Chapter XI: The Path of Knowledge

AFTER that, lessons went more easily, because both teachers and pupil understood each other better. Rex had a good deal of the quick intuition and clear brain that had made his sister a successful Captain of Merriwa. He realized that it was only a different method of teaching that had transformed “Horatius” from a dull lesson into something startlingly alive. The words had been the same all the time, only he had not had the wit to read them until his eyes were opened. Possibly, he reasoned, other branches of learning might have possibilities; they might not all be mere devices for embittering one’s young life.

His books, too, were different. To tell the truth, Mrs. Forester had been rather horrified when she had realized the weary path her young son had trod—a discovery not made until Helen, fresh from school, had helped her to arrange Rex’s outfit for Emu Plains. Helen had gasped in amazement over Rex’s books.

“But these aren’t all he has, surely, Mother? Wherever did you get them?”

“I didn’t get them,” Mrs. Forester had answered. “Miss Green had them. She brought them with her. I believe I bought them from her: she told me most of them were difficult to obtain now.”

“I should think they would be. Poor little kid—just fancy having to wade through these! Why, they’re fit for boys of fifteen, if they’re fit for anything at all—only they’re not! Every one ought to be scrapped. Look at the tiny print, and the weary, long paragraphs. And to drag a little nine-year-old through them!”

“I do feel rather ashamed,” Mrs. Forester had admitted, after an examination of Miss Green’s ancient literature. “They are really dreadful, aren’t they? She came with high recommendations, and I thought it wouldn’t matter if she were a bit old-fashioned—I was so much away from home that it seemed better not to have a very young governess to leave in charge of Rex.”

“And didn’t he tell you he hated his lessons?”

“Well, he did. But then so had you and Wilfred and Arthur before him,” Mrs. Forester had said, twinkling. Helen had laughed.

“I suppose poor old Rex has paid the penalty of our grumbles—although I know the other boys and I never had books like that. Well, you’ll let me send up all the things he ought to have, won’t you, Mother?”—and Mrs. Forester had thankfully consented.

So Rex found his new lessons taken from books that were easy to read and pleasant to look at and to handle—books that made history a succession of fascinating stories, and Geography something more than a weary catalogue of place-names and products; and there was something new called Literature, so like story-telling that it seemed impossible that it should be really a lesson. He found new peep-holes into learning that were extraordinarily interesting. Punctuation, under Miss Green, had meant a collection of horrible things called “stops,” traps to catch the unwary, for which there was neither rhyme nor reason. With the twins, they became kind little bridges over which you stepped into understanding just how a sentence should go: some places required big bridges, like a full-stop, or lesser bridges, like a semi-colon, and others only tiny foot-bridges, which were commas: but always when you crossed them, the sense of what you read was waiting meekly for you, instead of being a will-o’-the-wisp thing that dodged away from you and hid itself in the mazes of a paragraph. Once you had mastered them it was impossible to read poetry badly, and the lines sang to you as they were meant to sing. Maps, with Miss Green, had been the dreariest species of jigsaw puzzles; now they became pictures that helped you to make stories wonderfully alive. When you had a twin reading you the story of how Hawke chased the French fleet into Quiberon Bay, the full thrill of the story came home if you followed his course on the map, tracing his rush through the quicksands and shallows and roaring breakers, his only pilot-light the flash of the enemy guns. “It would seem just any old bay, if you didn’t see it,” Rex said. “But when the map makes you understand what an awful passage it was—and he did it at night, and in a howling gale!—well, it just makes you squiggle down the back!”

And that is an amount of success which does not fall to all teachers—perhaps not to many.

