Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers

Stables Gordon

Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers

Chapter One

Book I – Our Home by the Sea

The Old Home by the Sea – Aunt Serapheema

Reginald Augustus John Fitzmaurice Jones!

That is my name in full.

There is not the slightest occasion to remember it.

The name is far and away too long, and too tall for ordinary use. Twice only have I taken it to church with me, namely, on the day of my baptism, and on my wedding morn. On both these occasions it was written on a bit of paper, and folded up for future use.

On the first occasion it was carefully carried in my father’s waistcoat pocket, and I brought it home.

On the second occasion it was carefully carried in my own waistcoat pocket, and brought home by one far dearer to me than even a father.

But as regards a name or names rather, my brother did not fare a bit better than I did.

Rupert Domville Ffoljambe-Foley Jillard Jones!

That is my brother’s name in full. And, indeed, I think it will be readily admitted that his was a harder case than even mine, and seeing that I was the elder, this seemed scarcely fair.

Reginald Augustus John Fitzmaurice Jones! Only fancy a spirited young man having to make his way in life, and drag through existence with such a name as that tagged on to him. For one young man even it would be bad enough, but there were two of us, and we always drove in couple.

What a deal maiden aunts have to account for, as often as not! Yes, it was all owing to Aunt Serapheema, and even to this day I cannot help thinking she owes us a very ample apology.

Here is how it occurred:

Father – he was Captain Jones then – was sitting all alone one evening in the room which was designated by courtesy the study, though, as far as literature is concerned, it contained little else save a few magazines, the newspapers, and – father’s pipe rack. Well, father was enjoying a mild cigar by the open window – for it was spring, and the birds were singing in every bush – when there entered to him – Aunt Serapheema, who began to cough.

Father put his cigar hastily down on the outside sill of the window, with a little sigh, for it was one of the Colonel’s – Colonel McReady’s – best, and only newly lit.

He hastened to place the high-backed armchair for the lady. It was like herself, this chair – straight, tall, dark, and prim.

“The smoke, I suppose, would have annoyed you?”

“It would have, Harold.”

“And the open window?”

“That we can do with.”

“Ahem!” continued my aunt, smoothing the long black silken mits she always wore on her hands and arms. “Ahem!”

“Yes, sister,” said my father.

“Yes, aunt, if you please. Remember that in future, Harold; and it will be as well if, instead of calling Dora, your wife, by the ridiculous name of Dot, you now address her as ‘mamma’ or ‘ma.’”

The “now” in aunt’s last sentence referred to the birth of my brother and me.

“If you do not so address her, before very long the boys themselves will be calling their mother Dot.”

“Certainly,” said father, “as you wish, sist – I – I mean aunt.”

“Well, and it is about the boys I have come to speak, if you will favour me with a moment’s attention.”

“Assuredly, sis – a – auntie dear.” And my father pulled himself together, as if he had been on parade. “Nothing wrong with the twins, I trust?”

“No, nothing wrong – as yet. But you know they must be baptised at an early date. Have you considered what names to give them?”

“Well, really – no – I – ”

“Of course not. Men are – merely men. Luckily your wife and I have been considering for you. But have you any suggestion to make?”

“Ahem, well, a – my name has a John in it, and my brother’s is Jim. Short and sweet. Simple and all the rest of it. Eh? What?”

I have been told that Aunt Serapheema did not answer him for fully half a minute, but subjected him to what might be called a process of ocular transfixion. Compared to such a punishment, to be face to face with Russian bayonets would have been child’s play to poor father.

“John! and Jim!” she said at last, slowly rising. “You may resume your horrid cigar, Harold. I did not expect to get much sense out of you, and I am therefore not disappointed. On this sheet of paper you will find the names we have decided upon. You will note that – at the earnest request of your wife – the paternal name does find a place, but Jim!” She transfixed him again, then went gliding to the door, which father opened and bowed her away.

Then he almost ran to the window, and like the naughty old boy he must have been, I fear he relit that horrid cigar, singing lightly to himself as he hunted for the matches.

Now one’s birth and baptism may seem very trivial matters to linger over, especially when one has a life-story like my brother’s and mine to tell. But events and adventures too will crowd each other fast enough ere long. For the brief present I am like some strong swimmer, who is about to commit himself to battle with the waves of a storm-tossed ocean, and who, before he takes the plunge, gazes once around and casts a longing, lingering look behind.

