SHORT STORY.

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 471, 24 May 1905, Page 7

SHORT STORY.

The Fiddler. THE talk was of wrestling, particularly of the prowess of Dan Gerry. The men sat over their cider, in tho clear light of the summer evening; and overhead in weather-stained blue and gold swung the sign of «The Three Pilchards '—the little thatched inn being affectionately known as ' The Drea.' It was old Roskruge who pronounced the crowning euSogiom on Gerry. «Take 'en altogether, for good Cornish wrastling, for grip an' for trip, there isn't a man in the county that's the equal o' Dan.' But Hockaday, the farrier, qualified the panegyric. ' Unless 'tis Jan Tregooze ; but he's hardly to be reckoned, for his wrastling days be awver. He's a changed sawl now, an' hath i'ined the Partic'lars.' 'For the matter o' that,' answered Boskrage gravely,' I don't held with 'en. 'Tis a good script'ral scrt o' sport, for 'tis written that the angel wrastled wi' forefather Jacib ; an' if 'tis fitty for an angel o' heaven, 'tis fitty for Jan Tregooze.' Hookaday differed as he filled his pipe. 1 Jan's about right; he says 'tis better to bring a sinner to his knees than to putt 'en on his back.' Up the street there was a scamper of gathering children, and on the wind came the keen notes of a fiddle. ' I've seen some brave wrastling in my days,' observed Boskruge, growing reminiscent ial over his second pint. ' There was drwidden, that travelled about to fairs, a ' f imous chap, sure 'nough I I've seed en' ' take a mazed bullock by the horns' an' ' drive 'en tall fore.' I Hockaday, looking up the street, cried suddenly, ' Bless my sawl I here comes old Fiddler Treen 1' I It was a queer figure that came limping towards the little group at the inn—a shrunken old fellow, with a ruddy, puckered face and straggling wisps of white hair. At his back he carried a leathern bag, from which protruded the neck of a fiddle. His loose coat reached his heels, and the original colour of it would have been a matter for antiquarian research. Lifting his battered wide-awake, he saluted the company with a courtesy that was two generations out of date. 'Waarm weather, fiddler,' observed Boskruge civilly. : ' Waarm 'tis,' said the old man, mop* ping his bald head. ' I sim the miles be getting longer, an* the hills be getting steeper.' Whereupon Hockaday pushed the cider across the table; and when the fiddler's face was buried in the hospitable jug the men glanced at each other, and Boskruge tapped his forehead significantly, j ' Where be bound ?' asked Hockaday. 'Porthalla Bevel o' Friday,' answered the fiddler. ' But, law I 'tis a revel no more. There's a club-walking now, an* a school trate, an' a tay'—this last word was I spoken with intense scorn: ' 'tis terrible ■ tame. Bless 'ee! I can mind, backalong. ; when Porthalla Bevel was a sight to behold ; —caravans, an' booths, an' roundygoes, an ■ standings by the dizzen, two or dree > score couples dancing to wance, iss, an' [ oceans o' driak, an' a hatful o" money for [ theJiddler. 'Tis getting a poor sort o' I **?Wd!' 'lss, iss, times be altered,' said Boskruge j sympathetically. 'Altered, sure 'nough!' replied the old : man. ' The old ways be dying out, an' the old folks, an' the old toons. What be I ; but a sort o' ancient bygone ?' 1 When you corned along, fiddler,' said Jordan, one of the younger men, giving a trend to the conversation,' us was talking ' 'bout wrastling.' 1 An* very purty talk, too,' observed the fiddler. • Us reckoned that Dan Gerry wid be the champion o' these parts.' ' Iss, iss 1 he's a spry feller, an' there's strength in 'en,' replied Fiddler Treen; ' but I've seed a man Boimin-way that's more to my fancy.' The men, with sudden interest, leaned forward as Hockaday asked, ' What's the name of'en?' •Simon Widgery—he's a thatcher by trade; a spare-built man, wiry, with limbs like iron, an' as supple as a conger. Gerry 'd find his mate that chap, if he didn'tfind his maister.' Boskruge, thumping the table, cried excitedly, 'lf us could bring they two together 'twid be a brave match!' Hockaday, with some emotion, answered •'Twid I' After the fiddler had rested a bit he resumed his journey, and when he had limped away Boskruge said sadly,' Poor old sawl, trapesing about from place to place! 'Tis time he settled down to Christian ways.' ' Iss, a queer old man,' replied Hockaday ; ' an' always a hit touched. Us found Jen starving wance on Gerran Moor, an' there was some talk o' putting 'en under restraint for a mazed wanderer: but 'twid be like caging a say bird.' ' I've heard tell,' said Jordan in a low voice,' that Fiddler Treen hath the power o' evil.' 'lss, 'tis true,' answered Boskruge solemnly. 'Do 'ee mind Squire Nick Vivian ? He was a wild fellow; an' wance as he was driving home from Porthalla market, mad wi' drink, the fiddler stood in the hedge to let 'en pass, an' he lashed at the old man with bis whip, for no mortal raison but out o' pure devilment. 