fire. “That hanging voice? I still don’t…”
Nellie Bonespair squatted forwards now, cupped her little hands and called through them, as loudly as she could, at an old elm tree. The boys were amazed, and rather envious too, for the sound seemed to come from over there, somehow bouncing off the tree: A voice - “HELLOOOOO.”
“I taught her ‘ow te throw her voice,” smiled Skipper Holmwood proudly, on the edge of the circle.
“Why you little devils,” grunted Skanks admiringly, “Clever as Old Nick himself.”
Henry Bonespair looked up sharply, thinking of what the tramp had said, but his frowning face cleared. Of course! That voice in the well, and in the barn too. It had only been his sister, clever little Eleanor Bonespair.
Henry Bonespair was half furious, but half delighted too, certain again that magic did not exist, in this age of reason, and that his horrid vision in the fire had just been tiredness and strain. Henry had imagined the whole thing.
One thing was sure though, thought Henry now, this adventure was real enough and the Pimpernel Club needed to keep their wits and their courage about them.
“Bleedin’ miraculous, Spike,” grunted Jack Skanks though, “But yer all sure about this?” the adult added, as he helped himself to some more grog and belched loudly. His thumb had stopped bleeding.
“Yes,” said Henry, for the others too, “But you’re not going to stop us, though, or give The Club away?”
Jack Skanks grinned and winked at them.
“Not me, lad. I swears it. I know there’s a war on, and it does my heart good to hear of such a grand and brave adventure. Reminds me of my yoof.”
“Were you always a Highwayman, Sir?” asked Francis Simpkins suddenly, plucking up the courage to speak, and not stuttering at all. Francis sometimes tried to cure it by holding a pebble in his mouth and orating in the schoolyard, or under his breath, at least.
“Not a bit, matey,” answered Skanks, “Butcher’s boy turned cracksman, turned highwayman, and Master at reinventin’ myself too. So old Nick don’t get me in his black clutches. The Devil’s abroad again, all right, in the Frenchie lands, any rate.”
Francis was suddenly pleased that his best friend was not going to France at all. This adventure was frightening enough, but something they could just manage together, if they kept their courage up and their wits about them in Dover.
Besides, they would be back in a few days time, safe and sound again.
“Porquois?” asked Count Armande haughtily though. “Why a common thief, monsieur? Just like these hateful Revolutionaries.”
“Common?” answered Jack Skanks, frowning, although not much put out, “Well, survival, lad, and no denying. They got me first for steelin’ an apple, and nearly transported me ta the Australias, so I turned to bigger pay. But for the love of the chase too, and the life of the open road.”
Francis was suddenly looking up into the black night, with this talk of the Australias, at the millions tiny stars glittering above them in the darkness.
His young mind was suddenly filled with dreams and wild adventures, despite his nervous disposition, and his mind was spinning like a globe. It was wonderful.
Francis Simpkins so loved to study that old wooden globe, back in their schoolroom in Stockwell, and he thought of a famous book that he had sworn to read one day called Principia Methematica . It was by none other than the great Sir Isaac Newton himself, who had talked of the laws of Motion and Gravity, and how the whole world, the whole Universe, is just like a great clock, designed by God, to make everything move perfectly in the Heavens.
As they sat there, Henry Bonespair was feeling equally liberated to be on the road, dining with a real Highwayman in the firelight. All that wild sense of freedom had returned now.
“You aren’t a real Lord, then, Monsieur Skank?” asked Armande
Nellie Bonespair squatted forwards now, cupped her little hands and called through them, as loudly as she could, at an old elm tree. The boys were amazed, and rather envious too, for the sound seemed to come from over there, somehow bouncing off the tree: A voice - “HELLOOOOO.”
“I taught her ‘ow te throw her voice,” smiled Skipper Holmwood proudly, on the edge of the circle.
“Why you little devils,” grunted Skanks admiringly, “Clever as Old Nick himself.”
Henry Bonespair looked up sharply, thinking of what the tramp had said, but his frowning face cleared. Of course! That voice in the well, and in the barn too. It had only been his sister, clever little Eleanor Bonespair.
Henry Bonespair was half furious, but half delighted too, certain again that magic did not exist, in this age of reason, and that his horrid vision in the fire had just been tiredness and strain. Henry had imagined the whole thing.
One thing was sure though, thought Henry now, this adventure was real enough and the Pimpernel Club needed to keep their wits and their courage about them.
“Bleedin’ miraculous, Spike,” grunted Jack Skanks though, “But yer all sure about this?” the adult added, as he helped himself to some more grog and belched loudly. His thumb had stopped bleeding.
“Yes,” said Henry, for the others too, “But you’re not going to stop us, though, or give The Club away?”
Jack Skanks grinned and winked at them.
“Not me, lad. I swears it. I know there’s a war on, and it does my heart good to hear of such a grand and brave adventure. Reminds me of my yoof.”
“Were you always a Highwayman, Sir?” asked Francis Simpkins suddenly, plucking up the courage to speak, and not stuttering at all. Francis sometimes tried to cure it by holding a pebble in his mouth and orating in the schoolyard, or under his breath, at least.
“Not a bit, matey,” answered Skanks, “Butcher’s boy turned cracksman, turned highwayman, and Master at reinventin’ myself too. So old Nick don’t get me in his black clutches. The Devil’s abroad again, all right, in the Frenchie lands, any rate.”
Francis was suddenly pleased that his best friend was not going to France at all. This adventure was frightening enough, but something they could just manage together, if they kept their courage up and their wits about them in Dover.
Besides, they would be back in a few days time, safe and sound again.
“Porquois?” asked Count Armande haughtily though. “Why a common thief, monsieur? Just like these hateful Revolutionaries.”
“Common?” answered Jack Skanks, frowning, although not much put out, “Well, survival, lad, and no denying. They got me first for steelin’ an apple, and nearly transported me ta the Australias, so I turned to bigger pay. But for the love of the chase too, and the life of the open road.”
Francis was suddenly looking up into the black night, with this talk of the Australias, at the millions tiny stars glittering above them in the darkness.
His young mind was suddenly filled with dreams and wild adventures, despite his nervous disposition, and his mind was spinning like a globe. It was wonderful.
Francis Simpkins so loved to study that old wooden globe, back in their schoolroom in Stockwell, and he thought of a famous book that he had sworn to read one day called Principia Methematica . It was by none other than the great Sir Isaac Newton himself, who had talked of the laws of Motion and Gravity, and how the whole world, the whole Universe, is just like a great clock, designed by God, to make everything move perfectly in the Heavens.
As they sat there, Henry Bonespair was feeling equally liberated to be on the road, dining with a real Highwayman in the firelight. All that wild sense of freedom had returned now.
“You aren’t a real Lord, then, Monsieur Skank?” asked Armande
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