Collected Ghost Stories (68 page)

As a Scout, Stanley Judkins secured no badge save those which he was able to abstract from members of other patrols. In the cookery competition he was detected trying to introduce squibs into the Dutch oven of the next-door competitors. In the tailoring competition he succeeded in sewing two boys together very firmly, with disastrous effect when they tried to get up. For the Tidiness Badge he was disqualified, because, in the Midsummer schooltime, which chanced to be hot, he could not be dissuaded from sitting with his fingers in the ink: as he said, for coolness’ sake. For one piece of paper which he picked up, he must have dropped at least six banana skins or orange peels. Aged women seeing him approaching would beg him with tears in their eyes not to carry their pails of water across the road. They knew too well what the result would inevitably be. But it was in the life-saving competition that Stanley Judkins’s conduct was most blameable and had the most far-reaching effects. The practice, as you know, was to throw a selected lower boy, of suitable dimensions, fully dressed, with his hands and feet tied together, into the deepest part of
Cuckoo Weir,
* and to time the Scout whose turn it was to rescue him.
On every occasion when he was entered for this competition Stanley Judkins was seized, at the critical moment, with a severe fit of cramp, which caused him to roll on the ground and utter alarming cries. This naturally distracted the attention of those present from the boy in the water, and had it not been for the presence of Arthur Wilcox the death-roll would have been a heavy one. As it was, the Lower Master found it necessary to take a firm line and say that the competition must be discontinued. It was in vain that
Mr. Beasley Robinson
* represented to him that in five competitions only four lower boys had actually succumbed. The Lower Master said that he would be the last to interfere in any way with the work of the Scouts; but that three of these boys had been valued members of his choir, and both he and
Dr. Ley
* felt that the inconvenience caused by the losses outweighed the advantages of the competitions. Besides, the correspondence with the parents of these boys had become annoying, and even distressing: they were no longer satisfied with the printed form which he was in the habit of sending out, and more than one of them had actually visited Eton and taken up much of his valuable time with complaints. So the life-saving competition is now a thing of the past.

In short, Stanley Judkins was no credit to the Scouts, and there was talk on more than one occasion of informing him that his services were no longer required. This course was strongly advocated by
Mr. Lambart:
* but in the end milder counsels prevailed, and it was decided to give him another chance.

So it is that we find him at the beginning of the Midsummer Holidays of 19—at the Scouts’ camp in the beautiful district of W (or X) in the country of D (or Y).*

It was a lovely morning, and Stanley Judkins and one or two of his friends—for he still had friends—lay basking on the top of the down. Stanley was lying on his stomach with his chin propped on his hands, staring into the distance.

‘I wonder what that place is,’ he said.

‘Which place?’ said one of the others.

‘That sort of clump in the middle of the field down there.’

‘Oh, ah! How should I know what it is?’

‘What do you want to know for?’ said another.

‘I don’t know: I like the look of it. What’s it called? Nobody got a map?’ said Stanley. ‘Call yourselves Scouts!’

‘Here’s a map all right,’ said Wilfred Pipsqueak, ever resourceful, ‘and there’s the place marked on it. But it’s inside the red ring. We can’t go there.’

‘Who cares about a red ring?’ said Stanley. ‘But it’s got no name on your silly map.’

‘Well, you can ask this old chap what it’s called if you’re so keen to find out.’ ‘This old chap’ was an old shepherd who had come up and was standing behind them.

‘Good morning, young gents,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a fine day for your doin’s, ain’t you?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Algernon de Montmorency, with native politeness. ‘Can you tell us what that clump over there’s called? And what’s that thing inside it?’

‘Course I can tell you,’ said the shepherd. ‘That’s Wailin’ Well, that is. But you ain’t got no call to worry about that.’

‘Is it a well in there?’ said Algernon. ‘Who uses it?’

The shepherd laughed. ‘Bless you,’ he said, ‘there ain’t from a man to a sheep in these parts uses Wailin’ Well, nor haven’t done all the years I’ve lived here.’

‘Well, there’ll be a record broken to-day, then,’ said Stanley Judkins, ‘because I shall go and get some water out of it for tea!’

‘Sakes alive, young gentleman!’ said the shepherd in a startled voice, ‘don’t you get to talkin’ that way! Why, ain’t your masters give you notice not to go by there? They’d ought to have done.’

‘Yes, they have,’ said Wilfred Pipsqueak.

‘Shut up, you ass!’ said Stanley Judkins. ‘What’s the matter with it? Isn’t the water good? Anyhow, if it was boiled, it would be all right.’

‘I don’t know as there’s anything much wrong with the water,’ said the shepherd. ‘All I know is, my old dog wouldn’t go through that field, let alone me or anyone else that’s got a morsel of brains in their heads.’