'Twas a nasty cut, an' some of us wid. have the fiddler take the law o' the squire, an' us'd pay the charges. But the old fellow wid hear no talk o' law; he wiped theblid from his face, an' he looked deadly patient. Then he took his fiddle, an' he played a little sawft toon, ' There, my dears,' says he; 'that's for Squire Nick's burying.' An', sure enough, before the year was out squire was in the churchyard.' ' 'Tis said, too,' added the dismal Jordan in a mysterious whisper, ' that he knaws the evil took the nine maidens danced to—the very toon that was played by Old Iniquity kissel f.' ' Rubbish 1' cried Hockaday, with an impatient laugh. ' I wam't hearken to such foolishness.' But Boskruge shook his head in rebuke. ' 'Tis no fulishness, Joe Hockaday, for there they stand to this day, the nine o' 'era, changed to granite stone for their wickedness.' In tfee course of the next few days the rumcifc?- inevitably reached Dan Gerry of this Bodmin man who was more than a match for him, and the soul of Gerry burned within him. He loudly proclaimed his willingness to meet the thatcher at any place or time; and the challenge was noised about the country-side. But Bodmin was far, and the whereabouts of Widgery were only vaguely known, so it is probable that the invitation would never have reached him if Boskruge had not hit upon the expedient of entrusting its delivery to Fiddler Treen. It was some months later, at a sheepshearing at Tregairy, that Treen encountered the thatcher. There was much company at the farm, and the services of the fiddler had been retained for a crown and a night's lodging. At the great supper Treen found himself seated opposite Widgery, and fulfilled his embassy with considerable tact. Catching the man's eye, he raised his glass in salutation, and said politely, 'Here's joy to 'eel You'm a brave wrastler, Simon Widgery! flu' folks have heard of 'ee beyond

the moors. I tell 'ee, thatoher, that the fame of 'ee hath gone forth!' The thatcher was a good-natured, modest man, and impervious to the old felloe's flattery. «Did 'ee iwer hoar tell o' Dan Gerry o 1 Porthillian?' asked the fiddler. ' C*an't say I have,' said Widgery. ' He's reckoned the champion wrastler of Cornwall,' continued the fiddler. But Widgery went on with his supper unconcernedly. ' He wid dearly like to meet thee in a match,' proceeded the old man: ' and there's some say he'd maister 'ee.' The thitcher's interest was centred on his plate, and he made no reply. Then, raising his voioe, the fiddler said, with an important air, ' Simon Widgery, 'tis a challenge—take it cr l'ave it. I bring 'ee word from Dan Gerry that he'd be proud to wrastle with 'ee.' ' I bido in my awn parts, an' I mind my awn business,' answered Widgery. ' Then there's wisdom in 'ee,' said Treen significantly, ' for Gerry'd surely maister 'ee. Iss, there's rare wisdom in 'ee.' The taunt rankled in Widgery. There were many men present, to say nothing of the farm-maidens, and he resented this imputation of sagacity. During the remainder cf the meal he plied the fiddlef with questions as to the geography or Porthillian, and the means of getting there : and when the huge junket bowl was brought in, crowned with cream and nutmeg, Fiddler Treen cried triumphantly, «Then 'tis a match!' Widgery quietly answered, * 'Tis.'. One wild night tho waggon of tho Porthillian carrier made its adventurous way across the moor. There was a gale from the south-west—a gale, half-wind, halfwater. There were brimming pools in the hellows of the tarpaulin, and at every lurch the waggon was fringed with a cataract. There was a certain hilarity about the driver that was inconsistent with his saturated condition. He whistled occasionally, and wasted gusts of song upon the hurricane; and in lulls of the tempest he would turn and fling jocularities into the recesses of the vehicle, from which came bursts of responsive laughter. The waggon pulled up at the ' Three Pilchards,' and Tregoweth, the landlord, came eagerly forth with a stable lantern. 'l've brought 'en I' shouted the carrier, shaking himself like a wet dog; and a tall figure, snrouded in a mackintosh, leapt from the waggon and ran into the lighted inn. •You'm welcome, Simon Widgery,' oried Tregoweth, bringing the stranger forward to the fire; and Roskruge, Hockaday, and the others, who had been keenly waiting his arrival, rose and greeted the man heartily. ' Here's Dan Gerry!' cried Boskruge as the Porthillian champion came forward; and the rivals shook hands civilly. Widgery was the slighter, and looked almost slim in his long mackintosh, ' Who's to be maister ?' asked Hookaday of Peter Boskruge when the Bodmin was stripped of his waterproof. The old man looked critically from one to another, and said slowly, • Iss, that's the question—who's to prevail? They'm a purty pair—'tis betwixt and between. 