Lessons ended at twelve, and there was an interval to recruit exhausted nature before the dinner-gong sounded at half-past twelve. At half-past two came bathing-parade, an institution for which the boys were never late. They mustered in the verandah, with light coats flung on over infinitesimal swimming-suits; and being joined by the twins, went, helter-skelter, down the hill to the river. The stream was lower than the twins ever remembered to have seen it, and in most places very little current ran; but the bathing-pool was still good. It was formed by a wide bend in the river; on the far side the bank rose high and steep, but the bank near the house shelved gently down to the water’s edge, in a little beach of fine sand. Mr. Weston had the pool always kept clear of snags, and it was fenced in, so that the cattle could not drink there. Trees overhung part of it: there were always shade and coolness there, even in the hottest days. A hut, built in bush-fashion of interlaced tea-tree poles, and overgrown with clematis and sarsaparilla, formed a dressing-room, if needed.

The Weston children had learned to swim almost as babies. They could scarcely remember a time when they had not rolled in and out of the water as they chose. But Rex could not swim, and, to handicap him further, he had an instinctive dread of the water. When a tiny boy he had fallen into a creek, and had been nearly drowned; and now, even to enter running water meant a rather painful effort for him. The twins had been warned of this, and they took him very gently.

“You’re not going to learn to swim at all just yet,” they told him, on his first day, as the small boy stood on the sand, looking as if he would have shivered but for the heat of the day.

“But I want to learn to swim,” Rex protested. “I’ve got to. I can’t go to school with other fellows if I can’t swim.”

“No, of course you can’t,” Jean said. “Don’t you worry, old chap; we’ll make a regular Annette Kellermann of you before we’ve done with you. But we won’t be in a hurry. You’ve got to learn this old pool first. Rule I is that you don’t go beyond that rope.”

She pointed to a cord stretched across the water.

“Now, just you remember that the water is never more than three feet deep on this side of that cord; and the bottom is all good, firm sand, with no holes or snags. That’s quite deep enough for you to practise strokes in when you feel like it. Plenty of time. We’ll sail Billy’s yacht first.”

Billy’s yacht was a noble craft built by Mr. Weston, and home-rigged. In a favourable wind she sailed well, but had a disconcerting habit of suddenly turning turtle with no apparent reason. Her builder stated that it must be due to some mysterious flaw in her original plan, but, as no one knew what the original plan was, this theory was scarcely helpful. Jo’s explanation was that she had really meant to be a submarine, and had occasional uncontrollable impulses towards this ambition. Whatever the reason might be, this curious habit of the yacht’s lent considerable excitement to sailing her.

The boys played with the boat in the shallow water during the first bathing days, Billy heroically stifling his longing for deep water so that Rex might not feel himself an outsider; and gradually the boy lost his first nervous terror of the cool touch of the river. Then, as the twins saw that he was gaining confidence, they proposed a new game. They brought to the river one afternoon a huge rubber ball, at the sight of which Billy yelled with joy.

“Water-polo!” he shouted. “Wherever did you get it!”

He gave the ball a mighty kick, and it rose high in the air, to fall in the deepest part of the pool. Billy was after it like a flash. He darted across the pool with swift strokes, and then, turning on his back, kicked the ball before him as he swam out again. Rex watched him enviously.

“Wish I could do that,” he muttered.

“So you will, soon,” Jo said. “Come along, and we’ll have water-tennis; you and Billy can keep the ball on the shallow side, and Jean and I will go out in the deep part. It’s no end of fun.”

It was indeed a glorious game for a blazing January day. At first Rex kept prudently near the bank; but as the excitement of keeping the ball going backwards and forwards grew upon him, he forgot himself more and more, and a few splashing tumbles gave him increased confidence, since he found that he always emerged safely. Soon he was as keen as Billy, laughing, shouting, and racing hither and thither after the elusive ball. Backwards and forwards across the rope it flew, a wet and slippery thing that never took the direction it might reasonably be expected to take; and after it plunged and splashed and scrambled and flopped the small boys, yelling with glee. The twins bobbed about in the deep water, like cheery young seals, returning the boys’ erratic services, and keeping a keen eye on the movements of their pupil.

“Working like a charm,” Jo said, nodding sagely.

“Yes, isn’t it?” responded her fellow-plotter. “Look at him!—he went right under then, and never minded a bit. He’ll be like a dabchick soon.”

