‘There’s the sad part of it. They sailed out that autumn from Rye Royal, and there never came back so much as a single rope-yarn to show what had befallen them. The winds blew, and they were not. Does that make you alter your mind, young Burleigh?’

‘I expect they were drowned, then. Anyhow, Philip didn’t score, did he?’

‘Gloriana wiped out her score with Philip later. But if Philip had won, would you have blamed Gloriana for wasting those lads’ lives?’

‘Of course not. She was bound to try to stop him.’

The lady coughed. ‘You have the root of the matter in you. Were I Queen, I’d make you Minister.’

‘We don’t play that game,’ said Una, who felt that she disliked the lady as much as she disliked the noise the high wind made tearing through Willow Shaw.

‘Play!’ said the lady with a laugh, and threw up her hands affectedly. The sunshine caught the jewels on her many rings and made them flash till Una’s eyes dazzled, and she had to rub them. Then she saw Dan on his knees picking up the potatoes they had spilled at the gate.

‘There wasn’t anybody in the Shaw, after all,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you think you saw some one?’

‘I’m most awfully glad there isn’t,’ said Una. Then they went on with the potato-roast.

THE LOOKING-GLASS

Queen Bess was Harry’s daughter!

The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old,
Her petticoat was satin and her stomacher was gold.
Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass,
Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As comely or as kindly or as young as once she was!

The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair,
There came Queen Mary’s spirit and it stood behind her chair,
Singing, ‘Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,
But I will stand behind you till you face the looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was!’

The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore,
There came Lord Leicester’s spirit and it scratched upon the door,
Singing, ‘Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,
But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As hard and unforgiving or as wicked as you was!’

The Queen was in her chamber; her sins were on her head;
She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said:
‘Backwards and forwards and sideways though I’ve been,
Yet I am Harry’s daughter and I am England’s Queen!’
And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else there was),
And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass
In the cruel looking-glass that can always hurt a lass
More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!

The Wrong Thing

A TRUTHFUL SONG

I

The Bricklayer: —
I tell this tale which is strictly true,
Just by way of convincing you
How very little since things were made
Things have altered in the building trade.

A year ago, come the middle o’ March,
We was building flats near the Marble Arch,
When a thin young man with coal-black hair
Came up to watch us working there.

Now there wasn’t a trick in brick or stone
That this young man hadn’t seen or known;
Nor there wasn’t a tool from trowel to maul
But this young man could use ’em all!

Then up and spoke the plumbyers bold,
Which was laying the pipes for the hot and cold:
‘Since you with us have made so free,
Will you kindly say what your name might be?’

The young man kindly answered them:
‘It might be Lot or Methusalem,
Or it might be Moses (a man I hate),
Whereas it is Pharaoh surnamed the Great.

‘Your glazing is new and your plumbing’s strange,
But otherwise I perceive no change,
And in less than a month if you do as I bid
I’d learn you to build me a Pyramid.’

II

The Sailor: —
I tell this tale which is stricter true,
Just by way of convincing you
How very little since things was made
Things have altered in the shipwright’s trade.

In Blackwall Basin yesterday
A China barque re-fitting lay,
When a fat old man with snow-white hair
Came up to watch us working there.

Now there wasn’t a knot which the riggers knew
But the old man made it – and better too;
Nor there wasn’t a sheet, or a lift, or a brace,
But the old man knew its lead and place.

Then up and spake the caulkyers bold,
Which was packing the pump in the after-hold:
‘Since you with us have made so free,
Will you kindly tell what your name might be?’

The old man kindly answered them:
‘It might be Japhet, it might be Shem,
Or it might be Ham (though his skin was dark),
Whereas it is Noah, commanding the Ark.

‘Your wheel is new and your pumps are strange,
But otherwise I perceive no change,
And in less than a week, if she did not ground,
I’d sail this hooker the wide world round!’

Both: We tell these tales which are strictest true, etc.

