Affects you nothing, either way.”
“And that is where Parker sleeps.”
We craned our necks, and, stooping low, saw beneath the vehicle a parasitic1 square box like a huge barnacle fixed2 to the bottom of the van. A box about four feet by two. The door of it was open, and Parker's bedfellows—two iron buckets and a sack of potatoes—stood confessed.
“Oh yes—very nice,” we murmured.
We looked at Parker, who was peeling potatoes on the off-shaft—Parker, six feet two, with a soldier's bearing—and we drifted off into thought.
“And who drives?” we asked, with an intelligent interest.
“Oh, Parker. And we do all the rest, you know.”
It was seven o'clock in the evening when we joined the caravan4, in a stackyard on the outskirts5 of an Eastern county town.
“That's 'im—that's Lord George Sanger,” was said of the writer by one of the crowd of small boys assembled at the stackyard gate. A travelling menagerie and circus was advertised in a somewhat “voyant” manner on the town walls, and a fancied resemblance to the aristocratic manager thereof accredited6 us with an honourable7 connection in the enterprise.
“When do you open?” inquired an intelligent spectator, anxious to show savoir faire.
“See small handbills,” replied the host-in-himself, with equal courtesy.
“'Oo are yer, at any rate?” inquired an enlightened voter.
“Who are YOU?” we replied with spirit; and, passing through the gate, we closed it to keep out the draught8. Then we paid a domiciliary visit, and were duly shown Parker's apartments.
In outward appearance the caravan suggested an overgrown bathing-machine. The interior resembled the cabin of a yacht. The walls were gaily9 decorated with painting on the panels; flowers bloomed in vases fixed upon the wall; two prettily10 curtained windows—one a bay, the other flat—gave a view of the surrounding country. At the forward end, against the bulkhead, so to speak, was a small but enterprising chest of drawers, and above it a large looking-glass which folded down, developed legs, and owned to the soft impeachment11 of being a bed. Beneath the starboard window a low and capacious sofa, combining the capacity of a locker12. Under the port window was fixed a table against the bulkhead, where four people could and did dine sumptuously13. When en voyage and between meals, charts, maps, and literature littered this table pleasantly. A ship's clock hung over it, and a corner cupboard did its duty in the port quarter. A heavy plush curtain closed off the kitchen and pantry, which were roomy and of marvellous capacity. Then the back door—in halves—and the back step, brassbound, treacherous14.
In front there was a little verandah with supporting columns of bamboo. Here we usually sat when travelling—Parker in the right-hand corner handling the ribbons of the tandem15 cart-horses with skill and discretion16.
As dinner was not ready, we proceeded to pitch the small tent wherein the two men were to sleep. It was a singular tent, with a vast number of pendent ropes which became entangled17 at the outset. We began with zeal18, but presently left the ropes and turned our attention to the pegs20. These required driving in with a wooden mallet21 and a correct eye. Persons unaccustomed to such work strike the peg19 on one side—the mallet goes off at a tangent and strikes the striker with force upon the shin-bone.
Finally Parker said he would put up the tent “by'n-by.”
There was a Bedlington terrier—Parker's dog—attached (literally) to the caravan. He was tied to one of the bamboo columns on the forecastle, and when Parker absented himself for long he usually leaped off the platform and sought death by strangulation—this we discovered later. When we abandoned the tent we thought we would cheer up the dog.
“Don't touch him, sir; he'll bite you,” said Parker.
Of course we touched him; no man who respects himself at all is ready to admit that a dog bites HIM. It was wonderful how that dog and Parker understood each other. But the bite was not serious.
At last dinner was ready, and we are prepared to take any horrid22 oath required that no professional cook could set before a king potatoes more mealy. This only, of all the items in the menu, is mentioned, because where potatoes are good the experienced know that other things will never be amiss.
We waited on ourselves, and placed the dirty dishes, plates, and forks upon the back step, where Parker replaced them in a few minutes, clean.