'Tis perhrps with wan, and perryventure with t'other. Wan thing's certain; 'twill be a brave match.' The contest could not immediately take place, for Gerry had gone a-fishing and been bitten in the hand by a conger. The hurt was trifling, and was fast healing; for in his wisdom he had consulted Bathsheba Munday of Treleven, who had touched the wound and repeated her infallible formula, • Conger, conger, harm the man no longer.' Opinions differed as to the nature of Mrs Munday's benison; some held that the virtue lay in the words, others in the woman. It is recorded that a St Budoc body had vainly used the words of the charm and the wound had festered. The week's delay gave the promoters time to complete their arrangements for the matches, for there were to be other contests at the meeting, the Gerry-Widgery match being the crowning event. Money was gathered from all quarters, for the scheme provided a generous prize for the victor and a substantial solace for the vanquished. There was some talk of a tent from Plymouth; but this was abandoned on the score of expense, and they fell back on the old expedient of a ' fuzzy ring'—a rude arena of hurdles and fagots of dried furze piled high enough to intercept the gaze of all outside the enclosure. The day came, and there was a great gathering. The ring of furze had been pitched in a level upland meadow, windswept and open; northward the country rose to the blue moors, and to the south it dipped in undulations to the sea. Hundreds of men paid tribute at the narrow entrance, and crowded into the arena—miners mostly, with a sprinkling of fishermen and mechanics, and here and there a farmer or a veterinary surgeon. It was rumoured that old Parson Edwards would dearly have liked to be present, but decorum forbade; so he aided the fund with a surreptitious guinea. Boskruge was umpire, and sat solemnly at a table, with the list of competitors before him. Stuck high upon a pole behind him was the champion's trophy, the symbol of supremacy, a hat rosetted and beribboned—its supplement being seven sovereigns in a leathern purse. On the opposite side of the arena Tregoweth dispensed cakes and drink; and near him, playing interminable jigs and countrydances, was Fiddler Treen, seated upon a barrel. It was the best of weather; the sky was blue and cloudless, and gloriously blue was the distant stretch of sea. The sports began with their minor interests and humours. Sam Hocken, the butcher, threw his opponents so easily that there was some talk of his challenging the champion after the great match. David Jury and young Pascoe, notoriously rivals in a love-matter, betrayed such animosity in their wrestling that the judicious Boskruge parted them. A diversion was caused by the sudden entry into the ring of Mrs Polgethy. Scorning the money-taker, she made her way to the centre, wet-aproned and barearmed, evidently fresh from the wash-tub, and in a shrill, angry voice that verged upon a scream, she cried, ' Where's my man? Where'B'Binadab?' A big fellow oame sheepishly forward from the crowd of men. He was about to wrestle with a gigantic miner; but he quailed before the eye of the little woman. The wrath of Mrs Polgethy found vent in the terrible question, 'Hast thee digged theytetties?" Alas ! the silence of Abinadab too plainly indicated that the potatoes were undug. ' Shamo upon ,'ee, 'Bindadab Polgethy 1 Here be I working an' slaving from morn till night, while you 'm idling like a good-for-nort, making sport for this tribe o' gaping fulesl' And the scorn of Mrs Polgethy, which had been focussed on her spouse, now took a wider, end she swept the arena with her contemptuous gaze. There was a titter, but no conspicuous sign of resentment, for Mrs Polgethy had a reputation for repartee ; she could hit off a man's defect of character or appearance in a facile epigram, and her nicknames stuck like burs. It was not until Abinadab had departed, and the white apron of his wife fluttered behind him through the exit, that the company dared break into their shout of derisive laughter. Then came the great contest, and a thrill cf expectation ran through the crowd when

the umpire called the names. Widgery and Gerry entered the ring and formally saluted each other. Roskruge, who had hitherto presided with magisterial calm, could not conceal his eagerness as he gave the signal. The men instantly closed, and Gerry had the initial advantage of grip an advantage whioh he never lost. In a few moments it became evident that Widgery was struggling with a stronger man. Yet he made a wonderful defence, full of surprising recoveries. The dense crowd swayed with excitement as they watched the writhing forms, and a proud shout rose from Porthillian throats when the stranger went under. But the second bout went otherwise. Widgery played warily; Gerry's points were grapple and sheer strength, and the Bodmin man dodged till he could close with benefit. There was a sinuosity about the fellow that was almost serpentine; his method was dexterous, but, devoid