‘More fool them,’ said Stanley Judkins, at once rudely and ungrammatically. ‘Who ever took any harm going there?’ he added.

‘Three women and a man,’ said the shepherd gravely. ‘Now just you listen to me. I know these ’ere parts and you don’t, and I can tell you this much: for these ten years last past there ain’t been a sheep fed in that field, nor a crop raised off of it—and it’s good land, too. You can pretty well see from here what a state it’s got into with
brambles and suckers and trash of all kinds.
You’ve
got a glass, young gentleman,’ he said to Wilfred Pipsqueak, ‘you can tell with that anyway.’

‘Yes,’ said Wilfred, ‘but I see there’s tracks in it. Someone must go through it sometimes.’

‘Tracks!’ said the shepherd. ‘I believe you! Four tracks: three women and a man.’

‘What d’you mean, three women and a man?’ said Stanley, turning over for the first time and looking at the shepherd (he had been talking with his back to him till this moment: he was an ill-mannered boy).

‘Mean? Why, what I says: three women and a man.’

‘Who are they?’ asked Algernon. ‘Why do they go there?’

‘There’s some p’r’aps could tell you who they
was
,’ said the shepherd, ‘but it was afore my time they come by their end. And why they goes there still is more than the children of men can tell: except I’ve heard they was all bad ’uns when they was alive.’

‘By George, what a rum thing!’ Algernon and Wilfred muttered: but Stanley was scornful and bitter.

‘Why, you don’t mean they’re deaders? What rot! You must be a lot of fools to believe that. Who’s ever seen them, I’d like to know?’

‘
I’ve
seen ’em, young gentleman!’ said the shepherd, ‘seen ’em from near by on that bit of down: and my old dog, if he could speak, he’d tell you he’ve seen ’em, same time. About four o’clock of the day it was, much such a day as this. I see ’em, each one of ’em, come peerin’ out of the bushes and stand up, and work their way slow by them tracks towards the trees in the middle where the well is.’

‘And what were they like? Do tell us!’ said Algernon and Wilfred eagerly.

‘Rags and bones, young gentlemen: all four of ’em: flutterin’ rags and whity bones. It seemed to me as if I could hear ’em clackin’ as they got along. Very slow they went, and lookin’ from side to side.’

‘What were their faces like? Could you see?’

‘They hadn’t much to call faces,’ said the shepherd, ‘but I could seem to see as they had teeth.’

‘Lor’!’ said Wilfred, ‘and what did they do when they got to the trees?’

‘I can’t tell you that, sir,’ said the shepherd. ‘I wasn’t for stayin’ in that place, and if I had been, I was bound to look to my old dog: he’d
gone! Such a thing he never done before as leave me; but gone he had, and when I came up with him in the end, he was in that state he didn’t know me, and was fit to fly at my throat. But I kep’ talkin’ to him, and after a bit he remembered my voice and came creepin’ up like a child askin’ pardon. I never want to see him like that again, nor yet no other dog.’

The dog, who had come up and was making friends all round, looked up at his master, and expressed agreement with what he was saying very fully.

The boys pondered for some moments on what they had heard: after which Wilfred said: ‘And why’s it called Wailing Well?’

‘If you was round here at dusk of a winter’s evening, you wouldn’t want to ask why,’ was all the shepherd said.

‘Well, I don’t believe a word of it,’ said Stanley Judkins, ‘and I’ll go there next chance I get: blowed if I don’t!’

‘Then you won’t be ruled by me?’ said the shepherd. ‘Nor yet by your masters as warned you off? Come now, young gentleman, you don’t want for sense, I should say. What should I want tellin’ you a pack of lies? It ain’t sixpence to me anyone goin’ in that field: but I wouldn’t like to see a young chap snuffed out like in his prime.’

‘I expect it’s a lot more than sixpence to you,’ said Stanley. ‘I expect you’ve got a whisky still or something in there, and want to keep other people away. Rot I call it. Come on back, you boys.’

So they turned away. The two others said, ‘Good evening’ and ‘Thank you’ to the shepherd, but Stanley said nothing. The shepherd shrugged his shoulders and stood where he was, looking after them rather sadly.

On the way back to the camp there was great argument about it all, and Stanley was told as plainly as he could be told all the sorts of fools he would be if he went to the Wailing Well.

That evening, among other notices, Mr. Beasley Robinson asked if all maps had got the red ring marked on them. ‘Be particular,’ he said, ‘not to trespass inside it.’

Several voices—among them the sulky one of Stanley Judkins—said, ‘Why not, sir?’