Besides, one’s boyhood’s days or childhood’s hours are the happiest, without doubt, that ever fall to our lot here below, and we do not know this till they are for ever fled. Yes, I grant you that this stage of our existence is not exempt from grief and sorrow, and very real these look while they last, though they are easily chased away or kissed away as the case may be. Then there is stern education to come up day after day like a terrible task-master.

As far as my brother and I were concerned, education assumed the corporeal form of Aunt Serapheema. My father’s study – properly dusted and disinfected in order to thoroughly exorcise the ghost of Colonel McReady’s cigars – became our schoolroom, the high-backed armchair our prim preceptor’s throne. Mind you, we always did think auntie somewhat prim, though it would be neither polite nor politic to tell her so. Auntie was not only fearfully and wonderfully made as regards angularity, but she was wonderfully clever as well. I tremble even yet when I think of how she used to come down upon us with dates – figuratively speaking, and how appallingly she used to hurl “ographies” and “ologies” at our poor little frightened faces. I always did think that dates – with the exception of the sticky eating sort – and “ologies” and “ographies” were sent into the world like thorns and thistles, just to prick and punish unfortunate boys.

Auntie used to wear glasses – two pairs at once; and it was not when she looked at you right straight through these glasses that she appeared dreadful, but when she glanced sternly over them.

She carried, or swayed as a sceptre, a long oaken pointer. It was not very thick, but very hard and far-reaching, and when it came down on your knuckles – oh, it always left a red mark, and sounded as if the clock were striking one. It struck one very often every forenoon.

Even out of school auntie had a way of addressing any person that commanded attention, but alone with her in the schoolroom her voice was positively thrilling.

It was only natural that both my brother’s attention and mine should waver or wander at times. Well, my father’s first manly word in the barrack square used to make every soldier stiffen, as it were; but it was nothing to auntie’s caution. Nowhere near it in regal pomposity.

“Reginald, look towards me!” or – “Rupert Domville, I am talking.”

Oh, didn’t poor Jill used to jump!

Yes, by Jill I mean my brother. We had got tired of calling each other Regie and Bertie, and one night held a consultation in our attic bedroom.

“Your name,” said my brother, “shall be boiled down to plain Jack.”

“Well, Master Rupert Domville Ffoljambe-Foley Jillard Jones,” I replied, “if I’m to be boiled down to Jack, you shall be boiled down to Jill.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a bit. It’s short. But – a – isn’t Jill an old lady’s name?”

“Well, I rather think it is, because Jack and Jill went up the hill, you know, and I’ve seen pictures of them, and one was an old lady. But that doesn’t matter, does it?”

“No, Jack.”

“Silly thing, though, to go up a hill to fetch a pail of water. Was the well on top of the hill, I wonder?”

“I couldn’t say. But, Jack?”

“Yes, Jill.”

“Suppose we play at Jack and Jill to-morrow, just to inoculate our names, you know.”

“Inaugurate, you mean, you silly old Jill.”

“Well, it’s much the same. Won’t it be fun?”

“Yes, and I’ll do it. Let’s fall asleep, and maybe dream about it.”

“Let’s make some metre first.” This was a favourite pastime of ours – and we always did have some fun of some kind before we fell asleep. Our “poetry,” as we called it, certainly was not of much account; but the play was this: whatever two or three words one of us said, the other had to match in metre. To-night it ran as follows – I put our names before our lines: —

Jack. “Our Auntie Prim,”Jill. “She’s got so slim,”Jack. “And her eyes are so dim,”Jill. “That I’ll wager a limb”Jack. “She can’t see over her spectacle rim.”

“Bravo! Jack,” cried Jill, “that’s famous.”

Then we had a chorus of laughing. But it was checked as completely and suddenly as if that traditional pail of water had come souse on both our heads, for auntie’s voice rang up the stair —

“Reginald and Rupert, I am listening.”

We covered our heads with the bedclothes, and were as mute as mice, till the sunshine streamed in at the window next morning, and Sally knocked with our drop of hot water.

