Even the most unfriendly people are fond of something. Mr. Mere of the Dodder Manor Farm was fond of his dog. His dog’s name was Tom. He was a great shaggy brute, half lurcher and half wolf-hound.
Tom was extremely fierce. There were many stories told about Mr. Mere’s dog, and one of them particularly interested James Dawe. This story was about something that happened in the fields. The shepherd had told of it.
While the lambs were being tailed and castrated, one of them—a ewe—whose tail had not yet been cut off, escaped from the fold and galloped away. Mr. Mere, leaving the shepherd to go on with his work, followed the lamb with his dog.
Sport is kingly; a great many people of quality enjoy it, besides numbers of the lower orders. A fine gentleman, who has all that he can need for this world and the next, will walk out in peculiar clothes, to kill a little fluffy rabbit. Why should not Mr. Mere enjoy a little fun, too? He liked young meat.
He drove the lamb into a corner and set his dog to worry it.
Once having learned to be amused, a man may be amused at everything. There are people who shake with laughter when they see a coffin. Others will laugh at the most horrible cruelty. They point out the fun. To hunt is a pretty pastime. Set fire to the bushes, see the burnt rabbits run, set the dogs at them.
The lamb Mr. Mere was after was soon caught. Tom was in a merry mood, Mere was delighted. When the dog began to bite and torment the lamb, he was yet more pleased. The shepherd, even, left his work, came nearer and watched. A man can do what he likes with his own.
The story reached James Dawe. It was the sort of tale that he liked to hear; it gave him food for reflection. Here was rich Mr. Mere—a man who never missed the chance to gain a penny—willing to see, and even aiding in the destruction of one of his own lambs—a ewe. Dawe became thoughtful. Perhaps what his dog did, Mr. Mere might wish to do, too. And even the meanest of men will sometimes like to pay for their pleasures. There were other tales, too, to hear.
When the farmer went to the down upon a Sunday, he would sometimes set his dog at the children. Mr. Mere saw a difference between the Dodder brats; some were boys, some girls. And ’twas the girls that he sent Tom after. Even when she played upon the green, Winnie Huddy often had to run for her life, and sometimes left a piece of her frock in Tom’s mouth.
Mr. Dawe liked such stories.
Once he had overheard Mere call Susie “a little bitch,” which, though a compliment from a man of Mere’s merit, might be misunderstood by the vulgar.
James Dawe knew that the way to get what one wants in this world, is always to sift, as it comes in, the chaff from the true corn. All goodness that he heard of, he quickly forgot; in such things he saw no profit for himself. Only by famine, pestilence, and war do people grow rich.
Evil doings are a rich field for gain; out of pitifulness and loving-kindness nothing can be got.
Mr. Dawe thought the matter out. He opined that Mr. Mere set his dog at a prey that he wished to bite himself. Even though his dog’s teeth had gnawed the lamb, Mere had what remained of it roasted for his dinner.
Mr. Mere had old-fashioned table manners. When the woman who cooked for him was out of the way, he would growl savagely like a brute beast, and then begin to tear the meat apart with his nails, as well as his teeth. But what of that? Children, who follow the hounds to the death, have to be blooded, and why should not Mr. Mere enjoy blood as well as little Jessica Bullman?…
As soon as Mr. Mere heard that James Dawe was outside, he sent Mr. Titball out to call him in. He wished to talk with him, he said, and to give him something to drink.
James Dawe crept lowlily into the inn. His scent came with him. He entered crouchingly, as though the door were very low. But his eyes looked craftily as he entered, and the first thing that he saw was a halfpenny under the table.
He stooped a little lower and picked up the coin. Then he looked up and showed his face that was covered with soft, dirty hair. His little blinking eyes—full of cunning—looked at the company. His wish was to put the money that he had found into his pocket—without being noticed.
He cursed Solly, who alone saw what he did. Dawe did not like Solly any better than he liked Bridle; he hated the pair of them. For a man to go about calling a kind of saleable goods merely parsnips might lower prices.
To lower the price of anything—except what he wished to buy himself—was, according to Mr. Dawe, a sin against the Holy Ghost. Why then was not Solly sent to Hell, together with his nut-trees? Dawe wished him burnt.
After putting the coin he had found into his pocket, James Dawe moved towards Mr. Mere.
So a jackal might have gone to a hyena, willing to become friends—until a carcass is found.
Mere called for some drink, and Dawe watched what was put into his glass. Mr. Titball began to talk—Mere had treated the landlord, too—and at once began to drink to all the sons and daughters of Lord Bullman, as though they were the children of the king. He drank to each and every one of them. “Percy!” he called out, “Mona, Rupert, Jessica, Dorothea, Edward, Monica!
“I know them all, even the baby,” cried Mr. Titball. He drank to each three times. “An’ ’tis a strange coincident,” he said, with a low bow, “that at the Hall, every child’s birthday comes in August.”
“I do know why that be,” said Mr. Dady who, having a large family, was interested in birthdays. “’Tis they Christmas doings that be all the mischief. ’Tis the time of year that be to blame.”
Mr. Dady quickly killed another fly.
“In they merry times,” he observed, looking admiringly at the fly, “married folk be forgetful, and the nights be long. ’Tain’t always the beer neither—a cold night do need warm work. And many a poor toad be born in consequence of a snowstorm.”
Solly wished to hear all that was said. Mr. Mere and James Dawe were beginning to talk together in low tones. Solly appeared to be interested in Dawe’s boots; he moved nearer to them.
Greed and Malice, together with unholy Lust, make a pretty trinity. One the Son, one the Father, and one the Spirit. To count by three is in the fashion.
Solly looked at Dawe’s boots. They were hobnailed, and the upper leather was dry and warped. They looked as though they had been picked up out of some ditch, thrown off, perhaps, by a drunken fellow who thought he was an angel in heaven and had no need of them.
Mere opened his mouth to speak, and showed two ugly teeth.
Those who hunt heed only one thing. Summer days and winter days are alike to them. Mountains and valleys are the same. All cities and all country places provide a like sport. In darkness or in light they seek the same—the prey to devour.
In every gesture of Mr. Mere’s, there was the certainty that he could never be overreached. Each word of James Dawe’s was as subtle as a serpent’s glide. Greed drew near to Cunning, and Mischief winked.
Those who play with loaded dice know who will win. Good is easy to destroy, but evil has as many lives as a cat. Trample it down upon one side, and it will grow up upon the other. It was said by one man that it is best to let evil grow together with good and wait until the harvest time comes, until both are reaped together and gathered into the barn. Then a sifting will begin.
In every sack of seed that comes from the great storehouse, there is a mixture of good corn and bad. Only a white dove can tell the difference, and that dove is always being caught and killed by an old cat—God.
In the Bullman Arms James Dawe talked close. He was explaining what he had to sell, in natural words; he was telling in detail exactly what his girl was like. He appeared to know all about her. He described the roundness of her form, her young breasts, the pleasing look of her naked body, her hair—all. James Dawe was a good salesman; he left nothing out, and the words that he used were common and ordinary.
A good seller need be no poet, in order to dispose of what he has in stock. James Dawe was no polite talker; he did not trouble himself to say that “beauty is a joy for ever,” nor did he say, “there is a garden in her face, where roses and white lilies blow.” He said other things than that.
“She be an idle lambkin,” he told Mr. Mere, “an innocent chit, a foolish maid, who could give a man some pretty sport.”
Then he began to whisper. Solly drew words from their lips.
They shook hands. They must have come to some kind of agreement. Mr. Mere called for more drink.