The Wrong Thing

Dan had gone in for building model boats; but after he had filled the schoolroom with chips, which he expected Una to clear away, they turned him out of doors and he took all his tools up the hill to Mr. Springett’s yard, where he knew he could make as much mess as he chose. Old Mr. Springett was a builder, contractor, and sanitary engineer, and his yard, which opened off the village street, was always full of interesting things. At one end of it was a long loft, reached by a ladder, where he kept his iron-bound scaffold planks, tins of paints, pulleys, and odds and ends he had found in old houses. He would sit here by the hour watching his carts as they loaded or unloaded in the yard below, while Dan gouged and grunted at the carpenter’s bench near the loft window. Mr. Springett and Dan had always been particular friends, for Mr. Springett was so old he could remember when railways were being made in the southern counties of England, and people were allowed to drive dogs in carts.

One hot, still afternoon – the tar-paper on the roof smelt like ships – Dan, in his shirt sleeves, was smoothing down a new schooner’s bow, and Mr. Springett was talking of barns and houses he had built. He said he never forgot any stick or stone he had ever handled, or any man, woman, or child he had ever met. Just then he was very proud of the village Hall at the entrance to the village, which he had finished a few weeks before.

‘An’ I don’t mind tellin’ you, Mus’ Dan,’ he said, ‘that the Hall will be my last job top of this mortal earth. I didn’t make ten pounds – no, nor yet five – out o’ the whole contrac’, but my name’s lettered on the foundation stone —Ralph Springett, Builder– and the stone she’s bedded on four foot good concrete. If she shifts any time these five hundred years, I’ll sure-ly turn in my grave. I told the Lunnon architec’ so when he come down to oversee my work.’

‘What did he say?’ Dan was sandpapering the schooner’s port bow.

‘Nothing. The Hall ain’t more than one of his small jobs for him, but ’tain’t small to me, an’ my name is cut and lettered, frontin’ the village street, I do hope an’ pray, for time everlastin.’ You’ll want the little round file for that holler in her bow. Who’s there?’ Mr. Springett turned stiffly in his chair.

A long pile of scaffold-planks ran down the centre of the loft. Dan looked, and saw Hal of the Draft’s touzled head beyond them.³

‘Be you the builder of the village Hall?’ he asked of Mr. Springett.

‘I be,’ was the answer. ‘But if you want a job – ’

Hal laughed. ‘No, faith!’ he said. ‘Only the Hall is as good and honest a piece of work as I’ve ever run a rule over. So, being born hereabouts, and being reckoned a master among masons, and accepted as a master mason, I made bold to pay my brotherly respects to the builder.’

‘Aa – um!’ Mr. Springett looked important. ‘I be a bit rusty, but I’ll try ye!’

He asked Hal several curious questions, and the answers must have pleased him, for he invited Hal to sit down. Hal moved up, always keeping behind the pile of planks so that only his head showed, and sat down on a trestle in the dark corner at the back of Mr. Springett’s desk. He took no notice of Dan, but talked at once to Mr. Springett about bricks, and cement, and lead and glass, and after a while Dan went on with his work. He knew Mr. Springett was pleased, because he tugged his white sandy beard, and smoked his pipe in short puffs. The two men seemed to agree about everything, but when grown-ups agree they interrupt each other almost as much as if they were quarrelling. Hal said something about workmen.

‘Why, that’s what I always say,’ Mr. Springett cried. ‘A man who can only do one thing, he’s but next-above-fool to the man that can’t do nothing. That’s where the Unions make their mistake.’

‘My thought to the very dot.’ Dan heard Hal slap his tight-hosed leg. ‘I’ve suffered in my time from these same Guilds – Unions d’you call ’em? All their precious talk of the mysteries of their trades – why, what does it come to?’

‘Nothin’! You’ve just about hit it,’ said Mr. Springett, and rammed his hot tobacco with his thumb.

‘Take the art of wood-carving,’ Hal went on. He reached across the planks, grabbed a wooden mallet, and moved his other hand as though he wanted something. Mr. Springett without a word passed him one of Dan’s broad chisels. ‘Ah! Wood-carving, for example. If you can cut wood and have a fair draft of what ye mean to do, a Heaven’s name take chisel and mall and let drive at it, say I! You’ll soon find all the mystery, forsooth, of wood-carving under your proper hand!’ Whack, came the mallet on the chisel, and a sliver of wood curled up in front of it. Mr. Springett watched like an old raven.

