Mrs. Crumpet, now's your chance afore the bottle's locked up."

With this parting injunction the "help" of Ladybird Fold shut the door and made her way to the study.

"Yes, I know," said Mr. Barcroft when the Little Liver Pill had duly reported the absence of Mr. Norton. "He was here last night and left in a hurry before I returned; I'll stroll across in the course of the forenoon. Ah, good morning, Entwistle; how's that foot?"

"Better, thanks," replied his guest. "Gives me a bit of a twinge when I set it to ground. Well, what's the morning's news?"

"Papers not in yet, not that I expect any enlightenment on the subject of the raid in the Press report. There are all sorts of rumours flying about, as is to be expected. But it will be all right some day--when we tackle the business properly. These Zeps. will come once too often. It's a mystery to me that they haven't summed up the results and come to the conclusion that these haphazard raids aren't worth the candle."

"Unless it is to divert the attention of the German people from the Western Front," remarked Entwistle.

"Quite possible," agreed Peter. "Now to breakfast. I'm sorry your car couldn't come to fetch you--not that I want to lose you exactly, although I have a batch of proofs in hand," he added bluntly. "You understand? Billy will drive you into Barborough."

"And what do you think of the measures taken to combat the Zeppelin menace?" enquired Entwistle addressing himself to Billy. The flight-sub shook his head.

"I'm afraid I cannot venture an opinion," he replied. "Both branches of the Air Service are doing their level best--they cannot do more."

"You won't be able to draw Billy, Entwistle," added his parent with a laugh. "Even I cannot get him to talk shop."

"Pity some military men I know aren't like him," said the vet. "Nowadays it's either too much shop or too much official reticence. The middle path seems to have been lost sight of. But any more of the mystery of your friend Andrew Norton? I couldn't help hearing your housekeeper holding forth just now."

"Can't understand it," replied Barcroft Senior. "Why Norton should bolt out of my house and desert his own all night is a complete puzzle. I can only put forward the theory that the Zep. raid made him lose his mental balance--and he's a fellow with a steady head, I fancy. If he doesn't put in an appearance before lunch time I feel it is my duty to report the circumstances to that pillar of intelligence the Tarleigh police sergeant."

"And possibly get yourself arrested on suspicion," chuckled Entwistle. "Norton was last seen in this house, remember."

"It would be an experience that would afford practical knowledge as far as my work is concerned," decided Peter. "Nothing like real life to work into a plot, you know."

Breakfast over, Entwistle and the flight-sub went out into the garden for the time-honoured matutinal pipe until it was time for Peter's guest to take his departure.

"Come along, Billy," shouted his father. "Bear a hand at getting Butterfly harnessed." The flight-sub was in mufti. His uniform had been damaged beyond repair during his toil amidst the ruins of that devastated street in Barborough. A scar across his cheek and several livid weals on the back of his hands testified to his labours amongst the burning debris.

Somewhat proudly Peter threw open the doors of the combined coach-house and stable. Within was a small governess cart and a sleek and obviously overfed donkey.

"Allow me to introduce you to Butterfly," he announced. "Warranted to be quiet in harness and a thoroughly good trotter."

Billy said not a word. He had contemplated with considerable misgivings the imposed task of driving a spirited mare through a populous district; but those doubts were as naught compared with the prospect of piloting a humble "moke" through traffic in a strange town.

"Thank goodness I'm in mufti!" he soliloquised with a deep-drawn sigh. "'The condemned man walked firmly to the scaffold' sort of feeling. Well, here goes; no one is likely to know me in this show."

Putting the animal into the shafts was an evolution that required the utmost tact on the part of Barcroft Senior and much nautical skill on the part of his son. It was their first attempt in this direction.

"Get her this way while I hold the shafts," exclaimed Peter. "Gee up, old lady."

Butterfly obeyed and took up a position athwart the hawse of the craft, as Billy expressed it.

