The Dew of Their Youth

by S. R. Crockett

Long before the others I got my eyes on him, and with the joy of a boy when a visitor enters the school at the dreariest hour of lessons, I rushed after him. To my surprise he went round the angle of the barn like a shot. But I had played at that game before. I took one flying leap into the little orchard from the window of the parlour which had been given up to the Maitlands, Louis and Miss Irma. Then I glided among the trees, choosing those I knew would hide me, and leaped on Master Boyd from behind as he was craning his neck to peer round the corner in the direction of the house door.

To my utter amaze he dropped to the ground with a throttled kind of cry as if some one had smitten him unawares. Here was surely something that I did not understand.

“Boyd, Boyd,” I said in his ear, for I began to grow a little concerned myself—not terrified, you know, only anxious—“Boyd, it is only Duncan—Duncan MacAlpine from the school-house.”

He turned a white, bewildered face to me, cold sweats pearling it, and his jaw worked in spasms. “Oh yes,” he muttered, “Agnes Anne’s brother!”

Now I did not see the use of dragging Agnes Anne continually into everything. Also I was one of the boys who had gone with Boyd Connoway oftenest to the fishing in Loch-in-Breck, and he need not have been afraid of me. But I think that he was a little unsettled by fear.

He did not explain, however, only bidding me shudderingly, “not to come at him that way again!” So I promised I would not, all the more readily that I heard him muttering to himself, “I thought he had me that time—yes, sure!”

Then I knew that he too was afraid of the man who called himself Wringham Pollixfen Poole and had killed the real Mr. Richard in our old cheese-room. But I was not a bit afraid, for had I not jumped through the orchard window, and run and clapped my hand on his shoulder without a thought of the creature ever crossing my mind.

At any rate I took him in with me—that is, Boyd Connoway. I cannot say that he wanted very much to go “before them Justices,” as he said. But at least he preferred it to stopping outside. I think he was frightened of my coming out again and slapping down my hand on his shoulder. Lord knows he need not have been, for I promised not to. At any rate he came, which was the main thing.

He did not enjoy the ceremony, but stood before them with his blue coat with the large rolling collar, which had been made for a bigger man, buttoned about his waist, and his rig-and-furrow stockings of green, with home-made shoes called “brogues,” the secret of making which he had brought with him from a place called Killybegs in County Donegal. He was all tashed with bits of straw and moss clinging to him. His knees too were wet where he had knelt in the marsh, and there was a kind of white shaking terror about the man that impressed every one. For Boyd Connoway had ever been the gayest and most reckless fellow in the parish.

When he was asked if he knew anything about the matter he only stammered, “Thank you kindly, Doctor, and you, General, and hoping that I have the honour of seein’ you in good health, and that all is well with you at home and your good ladies and the childer!”