‘Because not,’ said Mr. Beasley Robinson, ‘and if that isn’t enough for you, I can’t help it.’ He turned and spoke to Mr. Lambart in a low voice, and then said, ‘I’ll tell you this much: we’ve been asked to warn Scouts off that field. It’s very good of the people to let us camp here
at all, and the least we can do is to oblige them—I’m sure you’ll agree to that.’

Everybody said, ‘Yes, sir!’ except Stanley Judkins, who was heard to mutter, ‘Oblige them be blowed!’

Early in the afternoon of the next day, the following dialogue was heard. ‘Wilcox, is all your tent there?’

‘No, sir, Judkins isn’t!’

‘That boy is
the
most infernal nuisance ever invented! Where do you suppose he is?’

‘I haven’t an idea, sir.’

‘Does anybody else know?’

‘Sir, I shouldn’t wonder if he’d gone to the Wailing Well.’

‘Who’s that? Pipsqueak? What’s the Wailing Well?’

‘Sir, it’s that place in the field by—well, sir, it’s in a clump of trees in a rough field.’

‘D’you mean inside the red ring? Good heavens! What makes you think he’s gone there?’

‘Why, he was terribly keen to know about it yesterday, and we were talking to a shepherd man, and he told us a lot about it and advised us not to go there: but Judkins didn’t believe him, and said he meant to go.’

‘Young ass!’ said Mr. Hope Jones, ‘did he take anything with him?’

‘Yes, I think he took some rope and a can. We did tell him he’d be a fool to go.’

‘Little brute! What the deuce does he mean by pinching stores like that! Well, come along, you three, we must see after him. Why can’t people keep the simplest orders? What was it the man told you? No, don’t wait, let’s have it as we go along.’

And off they started—Algernon and Wilfred talking rapidly and the other two listening with growing concern. At last they reached that spur of down overlooking the field of which the shepherd had spoken the day before. It commanded the place completely; the well inside the clump of bent and gnarled Scotch firs was plainly visible, and so were the four tracks winding about among the thorns and rough growth.

It was a wonderful day of shimmering heat. The sea looked like a floor of metal. There was no breath of wind. They were all exhausted when they got to the top, and flung themselves down on the hot grass.

‘Nothing to be seen of him yet,’ said Mr. Hope Jones, ‘but we must stop here a bit. You’re done up—not to speak of me. Keep a sharp look-out,’ he went on after a moment, ‘I thought I saw the bushes stir.’

‘Yes,’ said Wilcox, ‘so did I. Look … no, that can’t be him. It’s somebody though, putting their head up, isn’t it?’

‘I thought it was, but I’m not sure.’

Silence for a moment. Then:

‘That’s him, sure enough,’ said Wilcox, ‘getting over the hedge on the far side. Don’t you see? With a shiny thing. That’s the can you said he had.’

‘Yes, it’s him, and he’s making straight for the trees,’ said Wilfred.

At this moment Algernon, who had been staring with all his might, broke into a scream.

‘What’s that on the track? On all fours—O, it’s the woman. O, don’t let me look at her! Don’t let it happen!’ And he rolled over, clutching at the grass and trying to bury his head in it.

‘Stop that!’ said Mr. Hope Jones loudly—but it was no use. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I must go down there. You stop here, Wilfred, and look after that boy. Wilcox, you run as hard as you can to the camp and get some help.’

They ran off, both of them. Wilfred was left alone with Algernon, and did his best to calm him, but indeed he was not much happier himself. From time to time he glanced down the hill and into the field. He saw Mr. Hope Jones drawing nearer at a swift pace, and then, to his great surprise, he saw him stop, look up and round about him, and turn quickly off at an angle! What could be the reason? He looked at the field, and there he saw a terrible figure—something in ragged black—with whitish patches breaking out of it: the head, perched on a long thin neck, half hidden by a shapeless sort of blackened sun-bonnet. The creature was waving thin arms in the direction of the rescuer who was approaching, as if to ward him off: and between the two figures the air seemed to shake and shimmer as he had never seen it: and as he looked, he began himself to feel something of a waviness and confusion in his brain, which made him guess what might be the effect on someone within closer range of the influence. He looked away hastily, to see Stanley Judkins making his way pretty quickly towards the clump, and in proper Scout fashion; evidently picking his steps with care to avoid treading on snapping
sticks or being caught by arms of brambles. Evidently, though he saw nothing, he suspected some sort of ambush, and was trying to go noiselessly. Wilfred saw all that, and he saw more, too. With a sudden and dreadful sinking at the heart, he caught sight of someone among the trees, waiting: and again of someone—another of the hideous black figures—working slowly along the track from another side of the field, looking from side to side, as the shepherd had described it. Worst of all, he saw a fourth—unmistakably a man this time—rising out of the bushes a few yards behind the wretched Stanley, and painfully, as it seemed, crawling into the track. On all sides the miserable victim was cut off.