The Gap in the Hedge

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIV, Issue 22628, 16 January 1937, Page 8 (Supplement)

The Gap in the Hedge

By GUNBY HADATH

A Hockey Story:

"T3OOH! Girls simply can't play hockey!" Wendy's only answer was a bright smile. She was standing in the gap in the hedge by the summer-house, a tain-'o-shantcr crowning her pretty features, her hockey stick poised lightly across her shoulders. And though Dick had told her three times in as many minutes that girls were duffers at her favourite game, she declined to be vexed, regarding him with brown eyes that danced with amusement and that told him as plainly as any words could express that t-he knew he was trying to provoke her into an argument. "J. can read you like a book, Dick," her merry eyes said. - Of course, Dick had not the shadow of a doubt that Wendy was the jolliest girl in Bissenden. And he thanked his stars devoutly twice a day that he had accepted his uncle's invitation for the Christmas holidays. For if you strolled to the end of the major's long garden you came to a hedge, and if you popped through this hedge (by the little gap where Wendy stood now) you found yourself in J\jiss Drake's garden, where (if vour luck still held), you might come across Wendy. And it was very good to come across Wendy. But Dick must be careful approaching the gap in the hedge, for the sparks would fly if the major saw him make use of it. Ten years ago, when Major Grellet first came to Bissenden, he • was constantly parting the bushes and slipping through, for it saved a long detour by the road, and he was fond of a chat with his old friend and crony, Miss Drake. But one day it happened that the latter had dropped a hint about the hedge being repaired—a hint which the testy old soldier had taken in the wrong way. At least, it is certain that, for-

getting his chivalry, he had retorted that the hedge was her property, and that she was, accordingly, responsible for its mending. But this Miss Drake had denied, maintaining stoutly that if, for sake of argument, the hedge was liers, that gap was undoubtedly his, seeing that ho had made it, so that its filling up must be his concern. Nor would either give way. And both being obstinate and both being proud, they had made a mountain out of their molehill, till the gap in the hedge became the gap in their friendship, so that now Miss Drake did not even bow to the major, and the major seemed unconscious of Miss Drake's existence. Am; year after year the gap in the hedge yawned on, a silent witness to a silly quarrel. You were very careful, if you stayed with the major, not to let him catch you exploring there. And Miss Drake's visitors were always warned against investigating the garden beyond the gap, which might have been a rampart of steel and marble, so rigorous was the barrier it set up. Yet one finr morning when the major was out and Miss Drake, very likely, busy with hei shopping, Dick had gone exploring, raul among the bushes by the summer-house had glimpsed a black-and-white sports coat with a white collar. And, following this up, he had discovered Wendy. Her attire betrayed that she was going to hockey. His questions elicited that she was Miss Drake's niece. "Hut if Aunt Mario finds you here!" she cried, and leaving the rest to be guessed, had fled to the house.

Hut it took Dick a very few minutes to find out the field 011 which the girls of Bissenden played hockey—a discovery which added one more spectator to the handful gathered to watch the game. And as Dick knew Mr. Stirling of Grcengates, and as Mr. Stirling of Grcengates refereed, it follows quite as pat as a problem in geometry that at the game's end Dick formally know Wendy. The conversation begun in the garden was finished as they walked home afterwards, when lie learned that hockey was "the jolliest game on earth," and, incidentally, the delight of Wendy's existence.

Yet now we hoar the renegado this morning insisting to her that girls were dutfers at hockey! And all that he could succeed in drawing from her was that provoking smile! "All right," he growled at last. "Then go oil and pretend to play hockey!" She gave him her happy laugh and darted away. Dick remained where lie was, frowning thoughtfully. He wished lit; had told her that he was only teasing. Could he have seen what his uncle was doing that moment he would have

experienced something of a shook. for the, major, a precise man, stiff as a ramrod, who rarely allowed himself to betray any feelings, was angrily kicking the chairs about in his study ore he dashed himself down at his writingtable. He had every right, he told himself, to feel cross. For be had been informed last night in a gossipy sort of fashion by his friend .Mr. H'lish, the editor of the local paper, that his nephew could be seen two inornl ings a week watching the girls of T3issenden play hockey, and actually chumming with his old enemy's niece. And the major had listened, gnawing his wiry moustache, and retorting a gruff "Rubbish, Huish! Rubbish!" had come away, to turn the matter over in his mind. "Oh, hang it!" he growled, with a vicious dab at the inkpot, chewing the bitter cud of his feud with Miss Drake. Then he began to write. His pen raced forward at a furious pare, for he could not get liis thoughts out quick enough. Dear Sir (he wrote), — As from time to time your correspondent'! point out, there is lots of room for improvement in our little township. The fountain in the High Street, is an eyesore, and the Jubilee Clock at Smith's Corner wants regilding. But recently I witnessed a spectacle which J can only describe as positively appall, ins?. I was passing in the forenoon by Th« Meadow when quite a number of femalea emerged from a shanty. They pranced in boots which they must have borrowed from ploughboys, and dashed about like Furies brandishing cudgels. !It was a mercy they did not poke one another's eyes out. When I inquired what these weird women were up to, I was informed that they supposed themselves playing hockey! The inelegance of their attire was as dijtressing (witness, one, young lady in cricket pads!) as their delusion that they were'play. ing hockey was pathetic. Women and girls, sir, cannot play at men's games. Girls shoold stick to their dolls and their crochet work. However, as I am credibly informed that thig disgracefui and unsightly exhibition can be wit-

nessed almost twice at -week in The Meadow (now that so many girls are home fr6m school -—a question here, Are not the holidays too long?), I be» the hospitality of your columns to rally public opinion; aganst this outrage. Yours truly, A Constant Ruber fob Tbs Yiabi. Having carefully erased his address from his notepaper, the major dated his letter and put it into its envelope, which he dnected to the editor of the Bissenden News, and dropped into the post with his own hands. This done, ho felt, at once surprisingly better. For he had got one back, he reflected, upon the she-dragon at the end of his garden. He would like to see ifiss Drake's face when she read it —that stubborn old woman who encouraged her niece to play hockey, and grudged a few paltry shillings to mend a hedge I He could picture her, and all the horror on her face, which would grow longer and longer as she read on, till she camo to the sting in the tail, the injunction to girls to stick to their crochet work. Crochet work, forsooth! Did he not remember how often Miss Drake had told him that she loathed crochet work (or was it knitting? Well, they were near enough), and intended to make her niece an open-air girl. An open-air girl, indeed! A tomboy minx. . . . Well, the she-dragon would sing small when she saw next week's paper. ... Then the good ntan sat down to his lunch with an excellent appetite. The Bissenden News is published on Tuesdays sit noon. It was the major's custom to toss it to Dick and bid him read out the tit-bits of local news; and this he did next Tuesday, as usual, but keeping a covert eye 011 his nephew's face, though apparently absorbed with his cigar-box. Presently Dick exclaimed, and, flushing hotly, threw the paper from him with disgust. "Hallo!" said the major casually. "What's the matterr" "The rotten ass 1" cried Dick. "The stupid goat!" He picked up the paper. "There, read that, sir!" he exclaimed. "No, you read it," bade the major genially, lighting his cigar with studious intentness. "What it is, Dick?" A murder or a robbery Dick shook his head, "It's worse, he said. "It's a letter." The major heard it read with tbfl gravest interest; bade him, indeed, repeat a bit here and there, and in particular the phrase about dolls and crochet. And when Dick had finished, all he remarked was:

"Well?" „ "Sir, couldn't we go for the cowardly brute for libel?" "I'm afriid not," said the major, smiling queerly. (To be continued.)