‘All art is one, man – one!’ said Hal between whacks; ‘and to wait on another man to finish out – ’

‘To finish out your work ain’t no sense,’ Mr. Springett cut in. ‘That’s what I’m always saying to the boy here.’ He nodded towards Dan. ‘That’s what I said when I put the new wheel into Brewster’s Mill in Eighteen hundred Seventy-two. I reckoned I was millwright enough for the job ’thout bringin’ a man from Lunnon. An’ besides, dividin’ work eats up profits, no bounds.’

Hal laughed his beautiful deep laugh, and Mr. Springett joined in till Dan laughed too.

‘You handle your tools, I can see,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘I reckon, if you’re any way like me, you’ve found yourself hindered by those – Guilds, did you call ’em? – Unions, we say.’

‘You may say so!’ Hal pointed to a white scar on his cheek-bone. ‘This is a remembrance from the master watching Foreman of Masons on Magdalen Tower, because, please you, I dared to carve stone without their leave. They said a stone had slipped from the cornice by accident.’

‘I know them accidents. There’s no way to disprove ’em. An’ stones ain’t the only things that slip,’ Mr. Springett grunted. Hal went on:

‘I’ve seen a scaffold-plank keckle and shoot a too-clever workman thirty foot on to the cold chancel floor below. And a rope can break – ’

‘Yes, natural as nature; an’ lime’ll fly up in a man’s eyes without any breath o’ wind sometimes,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘But who’s to show ’twasn’t a accident?’

‘Who do these things?’ Dan asked, and straightened his back at the bench as he turned the schooner end-for-end in the vice to get at her counter.

‘Them which don’t wish other men to work no better nor quicker than they do,’ growled Mr. Springett. ‘Don’t pinch her so hard in the vice, Mus’ Dan. Put a piece o’ rag in the jaws, or you’ll bruise her. More than that’ – he turned towards Hal – ‘if a man has his private spite laid up against you, the Unions give him his excuse for working it off.’

‘Well I know it,’ said Hal.

‘They never let you go, them spiteful ones. I knowed a plasterer in Eighteen hundred Sixty-one – down to the Wells. He was a Frenchy – a bad enemy he was.’

‘I had mine too. He was an Italian, called Benedetto. I met him first at Oxford on Magdalen Tower when I was learning my trade – or trades, I should say. A bad enemy he was, as you say, but he came to be my singular good friend,’ said Hal as he put down the mallet and settled himself comfortably.

‘What might his trade have been – plasterin’?’ Mr. Springett asked.

‘Plastering of a sort. He worked in stucco – fresco we call it. Made pictures on plaster. Not but what he had a fine sweep of the hand in drawing. He’d take the long sides of a cloister, trowel on his stuff, and roll out his great all-abroad pictures of saints and croppy-topped trees quick as a webster unrolling cloth almost. Oh, Benedetto could draw, but a was a little-minded man, professing to be full of secrets of colour or plaster – common tricks, all of ’em – and his one single talk was how Tom, Dick or Harry had stole this or t’other secret art from him.’

‘I know that sort,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘There’s no keeping peace or making peace with such. An’ they’re mostly born an’ bone idle.’

‘True. Even his fellow-countrymen laughed at his jealousy. We two came to loggerheads early on Magdalen Tower. I was a youngster then. Maybe I spoke my mind about his work.’

‘You shouldn’t never do that.’ Mr. Springett shook his head. ‘That sort lay it up against you.’

‘True enough. This Benedetto did most specially. Body o’ me, the man lived to hate me! But I always kept my eyes open on a plank or a scaffold. I was mighty glad to be shut of him when he quarrelled with his Guild foreman, and went off, nose in air, and paints under his arm. But’ – Hal leaned forward – ‘if you hate a man or a man hates you – ’

‘I know. You’re everlastin’ running acrost him,’ Mr. Springett interrupted. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ He leaned out of the window, and shouted to a carter who was loading a cart with bricks.

