CHAPTER XXIII THE COCK OF THE NORTH
Though up may be up and down be down,
Time will make everything even,
And the man who starves at Greenock town
Will fatten at Kinlochleven;
So what does it matter if time be fleet,
And life sends no one to love us?
We've the dust of the roadway under our feet
And a smother of stars above us.
—A Wee Song.
I think that the two verses given above were the best verses of a song which I wrote on a bit of tea-paper and read to Moleskin on the last day of our journey to Kinlochleven. Anyhow, they are the only two which I remember. Since I had read part of the poem "Evelyn Hope," I was possessed of a leaning towards lilting rhymes, and now and again I would sit down and scribble a few lines of a song on a piece of paper. Times were when I had a burning desire to read my effusions to Moleskin, but always I desisted, thinking that he would perhaps laugh at me, or call me fool. Perhaps I would sink in my mate's estimation. I began to like Joe more and more, and daily it became apparent that he had a genuine liking for me.
We were now six days on our journey. Charity was cold, while belly-thefts were few and far between. We were hungry, and the weather being very hot at high noon, Moleskin lay down and had his dog-sleep. I wrote a few other verses in addition to those which herald this chapter, and read them to my mate when he awoke. When I had finished I asked Joe how he liked my poem.
"It's a great song," answered Moleskin. "You're nearly as good a poet as Two-shift Mullholland."
"Two-shift Mullholland?" I repeated. "I've never heard of him. Do you know anything written by him?"
"Of course I do. Have you never heard of 'The Shootin' of the Crow'?"
"Never," I replied.
"You're more ignorant than I thought," said Joe, and without any further explanation he started and sang the following song.
"THE SHOOTIN' OF THE CROW.
"Come all you true-born navvies, attend unto my lay!
While walkin' down through Glasgow town, 'twas just the other day,
I met with Hell-fire Gahey, and he says to me: 'Hallo!
Maloney has got seven days for shootin' of the crow;
With his fol the diddle, fol the diddle daddy.
"'It happened near beside the docks in Moran's pub, I'm told
Maloney had been on the booze, Maloney had a cold,
Maloney had no beer to drink, Maloney had no tin,
Maloney could not pay his way and so they ran him in,
With his fol the diddle, fol the diddle daddy.'
"The judge he saw Maloney and he says, 'You're up again!
To sentence you to seven days it gives me greatest pain,
My sorrow at your woeful plight I try for to control;
And may the Lord, Maloney, have mercy on your soul,
And your fol the diddle, fol the diddle daddy.'
"Oh! labour in the prison yard, 'tis very hard to bear,
And many a honest navvy man may sometimes enter there;
So here's to brave Maloney, and may he never go
Again to work in prison for the shootin' of the crow,
With his fol the diddle, fol the diddle daddy."
The reader of this story can well judge my utter literary simplicity at the time when I tell him that I was angry with Joe for the criticism he passed upon my poem. While blind to the defects of my own verses I was wide awake to those of Mullholland, and I waited, angrily eager, until Joe finished the song.
"It's rotten!" I exclaimed. "You surely do not think that it is better than mine. What does 'fol the diddle' mean? A judge would not say that to a prisoner. Neither would he say, 'May the Lord have mercy on your soul,' unless he was going to pass the sentence of death on the man."
"What you say is quite right," replied Joe. "But a song to be any good at all must have a lilt at the tail of it; and as to the judge sayin', 'May the Lord have mercy on your soul,' maybe he didn't say it, but if you have 'control' at the end of one line, what must you have at the end of the next one, cully? 'May the Lord have mercy on your soul' may be wrong. I'll not misdoubt that. But doesn't it fit in nicely?"
Moleskin gave me a square look of triumph, and went on with his harangue.
"Barrin' these two things, the song is a true one. Maloney did get seven days' hard for shootin' the crow, and I mind it myself. On the night of his release I saw him in Moran's model by the wharf, and it was in that same model that Mullholland sat down and wrote the song that I have sung to you. It's a true song, so help me God! but yours!—How do you know that we'll fatten at Kinlochleven? More apt to go empty-gutted there, if you believe me! Then you say 'up is up, and down is down.' Who says that they are not? No one will give the lie to that, and what's the good of sayin' a thing that everyone knows about? You've not even a lilt at the tail of your screed, so it's not a song, nor half a song; it's not even a decent 'Come-all-you.' Honest to God, you're a fool, Flynn! Wait till you hear Broken-Snout Clancy sing 'The Bold Navvy Man!' That'll be the song that will make your heart warm. But your song was no good at all, Flynn. If it had only a lilt to it itself, it might be middlin'."