of attack, it seemed mere defensive wriggling. Suddenly, however, there was a stiffening of the elusive limbs, a heaving of the crouching back, and Gerry was flung off and fell with a thud. It was an astonishing throw; it evoked an enthusiasm that overwhelmed all local jealousy, and a loud cheer went up from the ranks of Tuscany. Conjecture was keen as to the ultimate victor, and to conjecture he must be left; for, while the men rested, Hookaday rekindled his pipe, that had gone out in the breathless interest of the contest, and carelessly flung the match into tho furze. There was instantly a blaze, and in a few seconds the fagots were alight. An attempt was made to beat out the flames, but the wind blew the fire along the screen of furze, and the dry fuel caught with amazing speed. There was a general rush for the narrow outlet; shouting, laughing, coughing, the crowd of men surged out into the open meadow. • Bless my sawl an' body I' cried Roskruge, looking ruefully at the fire, Half the' arena was now ablaze; myriads of sparks flew up in the sunshine from the semicircle of flame, and a widening oloud of gray smoke overspread the landscape. The men for the most part took a humorous view of the conflagration, and watched it with something akin to amusement ; when suddenly, above the roar of the fire and the multitudinous crackling, there rose the pieroing music of a fiddle 1 'Where's tho fiddler? Where's Fiddler Treen ?' cried a dozen vuces. Then, with a gasp of horror, the men realised that the old follow was inside the blazing ring. 'Treen! Fiddler Treen! come forth I' they shouted. But the music continue}. The tune was 'Judy Jinks,'and the rollicking ditty sounded horribly grotesque in the circumstances. ' The fiddler's mazed I' cried Hockaday • and Dan Gerry said, «Iss, us must stoop that toon!' and, running towards the entrance to the arena, he disappeared in the smoke, There was an agony of waiting, but Gerry did not return ; and the fiddling continued, with a wild quickening of the time. Several men attempted to tear a gap where the_ fagots had not yat caught, but they were driven back, half suffocated. There were frantic cries of «Gerry 1 Gerry!' and by this time many women, attracted by the fire, had oome upon the scene. A girl with wild eyes and a piteous face clutched Widgery by the arm, and asked,' Where's my Dan?' and the Bodmin man, without a word, plunged blindly to the rescue, and was lost in the dense gray cloud. But neither Gerry nor Widgery came back, and the dreadful fiddling was fast and furious—'Judy Jinks' had reached delirium. Hookaday would have followed, but the men held him back. The frenzied musio became incoherent, and ominously ceased ■ and nothing was heard but the roar and crackle of the fire. Then God, in His pity, changed the wind; the tongues of flame veered, and there was a sudden olearing in the smoke. The scene was laid bare, with its charred hurdles and heaps of smoking ashes, and the farther hedge of fagots still ablaze. With a cry the men rushed forward. They found Widgery lying faoe downward, unconscious, but alive; and Gerry near him, far gone in suffocation. Both men were badly burned, but happily not beyond the doctor's skill. After weeks of tender nursing Widgery returned to his native Bodmm with anew skin, but minus his eyebrows ; and the faoe of Gerry was indelibly scared. As for Fiddler Treen, they led him forth elated and unsoathed, with the smell of the burning upon him and a touoh of the fire m his signal white hair. His faoe was grotesquely blackened, and there was a strange light in his little beady eyes. One hand clutched his fiddle, the strings of whioh had snapped, and he flourished his bow m salutation to the crowd. «I baint so spry as the rest of 'ee,* cried the old fellow, 'an' my scampering days be awver. When the lot of 'ee cleared out, twas a poor job for the fiddler. 'Twas flame and smoke everywhere. I rinned here, an' I rinned there, but there was no way out. 'Twas fire an' blazes round about, an' tbe old fiddler in the middle of it. I said to meself, 'Fiddler, 'tis surely the end of *ee, for the chariot's come. Then I drawed the bow across my fiddle for the last time, for the sake of bygones ■ an' when I heard the voice of ; en I said', «If tis to be, plaise th' Ordainer, I'll eo home fiddling!' An' I tell 'ee, they danced to the toon, and thousands of sparks ! But 'twas cruel hot, too hot for mortal catgut, and wan by wan the strings went-all but the G; he's all right'-he pluoked the metal string afieotionately. 'lss, I reckon the G's like his maister—there's a few toons left in 'en yet.' Thus ended untimely the great matoh between Widgery of Bodmin and Dan Gerry of Porthillian. The prize-money was equally divided between the two men. As for that coveted trophy of championship, the bedizened hat, its finery of ribbons was consumed in the Are, and the charred ruin was an object for no man's aspiration.—James Paiey.