‘Ain’t you no more sense than to heap ’em up that way?’ he said. ‘Take an’ throw a hundred of ’em off. It’s more than the team can compass. Throw ’em off, I tell you, and make another trip for what’s left over. Excuse me, sir. You was saying – ’

‘I was saying that before the end of the year I went to Bury to strengthen the lead-work in the great Abbey east window there.’

‘Now that’s just one of the things I’ve never done. But I mind there was a cheap excursion to Chichester in Eighteen hundred Seventy-nine, an’ I went an’ watched ’em leading a won’erful fine window in Chichester Cathedral. I stayed watchin’ till ’twas time for us to go back. Dunno as I had two drinks p’raps, all that day.’

Hal smiled. ‘At Bury then, sure enough, I met my enemy Benedetto. He had painted a picture in plaster on the south wall of the Refectory – a noble place for a noble thing – a picture of Jonah.’

‘Ah! Jonah an’ his whale. I’ve never been as fur as Bury. You’ve worked about a lot,’ said Mr. Springett, with his eyes on the carter below.

‘No. Not the whale. This was a picture of Jonah and the pompion that withered. But all that Benedetto had shown was a peevish greybeard huggled up in angle-edged drapery beneath a pompion on a wooden trellis. This last, being a dead thing, he’d drawn it as ’twere to the life. But fierce old Jonah, bared in the sun, angry even to death that his cold prophecy was disproven – Jonah, ashamed, and already hearing the children of Nineveh running to mock him – ah, that was what Benedetto had not drawn!’

‘He better ha’ stuck to his whale, then,’ said Mr. Springett.

‘He’d ha’ done no better with that. He draws the damp cloth off the picture, an’ shows it to me. I was a craftsman too, d’ye see?

‘“’Tis good,” I said, “but it goes no deeper than the plaster."

‘“What?” he said in a whisper.

‘“Be thy own judge, Benedetto,” I answered. “Does it go deeper than the plaster?"

‘He reeled against a piece of dry wall. “No,” he says, “and I know it. I could not hate thee more than I have done these five years, but if I live, I will try, Hal. I will try.” Then he goes away. I pitied him, but I had spoken truth. His picture went no deeper than the plaster.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Springett, who had turned quite red. ‘You was talkin’ so fast I didn’t understand what you was drivin’ at. I’ve seen men – good workmen they was – try to do more than they could do, and – and they couldn’t compass it. They knowed it, and it nigh broke their hearts like. You was in your right, o’ course, sir, to say what you thought o’ his work; but if you’ll excuse me, was you in your duty?’

‘I was wrong to say it,’ Hal replied. ‘God forgive me – I was young! He was workman enough himself to know where he failed. But it all came evens in the long run. By the same token, did ye ever hear o’ one Torrigiano – Torrisany we called him?’

‘I can’t say I ever did. Was he a Frenchy like?’

‘No, a hectoring, hard-mouthed, long-sworded Italian builder, as vain as a peacock and as strong as a bull, but, mark you, a master workman. More than that – he could get his best work out of the worst men.’

‘Which it’s a gift. I had a foreman-bricklayer like him once,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘He used to prod ’em in the back like with a pointing-trowel, and they did wonders.’

‘I’ve seen our Torrisany lay a ’prentice down with one buffet and raise him with another – to make a mason of him. I worked under him at building a chapel in London – a chapel and a tomb for the king.’

‘I never knew kings went to chapel much,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘But I always hold with a man, don’t care who he be, seein’ about his own grave before he dies. Tidn’t the sort of thing to leave to your family after the will’s read. I reckon ’twas a fine vault.’