But immediately after school hours we went off with a rush and a run to the stable, where we found Robert washing Aunt Serapheema’s pony’s white feet.

“Robert, we want a pail of water.”

“Whatever be ye goin’ to do wi’ th’ pail o’ water, lads?”

“Oh, we’ll soon tell you,” cried I: “I’m Jack, and he’s Jill now, and we’re going to play at it real. We’re going to roll down the green mount same’s we often do, you know, only we must have a pail of water.”

“Well, well, well,” said Robert, “I never! But sha’n’t Oi carry it up for thee?”

“No, no, that wouldn’t leave us half the fun.”

The green mount, as it was called, was a grassy hill near the sea, on which we used to have no end of fun in summer. It was pretty steep, and right in view of the dining-room window.

At this window our darling mother, as we always called her, and Aunt Serapheema were sitting talking quietly, while Sally laid the cloth, and they were not a little astonished to see us boys lugging painfully up the hill with a pail of water. Of course the real Jack and Jill had gone to fetch water, but we could only carry our programme out in the way we were doing.

Both mamma and auntie watched us with no little curiosity; while Sally, near by, stood looking too.

“Are you ready now?” said Jill, when we were near the top, “because you’ve got to tumble first, you know.”

“I’m ready,” I cried.

Down I toppled.

Over went the bucket, and over went Jill.

“Sakes-a-mussy!” shrieked Sally. “Sakes-a-mussy! missus, they’re all tumbling down together.”

Mother cried, “Oh! the dear boys.”

Aunt lifted her eyes and mittened palms cloudwards.

But for all that, down we rolled in fine form, —

Jill over Jack,The bucket over Jill,Right to the bottomOf the big green hill.

That is how we metred it, that evening after the row was all over, and we were sent to bed.

But it would have defied all the art of metre to describe the plight we were in when Robert and Sally picked us up, and led us at arm’s length into the kitchen. For I was soused from head to foot, and Jill had got it second hand, and as for mud and rents – the least said the soonest mended.

We didn’t play any more at Jack and Jill with real water.

Chapter Two

While Walking on the Sea-Beach

Everybody loved auntie, for with all her strictness, and – to our young eyes her strange old-world ways, she was so good and so genuine. Goodness was no penance with auntie; it was not put on and off like a dress-coat, a silk hat, or a sealskin jacket; it was part and parcel of her very nature. I believe that if auntie ever cloaked her real soul’s self at all, it was when she was apparently exceedingly wroth with us, after some of our little escapades; which we could no more help than a bird can help flying. But sitting there in that weird black chair, lecturing Jill and me with uplifted forefinger, and steadfast glances over, not through, the two pairs of glasses, she certainly did look thrillingly stern. And she had a way, too, of making us feel thoroughly ashamed of ourselves, without saying much or without scolding.

So our love was mingled with a good deal of reverence. Really I laugh now when I think of it, but whether you can understand the feeling or not, we – that is Jill and I – almost revered the chair in which auntie sat, even when she wasn’t sitting in it. You see we were allowed to play and dance and jump in the schoolroom on wet days, or when the wind blew high from the south and west, and dashed the sea’s spray over beach and gardens. And do what we might, we never could disabuse our minds of the notion that the chair was a living thing, and took notes of all we said and did, and would whisper things to auntie when she sat down again.

At ordinary times, when we might be merely squatting together on a goatskin rug, reading “Robinson Crusoe,” or turning over the leaves of a huge “Arabian Nights” to look at the pictures, it did not matter much. But always when I proposed a game at anything very ridiculous – and it was always I who did make the proposition – before we began, I would say —

“Wait half a minute, Jill, let’s play at the chair being naughty first.”

This was only an excuse, of course, to have the chair turned round with its back to us.

Then I would walk up to it, and with my forefinger raised chidingly —

“You are a naughty old chair,” I would say; “you cannot be at rest five minutes at a time, and I am afraid you are showing your brother a bad example. Go into the corner, sir, until I tell you to come out.”

“Now then,” I would continue, mimicking the fishermen we listened to hoisting their yawls from the beach and surf. “Now then, Jill, lend a hand here, and look lively, lad. Tackle on to her. Merrily matches it. Together. Heave with a will. Up with her. Round she goes, and up she is, and we go rolling home. Hurrah!”

