Chapter III: Barton Gill Under Notice

The mind of Barton Gill was exercised, for he had heard painful news and suddenly learned the unsuspected opinion of another man concerning him. He felt shocked and cast down, having never guessed that Jacob Bullstone contemplated the possibility which now confronted Mr. Gill as a fact.

Barton was sixty-eight and, in his own opinion, as active and apprehensive as ever. Looking back he perceived that he had actually outgrown some weaknesses of middle age; while with respect to his knowledge of dogs, no man could deny that it embraced everything of importance.

Returning from Brent, the kennel-man fell in with Adam Winter and revealed his troubles.

"Hast heard the black news, Adam?" he began. "But of course you have not. It only burst upon me yesterday."

"Can it be bettered, or is it one of they fatal things beyond repair?" asked Winter.

It was his solid custom on all occasions to help if harm might be averted, but not to fret unduly at evil accomplished.

"Whether it's going to be fatal remains to be seen; but I don't feel an ounce of hope," said Gill. "In a word--Jacob Bullstone. You know his way. He'll store his thoughts, and smile, and hide what's moving in his head from every eye but his Maker's; and then, when the deed is ripe, he'll do it. And so half his actions come upon people as a great surprise, because they never get a wink of what was leading up to 'em."

"He's always got his reasons, however," argued Adam.

"He may have, or he may not. And it's all one, anyhow, since he never feels called to give 'em. But in my case there ain't a shadow of reason. He's built up a very wrong and mistaken picture of me. He's watched me in secret, which ain't a manly thing to do, and now, like a thunder planet, he's fallen upon me and given me the sack!"

"My stars! You going?"

"Under notice; but never any warning in the rightful sense of the word," explained Barton Gill. "I've been doing my work in season and out at Red House for half a century, and putting the dogs before everything but God Almighty, and helping to make 'em the world-famous creatures they be. And full of zeal for the family, and pouring my knowledge into young Peter. And now to be flung out."

"Why for, Barton?"

"Well may you ax that. For no reason on earth but because I'm too old! And only sixty-eight by this hand, and I wish I may die if a year more."

Adam was cautious. He felt very little doubt that Jacob Bullstone knew his own business best. They had been neighbours for fifteen years and, so far as Winter knew, Jacob regarded him as a good neighbour. They had never quarrelled and not often differed. Indeed they met but seldom and Adam saw Margery Bullstone far oftener than her husband. He had been good to her children and regarded himself as an old friend of the family; but his relations with Bullstone were not intimate.

"What you say about Bullstone's character is very interesting, Barton," he replied. "There are some men that do things on a sudden and hide the reasons. But, if you look, you'll often find, after your surprise dies down, that there's nothing much to be surprised about. I'm sorry if you wanted to stop on. Perhaps, if you was to be content to sing second to a younger man and just milk the goats and potter about for smaller money, he'd be content."

"You say that? Why, that's what he offered me!"

"Not the sack then? You told me you were flung out."

Gill shook his head impatiently.

"You don't know my character seemingly, though you ought to by now. But Bullstone does know it, and well he knows I'd not bide under a younger kennel-keeper. I stop as head man, else I don't stop. And this I say, that to see your faithful life's work forgot is a sad sight. He did ought at least to be decent and let me die in harness, before he talks of changes and new-fangled notions. What the hell more do he want than first prizes again and again, and four awards in the last ten years for the best dog in the show?"

"Youth will be served," said Winter. "I see it more and more. I'm forty-six and not done with yet; but it's no good pretending the younger men don't know more than us. They've got what we can give them, because they're always welcome to our knowledge; but they've got much more than that, along of education, and I'll bet there's scores of men ten and fifteen years younger than me, who know more about the latest in farming; and, of course, there's scores know more than you about the latest in dogs."

"You're a very poor-spirited creature to say so then, and I don't think none the better of you for it," replied Gill warmly. "I ban't one to throw up the sponge before youth, I promise you. I understand the wilful ways of youth a darned sight too well. Hot-headed toads--always dashing at things, to show off their fancied cleverness, and then coming to us, with their tails between their legs, to make good their mistakes. You might just so soon say a puppy's wiser than his sire, than tell me the youths know more than us."

"It's nature," argued Winter. "When we stand still, the younger ones have got to pass us by. And, to the seeing eye, that's the first thing middle age marks--that the young men go past. We think we be trudging along so quick as ever; but we are not. And as for your life's work, you've done your duty we all know and done it very well. You was born to work and you've worked honest and helped on the world of dogs in your time; but nothing stands still and dogs will improve beyond your knowledge no doubt. So I should be dignified about it and go. Nought lasts, and youth's the flood that's always making to drown all."

Barton Gill considered these sentiments, but did not approve of them.

"I had it in mind to ax you to put in a word for me," he answered; "but I see I can't.'

"Not very well, Barton. I don't know enough about it, and nobody has a right to come between master and man."