‘None finer in England. This Torrigiano had the contract for it, as you’d say. He picked master craftsmen from all parts – England, France, Italy, the Low Countries – no odds to him so long as they knew their work, and he drove them like – like pigs at Brightling Fair. He called us English all pigs. We suffered it because he was a master in his craft. If he misliked any work that a man had done, with his own great hands he’d rive it out, and tear it down before us all. “Ah, you pig – you English pig!” he’d scream in the dumb wretch’s face. “You answer me? You look at me? You think at me? Come out with me into the cloisters. I will teach you carving myself. I will gild you all over!” But when his passion had blown out, he’d slip his arm round the man’s neck, and impart knowledge worth gold. ‘Twould have done your heart good, Mus’ Springett, to see the two hundred of us – masons, jewellers, carvers, gilders, iron workers and the rest – all toiling like cock-angels, and this mad Italian hornet fleeing from one to next up and down the chapel. ‘Done your heart good, it would!’

‘I believe you,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘In Eighteen hundred Fifty-four, I mind, the railway was bein’ made into Hastin’s. There was two thousand navvies on it – all young – all strong – an’ I was one of ’em. Oh, dearie me! Excuse me, sir, but was your enemy workin’ with you?’

‘Benedetto? Be sure he was. He followed me like a lover. He painted pictures on the chapel ceiling – slung from a chair. Torrigiano made us promise not to fight till the work should be finished. We were both master craftsmen, do ye see, and he needed us. None the less, I never went aloft to carve ’thout testing all my ropes and knots each morning. We were never far from each other. Benedetto ’ud sharpen his knife on his sole while he waited for his plaster to dry —wheet, wheet, wheet. I’d hear it where I hung chipping round a pillar-head, and we’d nod to each other friendly-like. Oh, he was a craftsman, was Benedetto, but his hate spoiled his eye and his hand. I mind the night I had finished the models for the bronze saints round the tomb; Torrigiano embraced me before all the chapel, and bade me to supper. I met Benedetto when I came out. He was slavering in the porch like a mad dog.’

‘Working himself up to it?’ said Mr. Springett. ‘Did he have it in at ye that night?’

‘No, no. That time he kept his oath to Torrigiano. But I pitied him. Eh, well! Now I come to my own follies. I had never thought too little of myself; but after Torrisany had put his arm round my neck, I – I’ – Hal broke into a laugh – ‘I lay there was not much odds ’twixt me and a cock-sparrow in his pride.’

‘I was pretty middlin’ young once on a time,’ said Mr. Springett.

‘Then ye know that a man can’t drink and dice and dress fine, and keep company above his station, but his work suffers for it, Mus’ Springett.’

‘I never held much with dressin’ up, but – you’re right! The worst mistakes I ever made they was made on a Monday morning,’ Mr. Springett answered. ‘We’ve all been one sort of fool or t’other. Mus’ Dan, Mus’ Dan, take the smallest gouge, or you’ll be spluttin’ her stern works clean out. Can’t ye see the grain of the wood don’t favour a chisel?’

‘I’ll spare you some of my follies. But there was a man called Brygandyne – Bob Brygandyne – Clerk of the King’s Ships, a little, smooth, bustling atomy, as clever as a woman to get work done for nothin’ – a won’erful smooth-tongued pleader. He made much o’ me, and asked me to draft him out a drawing, a piece of carved and gilt scroll-work for the bows of one of the King’s ships – the Sovereign was her name.’

‘Was she a man-of-war?’ asked Dan.

‘She was a war-ship, and a woman called Catherine of Castile desired the King to give her the ship for a pleasure-ship of her own. I did not know at the time, but she’d been at Bob to get this scroll-work done and fitted that the King might see it. I made him the picture, in an hour, all of a heat after supper – one great heaving play of dolphins and a Neptune or so reining in webby-footed sea-horses, and Arion with his harp high atop of them. It was twenty-three foot long, and maybe nine foot deep – painted and gilt.’

‘It must ha’ just about looked fine,’ said Mr. Springett.

‘That’s the curiosity of it. ‘Twas bad – rank bad. In my conceit I must needs show it to Torrigiano, in the chapel. He straddles his legs; hunches his knife behind him, and whistles like a storm-cock through a sleet-shower. Benedetto was behind him. He were never far apart, I’ve told you.

‘“That is pig’s work,” says our Master. “Swine’s work. You make any more such things, even after your fine Court suppers, and you shall be sent away."

‘Benedetto licks his lips like a cat. “Is it so bad then, Master?” he says. “What a pity!"