When we got the chair fairly round with its back to us we felt at peace to do as we liked. We could stand on our heads till our faces got blue and our eyes felt ready to burst; I could make a go-cart of Jill, and haul him all round the room with the skipping-rope; he could make a ship’s mast of me, and squirm up and stand on my shoulders to give three cheers for the Queen and the Royal Navy; we could build a tower with the chairs, and in fact do anything or everything except spill the ink. When we did that it cast a damp gloom over our spirits just as it spread an inky pall over a portion of the table-cloth.

My father was our friend and playmate whenever he came home. This was not oftener than twice or thrice a week, for he was doing duty with his regiment at the somewhat distant naval and military port of P – . He would fain have come oftener, but dared not offend so kindly a superior officer as Colonel McReady.

Now auntie did not actually complain to father, but she used to mention some of the maddest of our escapades, and with Jill climbing over the back of his chair, and I, perhaps, standing bolt upright on his knees, balanced by his hands, father would say —

“You young rascals, what did you do it for? Eh?”

And this made us laugh like mad things, for we knew father was not angry.

“Ah, well, auntie dear,” he would say, “boys will be boys.”

“True,” she would reply; “but boys needn’t be monkeys, need they, Harold?”

“And really, Harold,” she would add, “the boys would be so different if you were to show just a little more parental authority.”

This always made dear daddie laugh. I don’t know why. The “parental authority” somehow tickled him, for, as mother used to say, he looked more a boy himself than a wise old parent.

But father loved auntie as much as any of us did, and looked up to her too. As she was his sister-in-law he needn’t have done that, only she was ever so much older, and, as father would add, “wiser as well.”

Here is one proof that she had a deal of power over him:

Father did not hate his uniform; no real soldier does, although I have heard some say they did; but he did not see the fun, as he called it, of wearing it when off duty. He was off duty going to church on Sundays, but he went in uniform, nevertheless. Why? Because auntie like to see him dressed so.

Mother did not always go to church, because she was delicate; but father and auntie and we boys invariably did.

Let me think a moment. How old would we have been then? Oh, about nine. Dressed exactly alike – black jackets alike, broad white collars alike, tall silk hats alike – the hats were auntie’s notion of the severely genteel – and little rattan canes alike.

Faces and eyes and hair all alike. So much alike were we, indeed, on a Sunday morning, that if any one, except mamma and auntie, who I daresay had their own private marks, called us by our correct names, it was just guesswork or merely chance.

Father made no attempt at distinguishing us on Sundays and holidays. If, for example, he had given Jill a penny with a view to lollipops, and I came round soon after, he would say:

“Let me see, now – I gave you a penny before, didn’t I?”

Or he would quiz me, and say, “Are you Jack, or are you Jill?”

It will be observed that father had taken to call us Jack and Jill, though auntie rather objected.

But hardly any one else knew us apart even on week-days; even Sally was puzzled, and Robert never made any attempt at nomenclature.

In fact we were a kind of Corsican brothers in similitude, for, if I remember rightly, they were twins like Jill and me.

On the Sunday afternoons my brother and I were sent, if the weather was fine, to take a stroll along by the windings and bendings of the beach, between the green rising hills and banks and the sea. We went all alone, and were recommended by auntie to think about all good things as we walked, to study the strange objects strewn on the sand or left by the receding waves, to gaze upon the sea, the sky, the rocks, and the beautiful birds, and to remember our Father in heaven made them all. We were not to think our week-day thoughts, but rigidly to banish and exclude therefrom, tops, whips, balls, and boats; we were not to fling pebbles, nor jump on seaweed; we must walk erect not too close to the water, for fear of our boots, and if a shower came on we were to wrap our pocket-handkerchiefs round our hats and make straight for home.

All these injunctions we did our best to obey, except one which I have forgotten to name: we were not to laugh. Now we would have obeyed auntie even in this, but sometimes we were carried away by curious things occurring. Anyhow, it did not take much to make us laugh, I fear, even on Sunday. Take one walk as an example.