"Everybody's got a right to throw light on another's darkness. Bullstone's wrong. He might so soon give his right hand notice as me. He's got to take me as an accepted law of nature, and he's worked himself into a silly fancy that a younger man would be what I am, and even more. But it's ignorance; and if I took him at his word and went, he'd be calling out for me on his knees in a week."

"Then you ought to be hopeful," said Adam. "If that was to happen, you'd come back with a flourish of trumpets."

"I don't want no flourish of trumpets and I don't want to go," declared the other. "It's very ill-convenient and unchristian thing to fire me now, and I hope Bullstone will see sense before it's too late."

Adam Winter had some experience of the tyranny of old servants and perceived that the kennel-man was not going to leave Red House if he could stop there.

"What does Mrs. Bullstone say?" he asked. "She's a very clever woman."

"For a woman she is," admitted Gill; "and when she calls home what I've been to her young people, I make no doubt she'll see that a very improper thought have come to master. But I haven't sounded her as yet and she may not have the pluck to take my side."

"What did you say to Bullstone?"

"Nothing so far. He burst it on me, as I tell you, and left me and my stomach wambling with the shock. I couldn't let down my dinner after, for the troubled mind tells upon the body instanter. I just axed him if I'd heard aright, and he said I had; and since then I've been turning it over."

They had reached the gate of Shipley Farm on the east bank of Auna, and Adam stood a moment before entering.

"Well, I dare say it will straighten out. Look all round it. You've only got yourself to think of; and if you was to retire, you'd enjoy a restful time, and the respect due to you, and not be sorry to find yourself idle with your work well done."

"I'm not going," answered Barton. "One word's as good as a thousand, and unless the man uses force, I don't go. I've set the age of seventy-five for retirement, and I don't break my word to myself for fifty Bullstones."

In this determined mood he crossed the bridge and proceeded sulkily homeward. A thought struck him and he turned and shouted it back to Adam.

"A man's home is his home, ain't it? And who the devil's going to turn me out of my home?"

Adam did not answer, but laughed to himself. He was still laughing when he entered his kitchen, where his aunt, Amelia Winter, and his brother, Samuel, had just begun their tea.

"I didn't expect you back so soon, my dear," he said to the old woman.

"And I didn't expect to be home so soon," she answered, "and, what's more, I came too soon for my peace, for if I hadn't gone up Church Lane when I did, I shouldn't have seen a very sad sight."

Amelia had worn well. She was upright and stout and strong--the youngest of the party, as Adam always declared. The men resembled each other. Samuel was but a few years older than his brother and Adam stood to him for divinity. He echoed his opinions and bestowed upon him absolute trust. Nothing his younger brother could do was wrong. Sammy's mental eccentricities were considered quite harmless and they had seldom as yet made him a danger to the community. If he ever displayed a spark of passion, it was at any adverse criticism of Adam, and this weakness on his part--once actually manifested, when he fell tooth and nail upon another labourer for laughing at his brother over some trifle--was now respected. In person Samuel appeared a larger edition of Adam, but of gaunt expression and already grey. He was very strong and laboured like a horse. Work kept his mind sweet.

"And what might you have seen to shock you, Aunt?" asked the master of Shipley.

"A sorry sight," she answered. "You mind poor Miss Marydrew's famous hat with the red squirrel's tail? It was a well-known feature--a proper landmark round about; and to-day I've seen it on another woman's head, and you might have knocked me down with a feather. That any female could have the front to flaunt that well-known trophy! And such a female! Sarah Saunders if you please. Properly indecent I call it."

"Her sale fetched very good prices," said Adam. "Old William kept a few of the best things for his house; but they say he's cleared something better than sixty pounds by it."

"He oughtn't to have sold her clothes, and I've told him so," answered Amelia. "Clothes are sacred to the wearer in my opinion, and I'd so soon have seen Mercy's ghost as her hat on that wicked head. It won't bring no luck to anybody concerned."

Adam told how Barton Gill was under notice, and his aunt thought it a hard thing. Samuel waited to hear his brother's opinion, and echoed it.

"Gill's worn out and did ought to make room for a younger man," he said.

He spoke very slowly in a very deep voice.

"Did Mrs. Kingwell's cow come to 'Turk'?" asked Adam.

"She came," answered his brother.

Then the men went out to their evening labours.

No great prosperity marked the farm, but Adam was not ambitious and his future hopes only extended to his brother. He desired to see Samuel safely through life and never at the mercy of unfriendly or indifferent hands. His own needs were of the simplest. He had abandoned any wish to wed, or raise up a family. He was content and his life went uneventfully forward, brightened by various friendships. He was well liked but not well known. To more full-blooded and energetic men he seemed shadowy; yet none ever heard him say a foolish thing. His neighbours knew him for a capable farmer, but they wondered why he stopped on year after year at a place which offered such small opportunity for enterprise as Shipley. Others, however, explained this seclusion as accepted on Samuel's account. Samuel was happier in loneliness.