"Round with her," continued Barcroft Senior. "I can't hold these infernal shafts up all day."

Putting his shoulders to the donkey's hind quarters Billy succeeded in "slewing the boat's stern round."

"Easy astern!" he shouted in ringing nautical tones.

Surprised beyond measure, Butterfly turned her head to take stock of this unusual type of groom, with the result that the flight-sub's face received a good buffet from the animal's nose. Simultaneously the brass trappings of the harness rasped Peter's hand.

"Confound it!" he roared, relaxing his grasp and allowing one shaft to fall with a clatter upon the cobbles. "The brute's barked my knuckles."

Then, reasoning that the damage afforded a sufficient excuse to "knock off" his professional labours he held his peace on the nature of his injuries.

"Warranted quiet in harness," quoted Billy as his parent cautiously retrieved the shaft. "My word, pater, there's not much room between the dock-gates. Think she'll take it?"

"Ought to," replied Barcroft Senior dubiously. "Now, have another shot. I wish the brute had a reverse gear."

By dint of mingled coaxing and physical force Butterfly was backed between the shafts. Then both men regarded the result of their triumph with chastened looks.

"Strikes me we've missed this sling arrangement on the starboard side," remarked Billy. "That leather thing ought to be round the shaft. She'll have to forge ahead a bit."

"Right-o!" assented his parent. "Gee-up. Oh, dash it all! That's my toe this time."

For Butterfly, in "forging ahead" had brought her hind hoof heavily upon Peter's foot, which happened to be encased in a carpet slipper.

At length the evolutions arrived at a state that found the donkey in the shafts. Father and son stood back to admire their handiwork and to puzzle out the way to adjust the seemingly chaotic tangle of harness.

"Why not ask Entwistle?" suggested the flight-sub. "He's a vet. He ought to know how this gear is rove."

Mr. Barcroft shook his head. He did not like to admit defeat.

"Can't ask him to hobble out here with that sprained ankle of his," he said. "Unfortunately I'm not used to the job."

"So I should imagine, pater," added Billy pointedly. "Well, we've got to get on with the business. I'll make sure that everything's lashed up securely. That's the main point. If it isn't right it can't be helped."

The task of harnessing completed Butterfly was led out of the stable, an operation that nearly resulted in Peter being pinned against the door-post by one of the wheels.

"She's perfectly docile now she's in the trap," he decided as the donkey walked demurely round to the front of the house. "That's right, Entwistle. Another hour will see you safely home. Good-bye, don't forget to look me up at any time. Up you get, Billy."

"Thanks, I'm not having any at present," decided the flight-sub. "I'll lead her down the narrow lane until we get to the high-road. Now, then, my hearty; easy ahead once more."

Downhill the donkey walked sedately; Billy's confidence showed signs of returning as he led the sure-footed animal along the rough-surfaced track. Just as it joined the main road there was a short, steep rise.

"Jump in," exclaimed Entwistle; "she'll take it all right."

"I'll give her a chance," demurred the flight-sub. "My weight will make a difference. Now, then, old lady; show us what you can do."

Butterfly rose nobly to the occasion. So did the shafts, for the animal walked away leaving the governess-cart in a state of most unstable equilibrium. By dint of hanging on to one of the shafts Billy saved his companion from being deposited upon the ground, while Butterfly, having parted company with the trap, stopped and surveyed the antics of the still oscillating conveyance.

"Never knew a reef-knot to slip like that before," exclaimed Billy, regarding the trailing traces.

"It would be better if the traces were made fast in the orthodox manner, I fancy," suggested Entwistle, alighting from the cart and limping to the shafts. "There, that's the way--although it's not done navy fashion."

Along the main road Butterfly showed no signs of "speed-form." Downhill she walked slowly; uphill she plodded with even less haste, and since it was all either up or down progress was far from swift.

"I'll have to have another shave when we get to Barborough," remarked Billy with an emphasis on the "when." "I scraped at eight this morning, but at this rate I'll have cultivated a beard before Butterfly lands us at your place."