And indeed, after three days of water-tennis, Rex revolted against the limitations of the non-swimmer. The ball had bobbed away from him at an unexpected angle into deep water; he flopped after it, missed his footing, and went under. Scarcely had his head disappeared when a twin was by his side, her hand on his arm. Rex came up, shaking the water from his eyes, and bursting into a flood of incoherent speech.

“Why, you’re not frightened, Rex?” demanded Jo, the twin in question. “You weren’t really in deep water, you know.”

“Frightened? No, of course I’m not frightened,” said Rex crossly. “I’m wild, that’s all! It’s just too silly, not being able to swim—I’d have had that ball as easy as wink if I could have swum two strokes. Do teach me, Jo!”

“My, rather!” said Jo delightedly. “Here you go—I’ll hold you.” She swung him off his feet, her hands under his chest. “Now kick away: hands too. I won’t let you down.”

Rex kicked manfully, thrashing the water until the splashing almost hid his teacher and himself. Gradually Jo induced him to calm his movements, and they progressed up and down beside the rope.

“Don’t try to go too quickly—you aren’t trying to increase your number of strokes per minute, you’re learning to swim. Bring your hands well back—remember you’re using them and the soles of your feet to push you through the water—that’s right, now you’re doing better. Slowly does it—now, don’t you begin to feel you’re shoving yourself along?”

“I’m not really, am I?” Rex panted.

“Yes, of course you are; do you think I’d walk about in the water carrying a great lump like you?” demanded his instructor, pithily. “Not much; and soon you’ll be doing all the work for yourself, and I’ll only be keeping one finger under your chin; and then I’ll forget you, when I want to scratch my nose, and take it away; and you’ll never notice, ’cause you’ll be swimming along merrily by yourself. All that keeps most people from swimming is the idea that it’s dreadful to go under the water; now you’ve found out that it’s really quite pleasant and homely under there, and you won’t mind a bit. And I’ll write to your mother and tell her you’ve developed into a young human porpoise, and she’ll be ever so proud! And now I think we’ll have a rest,” Jo finished, panting herself. “Stick your feet down: you’re only within your depth.”

“Like it. Rex?” demanded Billy, swimming happily on the other side of the rope.

“Rather. Only I don’t know that I’ll ever go by myself.”

“You’ll swim by yourself just as soon as you believe that you can,” stated Jo. “You know all the movements now—that comes of practising them on land. It’s only a question of believing you can swim—and there you’ll be!”

“I’m an awful hen in the water, you know, Jo.”

“Now, that’s the very thing you’re _not_ to believe,” Jo said, positively. “The fellow who thinks he’s a hen in anything will act like a hen—and I simply decline to teach hens! But we aren’t going to hurry you, old chap: we’ll have a few days of practising like this before we let you go alone, and then it will only be inside the rope, and facing towards the bank, so that you’ll know you’ve only to put your feet down and bob your head up, if you go under. So don’t worry.”

“You’re an awful brick, Jo!” said the small boy gratefully.

“I’m not—I’m a high-class instructor!” said Jo, laughing. “Come on, and we’ll have some more tennis.”

They practised tennis and swimming alternately during that day and the next, Jo and Jean taking turns in supporting their kicking pupil. On the way up to the house, and at intervals throughout the day, he was to be seen vigorously employing the breast-stroke; he was even discovered face downwards across a log in the paddock, practising with his feet as well as his arms, and gasping heavily.

“There’s nothing in it, you know,” he said in his old-fashioned manner to Billy. “Any ass could do the movements. Then why can’t I swim?”

“But p’rhaps you can,” said Billy, grinning. “Jo says you can do anything if you only believe you can. You’d better practise believing, instead of breast-stroke!”

“I believe I’d better,” said Rex solemnly.

Billy awoke next morning earlier than usual. He fancied he had heard a step: and yet there was no sound in the house. He leaned on his elbow, and looking across towards Rex’s bed, saw that it was empty.