‘“Yes,” says Torrigiano. “Scarcely you could do things so bad. I will condescend to show."

‘He talks to me then and there. No shouting, no swearing (it was too bad for that); but good, memorable counsel, bitten in slowly. Then he sets me to draft out a pair of iron gates, to take, as he said, the taste of my naughty dolphins out of my mouth. Iron’s sweet stuff if you don’t torture her, and hammered work is all pure, truthful line, with a reason and a support for every curve and bar of it. A week at that settled my stomach handsomely, and the Master let me put the work through the smithy, where I sweated out more of my foolish pride.’

‘Good stuff is good iron,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘I done a pair of lodge gates once in Eighteen hundred Sixty-three.’

‘Oh, I forgot to say that Bob Brygandyne whipped away my draft of the ship’s scroll-work, and would not give it back to me to re-draw. He said ’twould do well enough. Howsoever, my lawful work kept me too busied to remember him. Body o’ me, but I worked that winter upon the gates and the bronzes for the tomb as I’d never worked before! I was leaner than a lath, but I lived – I lived then!’ Hal looked at Mr. Springett with his wise, crinkled-up eyes, and the old man smiled back.

‘Ouch!’ Dan cried. He had been hollowing out the schooner’s after-deck, the little gouge had slipped and gashed the ball of his left thumb, – an ugly, triangular tear.

‘That came of not steadying your wrist,’ said Hal calmly. ‘Don’t bleed over the wood. Do your work with your heart’s blood, but no need to let it show.’ He rose and peered into a corner of the loft.

Mr. Springett had risen too, and swept down a ball of cobwebs from a rafter.

‘Clap that on,’ was all he said, ‘and put your handkerchief atop. ‘Twill cake over in a minute. It don’t hurt now, do it?’

‘No,’ said Dan indignantly. ‘You know it has happened lots of times. I’ll tie it up myself. Go on, sir.’

‘And it’ll happen hundreds of times more,’ said Hal with a friendly nod as he sat down again. But he did not go on till Dan’s hand was tied up properly. Then he said:

‘One dark December day – too dark to judge colour – we was all sitting and talking round the fires in the chapel (you heard good talk there), when Bob Brygandyne bustles in and – "Hal, you’re sent for,” he squeals. I was at Torrigiano’s feet on a pile of put-locks, as I might be here, toasting a herring on my knife’s point. ‘Twas the one English thing our Master liked – salt herring.

‘“I’m busy, about my art,” I calls.

‘“Art?” says Bob. “What’s Art compared to your scroll-work for the Sovereign. Come."

‘“Be sure your sins will find you out,” says Torrigiano. “Go with him and see.” As I followed Bob out I was aware of Benedetto, like a black spot when the eyes are tired, sliddering up behind me.

‘Bob hurries through the streets in the raw fog, slips into a doorway, up stairs, along passages, and at last thrusts me into a little cold room vilely hung with Flemish tapestries, and no furnishing except a table and my draft of the Sovereign’s scroll-work. Here he leaves me. Presently comes in a dark, long-nosed man in a fur cap.

‘“Master Harry Dawe?” said he.

‘“The same,” I says. “Where a plague has Bob Brygandyne gone?"

‘His thin eyebrows surged up a piece and come down again in a stiff bar. "He went to the King,” he says.

‘“All one. What’s your pleasure with me?” I says shivering, for it was mortal cold.

‘He lays his hand flat on my draft. “Master Dawe,” he says, “do you know the present price of gold leaf for all this wicked gilding of yours?”

‘By that I guessed he was some cheese-paring clerk or other of the King’s Ships, so I gave him the price. I forget it now, but it worked out to thirty pounds – carved, gilt, and fitted in place.

‘“Thirty pounds!” he said, as though I had pulled a tooth of him. "You talk as though thirty pounds was to be had for the asking. None the less,” he says, “your draft’s a fine piece of work.”

‘I’d been looking at it ever since I came in, and ’twas viler even than I judged it at first. My eye and hand had been purified the past months, d’you see, by my iron work.