I recited the verse about Evelyn Hope, and when I finished, Joe asked me what it was about. I confessed that I did not exactly know, and for an hour afterwards we walked together in silence.
Late in the evening we came to the King's Arms, a lonely public-house half-way between the Bridge of Orchy and Kinlochleven. We hung around the building until night fell, for Joe became interested in an outhouse where hens were roosting. By an estimation of the stars it was nearly midnight when both of us took off our boots, and approached the henhouse. The door was locked, but my mate inserted a pointed steel bar, which he always carried in his pocket, in the keyhole, and after he had worked for half a minute the door swung open and he crept in.
"Leave all to me," he said in a whisper.
The hens were restless, and made little hiccoughy noises in their throats, noises that were not nice to listen to. I stood in the centre of the building while Joe groped cautiously around. After a little while he passed me and I could see his big gaunt form in the doorway.
"Come away," he whispered.
About twenty yards from the inn he threw down that which he carried and we proceeded to put on our boots.
"It's a rooster," he said, pointing to the dead fowl; "a young soft one too. When our boots are on, we'll slide along for a mile or so and drum up. It's not the thing to cook your fowl on the spot where you stole it. I mind once when I lifted a young pig——"
Suddenly the young rooster fluttered to its feet and started to crow.
"Holy hell!" cried Moleskin, and jumping to his feet he flung one of his boots at the fowl. The aim was bad, and the bird zig-zagged off, crowing loudly. Both of us gave chase.
The bird was a very demon. Several times when we thought that we had laid hands on it, it doubled in its tracks like a cornered fox and eluded us. Once I tried to hit it with my foot, but the blow swung clear, and my hobnailed boot took Moleskin on the shin, causing him to swear deeply.
"Fall on it, Joe; it's the only way!" I cried softly.
"Fall be damned! You might as well try to fall on a moonbeam."
A light appeared at the window of the public-house; a sash was thrown open, and somebody shouted, "Who is there?"
"Can you get hold of it?" asked Joe, as he stood to clean the sweat from his unshaven face.
"I cannot," I answered. "It's a wonderful bird."
"Wonderful damned fraud!" said my mate bitterly. "Why didn't it die decent?"
"Who's there? I say," shouted the man at the window. I made a desperate rush after the rooster, and grabbed it by the neck.
"It will not get away this time, anyhow," I said.
"Where is my other boot, Flynn?" called out Joe.
"I do not know," I replied truthfully.
The door opened, and Moleskin's boot was not to be found. We sank into the shadow of the earth and waited, meanwhile groping around with our hands for the missing property. Across the level a man came towards us slowly and cautiously.
"We had better run for it," I said.
We rushed off like the wind, and the stranger panted in pursuit behind us. Joe with a single boot on, struck the ground heavily with one foot; the other made no sound. He struck his toe on a rock and swore; when he struck it a second time he stopped like a shot and turned round. The pursuer came to a halt also.
"If you come another step nearer, I'll batter your head into jelly!" roared Moleskin. The man turned hurriedly, and went back. Feeling relieved we walked on for a long distance, until we came to a stream. Here I lit a fire, plucked the rooster and cooked it, while Joe dressed his toe, and cursed the fowl that caused him such a calamity. I gave one of my boots to Joe and threw the other one away. Joe was wounded, and being used in my early days to go barefooted, I always hated the imprisonment of boots. I determined to go barefooted into Kinlochleven.
"Do you hear it?" Joe suddenly cried, jumping up and grabbing my arm.
I listened, and the sound of exploding dynamite could be heard in the far distance.
"The navvies on the night-shift, blastin' rocks in Kinlochleven!" cried Joe, jumping to his feet and waving a wing of the fowl over his head. "Hurrah! There's a good time comin', though we may never live to see it. Hurrah!"
"Hurrah!" I shouted, for I was glad that our travels were near at an end.
Although it was a long cry till the dawn, we kicked our fire in to the air and set out again on our journey, Joe limping, and myself barefooted. We finished our supper as we walked, and each man was silent, busy with his own thoughts.
For myself I wanted to make some money and send it home to my own people in Glenmornan. I reasoned with myself that it was unjust for my parents to expect me to work for their betterment. Finding it hard enough to earn my own livelihood, why should I irk myself about them? I was, like Moleskin, an Ishmaelite, who without raising my hand against every man, had every man's hand against me. Men like Moleskin and myself are trodden underfoot, that others may enjoy the fruit of centuries of enlightenment. I cursed the day that first saw me, but, strangely inconsistent with this train of thought, I was eager to get on to Kinlochleven and make money to send to my own people in Glenmornan.