This was unusual, for Rex loved his bed, and, as a rule, it was hard to withdraw him from it. Billy was mildly surprised. There was another sound, inside their room, and he went to the window and peeped in. Rex, in his little coat and sandals, a towel over his arm, was just going out into the passage.

“Great Scott!” said Billy. “He’s off to bathe by himself!”

A moment’s reflection showed him that this was a proceeding that should not be allowed. He hesitated a moment over the point of calling Jean and Jo: then he decided that he could deal with it himself. He slipped on his bathing-knickers and coat, and trotted down the hill after Rex, just as the twin’s alarum-clock brought them painfully from their beds.

Ambition had been striving within Rex for four-and-twenty hours. He wanted to swim alone: he felt within himself that he _could_ swim, if only he might try without anyone there to witness his preliminary struggles. Overnight he had made up his mind to go down alone to the river, if only he could awake early enough. He had gone to sleep urgently repeating, “I’m going to wake up at four”; he had given himself four hard knocks on the head, a plan which—so he had heard—never failed to rouse you at the time indicated by the number of knocks. And whether the fact was due to one of these charms, or to his own determination, he had certainly waked up in the early dawn.

Bathing did not seem half so tempting then as in the heat of the day, although it had been a hot night, and he had lain with only a sheet as covering. Still, his mind was made up, and it was an obstinate enough little mind; so, after a few moments’ hesitation, he got up noiselessly, and slipped away.

He ran down the hill as hard as he could, trying to get hot enough to be anxious for the cool touch of the water. But he was not very thoroughly warmed when he reached the river; and it looked lonely and dark under its overhanging trees. He flung off his sandals and coat without giving himself time to think, and ran in.

Whew-w! it was cold. At the first touch of the still water his courage almost melted. This would not do, he knew. Stooping, he splashed water over his head and face, as the twins had taught him, and then flung himself full-length in the shallows, knowing that once he was wet all over, one terror would have passed. That was better. He stood up and waded sturdily out towards the rope—just as Billy gained the bank and dived into the dressing-hut for purposes of observation.

Rex turned when he reached the rope and faced the bank from which he had come, telling himself, over and over, that if he did go under he was only within his depth. It was a comforting thought, but it needed constant repetition, or it seemed to slip away from him—so dark and unpleasant seemed the water. It was not at all like the warm, cheery pool in which they frolicked daily after dinner. There was no small effort of heroism, at length, in his sudden, clumsy dive forward.

He went under, lost his head for a moment, and came up, gasping and spluttering, all his courage gone, for a moment. Then he realized that he had not tried to swim at all—that from the first his feet had been seeking for the bottom. “Silly ass I am!” he remarked—and dived forward again, kicking vigorously.

Hurrah! he was swimming. One, two, three—yes, that was certainly three strokes, and he was almost in the shallows. Another, and his knees touched the bottom. He turned on his back, digging his hands into the oozy sand, and kicked in an ecstasy of triumph. The rope was really quite a decent distance away, and he had swum from it—he, Rex Forester, who had always been scared of water! It was almost beyond belief.

“Won’t Jo yell!” he said aloud. “I—I think I’ll swim out to the rope again.”

He rose and waded a few steps, and cast himself forward again. It was quite easy this time: he made a huge splashing, but certainly the rope was getting nearer. Then almost within reach of it, he missed his stroke and tried to clutch the rope, losing his head for a moment. The impetus of his kick carried him forward, under the rope. There was nothing but deep water before him, and he did not know how to turn. Terror seized him, and he went under.

He rose, choking, clawing at the air. Then a leg, lean and brown and scarred, came beside him, and, as he clutched it, a cool voice spoke cheerily.

“My word, that was bonza!” said Billy. “Told you you’d swim. Hang on to my leg and turn now, and I’ll give you a start and race you in.”

