Gertie blushed, but was spared the necessity of a reply in consequence of a deafening whistle which called Will Garvie to his points. Next moment, a passenger-train intervened, and cut her off from further communication.
According to promise, Will was at the schoolroom in good time that evening, with some thirty or forty of his comrades. Loo was there too, blooming and matronly, with a troop of boys and girls, who seemed to constitute themselves a body-guard round John Marrot and his wife, who were both ignorant at that time of the honour that was about to be done them. John was as grave, sturdy, and amiable as ever, the only alteration in his appearance being the increased number of silver locks that mingled with his black hair. Time had done little to Mrs Marrot, beyond increasing her bulk and the rosiness of her countenance.
It would be tedious to comment on all our old friends who assembled in the schoolroom on that memorable occasion. We can only mention the names of Captain Lee (alias Samuel Tough), and Mr Abel, and Mrs Tipps, and Dr Noble, and Mr Sharp, and David Blunt, and Joe Turner, and Mrs Durby, with all of whom time seemed to have dealt as leniently as with John Marrot and his wife. Sam Natly was also there, with his invalid wife restored to robust health, and supported on either side by a blooming boy and girl. And Edwin Gurwood was there with his wife and son and three daughters; and so was Joseph Tipps, looking as if the world prospered with him, as, indeed, was the case. And, of course, Netta Tipps was there, and the young curate, who, by the way, was much stouter and not nearly so stiff as when we first met him. He was particularly attentive to Netta, and called her “my dear,” in a cool free-and-easy way, that would not have been tolerated for a moment, but for the fact that they had been married for the last three months. Bob Marrot was there also—as strapping a young blade as one could wish to see, with a modest yet fearless look in his eye, that was quite in keeping with his occupation as driver of the “Flying Dutchman.”
There was there, also, a tall, slim, good-looking youth, who seemed to be on very intimate terms with Bob Marrot. He was well-known as one of the most rising men at the Clatterby works, who bade fair to become an overseer ere long. Bob called him Tomtit, but the men of the line styled him Mister Dorkin. He had brought with him an extremely wrinkled, dried-up old woman, who appeared to have suffered much, and to have been dragged out of the lowest depths of poverty. To judge from appearances she had been placed in a position of great comfort. Such was in truth the case, and the fine young fellow who had dragged her out and up was that same Mister Dorkin, who may be said to have been all but stone-blind that evening, because, from first to last, he saw but one individual there, and that individual was Gertie. He was almost deaf too, because he heard only one voice—and that voice was Gertie’s.
And Nanny Stocks was there, with “the baby,” but not the baby Marrot! That baby—now a stout well-grown lad—was seated beside his mother, paying her all sorts of delicate attentions, such as picking up her handkerchief when she dropped it, pushing her bonnet on her head when, in her agitation, it fell back on her neck, and beating her firmly on the back when she choked, as she frequently did that evening from sheer delight. No doubt in this last operation he felt that he was paying off old scores, for many a severe beating on the back had Mrs Marrot given him in the stormy days of his babyhood.
The baby of whom Nanny Stocks was now the guardian was baby Gurwood, and a strong resemblance it bore to the old baby in the matters of health, strength, fatness, and self-will. Miss Stocks was one of those human evergreens which years appear to make no impression on at all. From her shoe-latchet to her topmost hair-pin she was unalterably the same as she had been in days gone by. She treated the new baby, too, as she had treated the old—choked it with sweetmeats and kisses, and acted the part of buffer to its feet and fists.
It would take a volume to give the full details of all that was said and done, and played and sung, on that Christmas-eve. We can only touch on these things. The brass band of the volunteers surpassed itself. The songs—volunteered or called for—were as good as songs usually are on festive occasions, a few of them being first-rate, especially one which was sung by a huge engine-driver, with shoulders about a yard broad, and a beard like the inverted shako of a guardsman. It ran thus—
Song of the Engine-Driver.
Oh—down by the river and close by the lake
We skim like the swallow and cut though the brake;
Over the mountain and round by the lea,
Though the black tunnel and down to the sea.
Clatter and bang by the wild riven shore,
We mingle our shriek with the ocean’s roar.
We strain and we struggle, we rush and we fly—
We’re a terrible pair, my steed and I.
Chorus—Whistle and puff the whole day round,
Over the hills and underground.
Rattling fast and rattling free—
Oh! a life on the line is the life for me.
With our hearts a-blazing in every chink,
With coals for food and water to drink,
We plunge up the mountain and traverse the moor,
And startle the grouse in our daily tour.
We yell at the deer in their lonely glen,
Shoot past the village and circle the Ben,
We flash through the city on viaducts high,
As straight as an arrow, my steed and I.
Chorus—Whistle and puff, etcetera.
The Norseman of old, when quaffing his mead,
Delighted to boast of his “ocean steed;”
The British tar, in his foaming beer,
Drinks to his ship as his mistress dear.
The war-horse good is the trooper’s theme—
But what are all these to the horse of steam?
Such a riotous, rollicking roadster is he—
Oh!—the Iron Horse is the steed for me!
Chorus—Whistle and puff, etcetera.
The collation also, or, according to Bob Marrot, the “blow-out,” was superb. Joseph Tipps declared it to be eminently satisfactory, and the men of the line evidently held the same opinion, if we may judge from the fact that they consumed it all, and left not a scrap behind.