Will of the Mill

by George Manville Fenn

It was autumn—a splendid time for fishing; a better time for the painter, the artist declaring that the tints of the trees and bracken, the glow of the skies, and the lovely mists that floated down from the hills and up from the well-charged falls were more glorious than any he had ever seen before.

His white mushroom, as Will called it, was always visible, and the boys spent much time with him when they were not reading with the Vicar up by the church, for Josh had declared that the message that had come from Worksop was about the jolliest piece of news he had ever heard. Doubtless, the headmaster and his subordinates did not think the same, the news being the breaking out of an exceedingly virulent epidemic of fever, necessitating the closing of the great school about the time when the bulk of the pupils were to return.

Then rumours came that sanitary inspectors had condemned the whole of the arrangements there as being too old-fashioned to be tolerated, and instead of becoming once more a busy hive of study during the autumn term, the whole place had been put in the builders’ hands, and rumour said that the school would not reassemble until the spring, even if the builders were got rid of then.

“Well, I don’t care,” said Will. “I didn’t want longer holidays, but it is much nicer reading and doing exercises up at the Vicarage than with old Buzfuz’s lexicon over there. I’m learning twice as much, and quite beginning to like Latin now.”

“Of course,” said Josh, complacently. “My father used to be a famous college don before the Bishop gave him the living here.”

“Yes, but he’s never been don enough to bring old Boil O back to his senses. He’s worse than ever now.”

“Bring him back to his senses! I don’t believe he’s got any senses to bring back,” said Josh. “It wants a very clever college don to put something straight that isn’t there.”

The boys were right about Drinkwater, for the man was more fiercely morose than ever. His efforts to avoid all who knew him, and spend the greater part of his time moping in the woodlands and high up the valley towards the headwaters of the stream, were so much waste of time, for all men and women too, and the children, for the matter of that, avoided him now as one who was ogreish and evil. Master, Vicar, the artist, and the two lads might cast away all idea of his guilt respecting the fire if they liked, but the work-people declared that his was the hand that fired the mill. Nothing would alter that in their stubborn minds, and no one knew better than James Drinkwater that this was so.

Consequently, he nursed up his blind grudge against the little world in which he dwelt, and became what Will called him—a regular wild man of the woods.

But a change was coming. The autumn rains were setting in, the woods were often dripping, the mosses holding the rain like so much sponge, and the shelter of a roof becoming an absolute necessity for the one who had sought it merely of a night.