Rex grasped him, panting. Billy, on his back, was holding the taut rope with both hands and stiffening his young body in the water, kicking gently towards him. He drew him quietly back until the rope was within his reach. A faint sigh of relief escaped the rescuer as Rex caught the cord and pulled himself in until his feet were on the bottom once more.

“You’re a nice sort of chap, scooting off to go swimming all alone,” said Billy, bobbing up and down cheerily beside him. “Anyhow, now you know that you can swim all right, and we’ll have no end of larks.”

“I can’t,” Rex shivered, his teeth chattering. “I’d have drowned if you hadn’t come.”

“Not you!” Billy’s voice was reassuring. “You only thought you couldn’t swim for a moment. Come along and we’ll swim in.”

“I don’t think I will,” Rex quivered. “I’ll just wade in.”

“Ah, don’t,” Billy begged. “You can’t say that, after the way you were swimming about before I came in. Have a go, now—I’ll be just behind you.”

Thus adjured, Rex gripped his waning courage in both hands and plunged in again. This time it was quite easy: in a moment he was near the bank and Billy was crowing gently beside him, triumphant.

“That’s top-hole. Cold?”

“Rather!” chattered Rex.

“I’ll tell you what, then—come and have a race on the bank to get warm, and we’ll have another practice afterwards.”

They splashed out and tore round the dry slopes like a couple of young puppies. The sun was well up now: already it was warm with the promise of a blazing day. In a few minutes they were glowing with heat. Down the bank again and into the water, tumbling over each other in the shallows; then they swam out to the rope, and back again, and round and round in a circle, Rex’s confidence developing at every stroke. He tingled with the joy that comes with the first knowledge that deep water has lost its mystery and terror and has become merely a playfellow.

“I believe I could swim right across, now!” he said, looking longingly at the deep side.

“Yes, but you better hadn’t—it must be nearly cow-time,” said Billy prudently. “Come along home, or the girls will be hunting for us.”

They trotted home gently, hugging the prospect of surprising the twins. A knowledge of the early-morning habits of those energetic damsels enabled them to slip into their room unperceived, and when they appeared presently in the kitchen, ready for milking, their hats concealing their damp heads, no one suspected them of anything more than being rather later than usual. Faint surprise was excited by their appetites, which seemed remarkable for the early morning, even for small boys.

“Them’s the two to eat,” remarked Sarah, looking after them as they ran off to milk, their hands full of food. “Here was me thinkin’ I’d enough scones to do breakfast—but they’ve made ’em look silly. Well, you’d sooner see ’em eatin’ than not eatin’.”

“Yes, and Rex is looking ever so much better already,” said Jo, with satisfaction.

“H’m,” sniffed Sarah, who adored Billy and viewed with distrust and suspicion any small boy so completely unlike him. “I dunno that you’ll ever make a man of him. He’s built wrong. Think he’ll ever swim?”

“Oh, yes—after a bit,” Jo said. “One can’t expect too much all at once.”

They had agreed between themselves that it would be extremely unwise to try to hurry Rex’s development in the water; and as they followed the boys down to the river that afternoon they reminded each other of his disadvantages, deciding that for a week or two they would not think of allowing him to try to swim alone.

“I’d rather wait a month than risk him losing his nerve,” Jo remarked, as they neared the river-bank. “It’s one thing to paddle round with someone holding you, and quite another to find yourself with nothing but cold water as a support. And he’s such a scared little kid. We’d never forgive ourselves if——”

She broke off, gaping. They had come within sight of the pool; and there, beside the rope, the “scared little kid” was swimming solemnly, his earnest face, with very tightly-shut lips, held stiffly away from the water, his eyes anxiously watching for them, to make sure they missed no detail of his prowess. At the sight of their amazed faces he uttered a kind of triumphant snort, and promptly sank—emerging a second later, grinning broadly. Beside him, Billy swung upon the rope, chanting a gleeful song.

“Well—I—never!” gasped the twins, in unison.

“We couldn’t wait for you,” called Billy patronizingly. “You’re so jolly slow at teaching a chap to swim!”