“Oh!” exclaimed the hostess-in-herself, about 10 p.m., when we were smoking the beatific23 pipe, “by the way—Parker's dinner!”
In response to united shouts Parker appeared, and learned with apparent surprise that he had omitted to dine. He looked pale and worn, and told us that he had been blowing out the air-beds. At eleven o'clock we two men left the ladies and went out into the cold moonlight, where our tent looked remarkably24 picturesque25. Of course we fell over a tent-peg each, and the host lost his watchkey. Parker came forward—dining—to explain where the ropes were, and fell over one himself, losing a piece of cold boiled beef in the grass. We hunted for it with a lucifer match. Its value was enhanced by the knowledge that when the bed was shut down and had developed its legs the larder26 was inaccessible27. After some time Parker discovered that the dog had been let loose and had found the beef some moments before. He explained that it was a singular dog and preferred to live by dishonesty. Unstolen victuals28 had for him no zest29. He added that the loss was of no consequence, as he never had been very keen on that piece of beef. We finally retired30 into the tent, and left Parker still at work completing several contracts he had undertaken to carry through “by'n-by.” He said he preferred doing them overnight, as it was no good getting up BEFORE five on these dark autumnal mornings.
As an interior the tent was a decided31 success. We went inside and hooked the flap laboriously32 from top to bottom. Then we remembered that the host's pyjamas33 were outside. He undid34 two hooks only and attempted to effect a sortie through the resultant interstice. He stuck. The position was undignified, and conducive35 to weak and futile36 laughter. At last Parker had to leave the washing-up of the saucepans to come to the rescue, while the dog barked and imagined that he was attending a burglary.
It was nearly midnight before we made our first acquaintance with an air-bed, and it took us until seven o'clock the next morning to get on to speaking terms with it. The air-bed, like the Bedlington terrier, must be approached with caution. Its manner is, to say the least of it, repellent. Unless the sleeper37 (save the mark!) lies geometrically in the centre, the air rushes to one side, and the ignorant roll off the other. If there were no bedclothes one could turn round easily, but the least movement throws the untucked blanket incontinently into space, while the instability of the bed precludes38 tucking in. Except for these and a few other drawbacks, the air-bed may safely be recommended.
The next morning showed a white frost on the grass, and washing in the open, in water that had stood all night in a bucket, was, to say the least of it, invigorating. Parker browned our boots, put a special edge of his own upon our razors, attended to the horses, oiled the wheels, fetched the milk, filled the lamps of the paraffin stove, bought a gallon of oil, and carried a can of water from a neighbouring farm before breakfast, just by way—he explained—of getting ready to start his day's work.
An early start had been projected, but owing to the fact that after breakfast Parker had to beat the carpet, wash the dishes, plates, cups and saucers, knives and forks, and his own face, strike the tent, let the air out of the air-beds, roll up the waterproof39 sheets, clean the saucepans, groom40 the horses, ship the shafts41, send off a parcel from the station, buy two loaves of bread, and thank the owner of the stackyard—owing, I say, to the fact that Parker had these things to accomplish while we “did the rest,” it was eleven o'clock before all hands were summoned to get “her” out of the narrow gateway42. This was safely accomplished43, by Parker, while we walked round, looked knowingly at the wheels, sternly at the gate-posts, and covertly44 at the spectators.
And the joy of the caravaneer was ours.
This joy is not like the joy of other men. For the high-road, the hedgerows, the birds, the changing sky, the ever-varying landscape, belong to the caravaneer. He sits in his moving home and is saturated47 with the freedom of the gipsy without the haunting memory of the police, which sits like Care on the roof of the gipsy van. Book on lap, he luxuriates on the forecastle when the sun shines and the breeze blows soft, noting idly the passing beauty of the scene, returning peaceably to the printed page. When rain comes, as it sometimes does in an English summer, he goes inside and gives a deeper attention to the book, while Parker drives and gets wet. Getting wet is one of Parker's duties. And through rain and sunshine he moves on ever, through the peaceful and never dull—the incomparable beauty of an English pastoral land. The journey is accomplished without fatigue48, without anxiety; for the end of it can only be the quiet corner of a moor49, or some sleepy meadow. Speed is of no account—distance immaterial. The caravaneer looks down with indifference50 upon the dense51 curiosity of the smaller towns; the larger cities he wisely avoids.