It was a lovely summer’s afternoon, hardly any wind, the sea almost glassy or glossy – use which word you please; far out were vessels with all kinds of queer rigs half-becalmed, and close in the foreground the breakers rolling in so lazily that it seemed a stress for them to break at all. There was a dreamy stillness in the air, and even the sea-birds seemed to feel its influence, and floated half asleep on the sleeping billows.

Jill and I were walking a little apart when we met a big red dog. He half started when he saw the pair of us, glanced quickly from one to the other, gave a short bark which appeared forced out of him, and trotted off with his tail between his hocks. He must have seen, or thought he saw, something odd about us.

We laughed, but thought of auntie.

Then we went on and on and came to a cottage where there was a very wise game-cock with a flock of very wise-looking hens. We always stopped to look at them, they had such a contented and happy, stay-at-home look about them. And, strange to say, this cock used to march his hens down the garden path, and then they all stopped to study Jill and me. And the cock used to eye us with one side of his red head and cry, “Kr-rr-rr-rr – !” in so droll a way that we laughed again, and this time forgot all about auntie.

A little farther on we met a whole bevy of schoolgirls, and they all looked at us, and while the youngest giggled outright, the oldest put their fingers to their lips to hide their smiles, and we heard one of them say “hats.” Jill did not like this I know, for he pursed up his mouth and presently said, “Jack, if it only came on to rain, I’d soon roll my hat up, wouldn’t you?” I laughed alone this time.

People, older common-people I mean, stopped and stared after us, and some said queer things, and some called us queer names. A fisherwoman, for instance, sang out —

“Hullo! my chickabiddies. Got out, then? W’y you looks as much alike as pigeons’ eggs.”

A swarthy old sailor hailed us with —

“Whither away, my pirates bold?” Jill laughed at this. We loved pirates. Then we came to a place where two fishermen, rough and weather-beaten, in dandy, dark, Sunday sou’-westers, and dark blue Sunday jerseys and polished top-boots, were leaning against a boat, and one of them must shake hands politely and say —

“Hullo! my young hearties! W’y it does one’s heart good to look at ye! Ain’t they alike, Bill? Keep ’em together, Bill, till I run up for Nancy.”

Nancy came, a good-looking, portly fisherman’s wife, and for a time she did nothing but stick her hands in her sides and laugh. Oh, she did laugh, to be sure!

Then her husband and Bill, his mate, laughed too, and the seagulls chimed in, and somehow made us think of Punch and Judy. So then we laughed also, and a pretty chorus it was.

“Bless the darlings, though,” said Nancy; “it’s a shame to laugh; we don’t mean anything unmannerly but – ha, ha, ha, he, he, he,” and the chorus was all done over again.

“I say, lads,” said the first speaker, “come for a sail with us to-morrow, or next day, will ye?”

“We would,” we replied, both in a breath, and both in the same words precisely, “if auntie would let us.”

“Ah! bless her, bring auntie too. We’ll cushion the boat, Bill, won’t us?”

“That we will, Joe.”

“Well, we said we’d tell auntie,” and away we went. We only met one man who spoke to us going back, and he said – “Good evening, young double and quits.” Of course we did not say a word to auntie that evening about the invitation, but after a turn on the beach next day, during which we met our fisher friends, who renewed the request, we broached the subject.

Auntie tossed her head a little at first, but when we mentioned about the cushions she smiled and said – “Good people, I dare say. Well, it is evident they know we are gentlefolks. You can tell them we’ll go to-morrow afternoon.”

After school hours Jill and I ran to tell our new-found friends that we were to be allowed to come, and that auntie was coming as well.

They were so pleased that they kept us a whole hour in their queer, old-fashioned cottage, in which everything was as strange and wonderful to us as some of the places we read of in our old story-books.

Poor Jill! It was really strange the dependence he had upon me, his twin brother – his elder brother – his second self. I but mention the following in proof of this. It happened about the time we first made the acquaintance of the boatmen. Jill had gone to look for nests all by himself for a wonder. Unfortunately he fell over a cliff. Not all the way down, else there would have been no more Jill – and no more Jack, perhaps, for I hardly think I could have lived without my brother. He had been in his perilous position for hours before found. Listening at last near the top of the cliff, I could hear his plaintive, pleading voice calling me, though he knew not I was there.

“Come to me, Jack, come to me,” he prayed, “for I cannot come to you.”