‘“I could do it better now,” I said. The more I studied my squabby Neptunes the less I liked ’em; and Arion was a pure flaming shame atop of the unbalanced dolphins.

‘“I doubt it will be fresh expense to draft it again,” he says.

‘“Bob never paid me for the first draft. I lay he’ll never pay me for the second. ‘Twill cost the King nothing if I re-draw it,” I says.

‘“There’s a woman wishes it to be done quickly,” he says. “We’ll stick to your first drawing, Mus’ Dawe. But thirty pounds is thirty pounds. You must make it less.”

‘And all the while the faults in my draft fair leaped out and hit me between the eyes. At any cost, I thinks to myself, I must get it back and re-draft it. He grunts at me impatiently, and a splendid thought comes to me, which shall save me. By the same token, ’twas quite honest.’

‘They ain’t always,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘How did you get out of it?’

‘By the truth. I says to Master Fur Cap, as I might to you here, I says, “I’ll tell you something, since you seem a knowledgeable man. Is the Sovereign to lie in Thames river all her days, or will she take the high seas?”

‘“Oh,” he says quickly, “the King keeps no cats that don’t catch mice. She must sail the seas, Master Dawe. She’ll be hired to merchants for the trade. She’ll be out in all shapes o’ weathers. Does that make any odds?”

‘“Why, then,” says I, “the first heavy sea she sticks her nose into ’ll claw off half that scroll-work, and the next will finish it. If she’s meant for a pleasure-ship give me my draft again, and I’ll porture you a pretty, light piece of scroll-work, good, cheap. If she’s meant for the open sea, pitch the draft into the fire. She can never carry that weight on her bows.”

‘He looks at me squintlings and plucks his under-lip.

‘“Is this your honest, unswayed opinion?” he says.

‘“Body o’ me! Ask about!” I says. “Any seaman could tell you ’tis true. I’m advising you against my own profit, but why I do so is my own concern.”

‘“Not altogether,” he says. “It’s some of mine. You’ve saved me thirty pounds, Master Dawe, and you’ve given me good arguments to use against a wilful woman that wants my fine new ship for her own toy. We’ll not have any scroll-work." His face shined with pure joy.

‘“Then see that the thirty pounds you’ve saved on it are honestly paid the King,” I says, “and keep clear o’ womenfolk.” I gathered up my draft and crumpled it under my arm. “If that’s all you need of me I’ll be gone,” I says, “for I’m pressed.”

‘He turns him round and fumbles in a corner. “Too pressed to be made a knight, Sir Harry?” he says, and comes at me smiling, with three-quarters of a rusty sword.

‘I pledge you my Mark I never guessed it was the King till that moment. I kneeled, and he tapped me on the shoulder.

‘“Rise up, Sir Harry Dawe,” he says, and, in the same breath, “I’m pressed, too,” and slips through the tapestries, leaving me like a stuck calf.

‘It come over me, in a bitter wave like, that here was I, a master craftsman, who had worked no bounds, soul or body, to make the King’s tomb and chapel a triumph and a glory for all time; and here, d’you see, I was made knight, not for anything I’d slaved over, or given my heart and guts to, but expressedly because I’d saved him thirty pounds and a tongue-lashing from Catherine of Castile – she that had asked for the ship. That thought shrivelled me withinsides while I was folding away my draft. On the heels of it – maybe you’ll see why – I began to grin to myself. I thought of the earnest simplicity of the man – the King, I should say – because I’d saved him the money; his smile as though he’d won half France! I thought of my own silly pride and foolish expectations that some day he’d honour me as a master craftsman. I thought of the broken-tipped sword he’d found behind the hangings; the dirt of the cold room, and his cold eye, wrapped up in his own concerns, scarcely resting on me. Then I remembered the solemn chapel roof and the bronzes about the stately tomb he’d lie in, and – d’ye see? – the unreason of it all – the mad high humour of it all – took hold on me till I sat me down on a dark stair-head in a passage, and laughed till I could laugh no more. What else could I have done?

3. See ‘Hal o’ the Draft’ in Puck of Pook’s Hill.