"The first mile," commented Entwistle, pointing to a milestone. "Twenty minutes fifteen seconds. Some record that."

A short distance beyond Blackberry Cross the donkey's manoeuvres began to cause Billy additional alarm. Without any apparent reason Butterfly would describe a semi-circle, keeping her eyes fixed upon something in the road.

"Starboard, you blighter!" roared the amateur driver, tugging at one of the reins. "You'll have us in the ditch in half a shake."

"Peculiar--very," remarked the vet.

"A very peculiar craft in all respects," added Billy. "She's not used to this style of yoke-line. Steady, you swab! You're swinging to port again."

"I've twigged it," announced, Entwistle. "She's jibbing at those manholes. They seem to irritate her. We'll have to be jolly careful when we get to the tram-lines or she'll try conclusions with a car. I tell you what: while you are in Barborough----"

"If we ever get there," muttered Billy.

"You ought to get that brute shod. She may do better on the metallic roads."

Two hours later Butterfly and party were in the thickest part of the traffic. To the flight-sub it was a sort of nightmare. Tram after tram had to be stopped to enable the erratic animal to pass, while a crowd of urchins (practically all the unwashed of Barborough, Billy thought) tailed on to the "Dead March in Saul" procession and contributed rounds of applause as Barcroft steered the donkey through the traffic mostly by means of his shoulders directed against the animal's ribs.

"Come in," said Entwistle as the party finally drew up outside the vet's house. "Put your steed in the stable and stop and have lunch."

"Thanks all the same," said Billy. "I must be getting back, or it will be dark before I see Ladybird Fold again."

The two men said good-bye, and Barcroft, leading the animal, set off on the return journey.

"I'll leave the moke at a blacksmith's, and while the thing's being shod I may as well call and see Betty," he decided, and proceeded to put his plan into execution by enquiring of one of the attendant throng--he suffered their presence with equanimity by this time--where a shoesmith was to be found.

"Fine animal, sir," remarked the smith. "Best I've seen for a long time. Won't hurry, eh? Well, p'raps 'tes not being shod. How long will it take? Say half an hour."

Billy deliberated. It was not much use going to "Mill View" if he had to be back in thirty minutes. On the other hand he could easily put up the animal at Two Elms and save time on the return journey. Besides, curiosity prompted him to watch the forthcoming operation.

The smith was a powerfully-built fellow from his waist upwards. His chest was of enormous depth, his breast and arm muscles stood out like the gnarled trunk of a tree. But his lower limbs were so thin that they seemed incapable of supporting the bulky "upperworks."

Butterfly submitted graciously to the initial stages of the operation, but when it came to shoeing the off-side fore-foot she exhibited signs of obstinacy.

"I'll have to throw her, sir," declared the smith. "Stand aside a bit."

Bending he gripped the donkey's legs and applied his huge bulk to her ribs. Like a felled ox Butterfly fell.

"Keep 'er 'ead down, sir," cautioned the smith. "I won't be long."

At length the last shoe was nailed on and filed smooth. Billy had had about enough of it, for the pungent smell of the forge was far from pleasant. But not so Butterfly. Apparently smarting under the indignity she refused to rise.

The smith applied a leather strap, but unavailingly. He gripped her head and tried to lever it up. The donkey lashed out, narrowly missing Billy's shins.

"Dunno as 'ow I seed such a brute afore," said the smith, scratching his head. "Look 'ere, sir; do you 'old her tail and pull, and I'll tackle her 'ead. Now, up you come."

Butterfly did. With a series of frantic kicks she regained her feet, sent the astonished smith flying in one direction and Billy in another.

For some seconds the flight-sub was too dazed to take any active interest in the sequence of events, but when at length he picked him self up and ran to the smithy door, Butterfly's heels were just visible as at a good fifteen miles an hour she disappeared round the corner of the street.