The writer occupied the humble52 post of brakesman—elected thereto in all humility53 by an overpowering majority. The duties are heavy, the glory small. A clumsy vehicle like a caravan can hardly venture down the slightest incline without a skid54 under the wheel and a chain round the spoke55. This necessitates56 the frequent handling of a heavy piece of iron, which is black and greasy57 at the top of a hill, and red-hot at the bottom.
A steep hill through the town dispelled58 the Lord George Sanger illusion at one fell blow, the rustic-urban mind being incapable59 of conceiving that that self-named nobleman could demean himself to the laying of the skid.
Of the days that followed there remains60 the memory of pleasant sunny days and cool evenings, of the partridge plucked and cleaned by the roadside, fried deliciously over the paraffin flame, amidst fresh butter and mushrooms with the dew still on them. We look back with pleasure to the quiet camp in a gravel-pit on a hill-top far from the haunts of men—to the pitching of the tent by moonlight in a meadow where the mushrooms gleamed like snow, to be duly gathered for the frying-pan next morning by the host-in-himself, and in pyjamas. Nor are the sterner sides of caravan life to be forgotten—the calamity61 at the brow of a steep hill, where a nasty turn made the steady old wheeler for once lose his head and his legs; the hard-fought battle over a half-side of bacon between the Bedlington terrier and the writer when that mistaken dog showed a marked preference for the stolen Wiltshire over the partridge bone of charity.
And there are pleasant recollections of friends made, and, alas63! lost so soon; of the merry evening in a country house, of which the hospitable64 host, in his capacity of justice of the peace, gave us short shrift in the choice between the county gaol65 and his hospitality. Unless we consented to sleep beneath his roof and eat his salt, he vowed66 he would commit us for vagabonds without visible means of support. We chose the humiliation67 of a good dinner and a sheeted bed. The same open-handed squire hung partridges in our larder, and came with us on the forecastle to pilot us through his own intricate parish next day.
Also came the last camp and the last dinner, at which the writer distinguished68 himself, and the host-in-himself was at last allowed to manipulate (with accompanying lecture) a marvellous bivouac-tin containing a compound called beef a la mode, which came provided with its own spirits of wine and wick, both of which proved ineffectual to raise the temperature of the beef above a mediocre69 tepidity70. Parker, having heard that the remains of this toothsome dish were intended for his breakfast, wisely hid it with such care that the dog stole it and consumed it, with results which cannot be dwelt upon here.
Of the vicissitudes71 of road travel we recollect62 but little. The incipient72 sea-sickness endured during the first day has now lost its sting; the little differences about the relative virtues73 of devilled partridge and beef a la mode are forgotten, and only the complete novelty, the heedless happiness of it all, remains. We did not even know the day of the week or the date; which ignorance, my masters, has a wealth of meaning nowadays.
“Date—oh, ask Parker!” we would say.
And Parker always knew.
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1
parasitic
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| adj.寄生的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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tandem
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| n.同时发生；配合；adv.一个跟着一个地；纵排地；adj.（两匹马）前后纵列的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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17
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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mallet
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| n.槌棒 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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precludes
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| v.阻止( preclude的第三人称单数 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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43
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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45
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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46
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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47
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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49
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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50
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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51
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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52
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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53
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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54
skid
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| v.打滑 n.滑向一侧；滑道 ，滑轨 | |
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55
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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56
necessitates
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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57
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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58
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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60
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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61
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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62
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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63
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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64
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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65
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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66
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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67
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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68
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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70
tepidity
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| 微温，微热； 温热 | |
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71
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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72
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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73
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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