Mr Harry Paul

CHAPTER V.
HAREFIELD.
16TH JULY, 1910.

Last Saturday was an unfortunate day for me in one respect, because I was deputed to write the report of the ride of the now famous Pilgrims Club, but when I think of the pain that will be caused by the reading of this report, my misfortune seems to pale into insignificance. It is only fair for me to explain to the general body of members that this duty, so foreign to my nature, was thrust upon me by our Captain, and although I tried all the excuses my imagination could conceive – and they were not a few – the result is as you see.

It was decided at the Datchet meeting that the destination of our next ride should be Virginia Water, but for some unknown reason this was changed, and it was not until late on Friday evening that I knew of this alteration, and then only through the kindness of one of our lady members.

Three of us met at that House of Welcome (Down Barns), at about 4 o’clock, where we partook of tea, and were afterwards joined by the Captain, who came staggering in under a load of miniature Union Jacks and tiny rubber bands. We felt the effects of the rubber boom. A little camera smashing then took place, the tail end of this performance being witnessed by three of the Cranford section to provide a little amusement while the ladies rested, some racing was indulged in by three members of the party, the President kindly acting as starter, and the Misses Blackmore and Pool as judges. When this was over and the writer had partaken of more tea, the two ladies who had rested decided to go in for a rest-cure, and they remained at Down Barns all the evening.

The enormous number of six started off for Batchworth Heath, at 5.45pm, their steeds gaily bedecked with the huge insignias of membership before mentioned, and our appearance being received everywhere with acclamation by the assembled multitudes. We went through Ruislip and Eastcote without anything exciting happening except the chorus of cheers aforesaid; and the writer thought he would have to write about an uneventful journey. But soon, incident followed incident in rapid succession, and made this trip perhaps one of the most interesting in the history of the Club. Eastcote was a little to the rear of us, and a prominent hostelry in front when one of the members leading turned round with an appealing look upon his countenance, but we did not suffer ourselves to be tempted and passed by. He gave vent to his spleen by endeavouring to run over a dog and was only partially successful, catching a prominent feature in the rear, and we were unable, therefore, to test the truth of the statement made by the lady of Poyle, that they made good sausages.

Batchworth Heath is a delightfully pretty and truly rural spot, and when we arrived there a party of lady excursionists were having their photos taken, and I suppose it is only natural that high-spirited members of our company should endeavour to attract their attention.

The road from Batchworth Heath to Harefield was what one might call ripping; a good road set in the midst of fern-covered country. At Harefield we alighted at the Pretoria Hall (for what reason I need not explain), which had the advantage of giving us a good view of the green. While we were having our rest, we observed a small fat man who would persist in racing with everybody and anybody, who had evidently a high opinion of his running powers, who also invariably lost, and, as is natural with this kind of person, began to abuse his successful rivals. But there was something more than racing. Standing alone on the village green was a figure that would attract the attention of the most casual passer-by; it arrested ours. It was that of a man about 70 years of age, lean and gaunt of figure, clad in a dirty fustian jacket and corduroy trousers, and crowned with a black cloth cap. His back and knees formed subtle curves, and his whole figure represented the letter S.

But it was his face that arrested our attention. Most of it was covered with a grizzly beard and lean moustache, his lips were tightly compressed as if in pain, his eyes had sunk deeply into his head, and had the appearance of small slits fringed with red; his eyebrows took a semi-circular form, and his brow was deeply lined and wrinkled, as one deep in thought. This we found afterwards to be the case, for as we watched him, his actions became very peculiar, so we drew near to ascertain the cause. Old Smack, as he was called by his associates, was scorer for a game of quoits, between the licensee of the Swan and a customer, the former being easily discernible by his rotund proportions. Smack held in his brown horny left hand a small dirty card, on which he recorded the points, and the manner in which he marked them was the cause of no little amusement. As soon as a point was scored, he grasped his pencil (about one inch long), in a similar manner, I imagine, to what the Knights of Old grasped their swords, wetted the part where the point out to have been between his lips, and then, with his little sunk eyes gleaming through their slits, brow still more furrowed, and altogether the look of a desperate man, he endeavoured to thrust the pencil through the car, first bringing his object to within one eighth of an inch of his nose to prevent him missing it and piercing his hand. And in this attitude he remained like one transfixed, and the longer he stopped in that position, the harder it became to suppress our laughter.

There is not the slightest doubt that Smack was an unconscious humourist; that this gift was unappreciated by the village worthies is also correct, but our timely interference drew attention to their shortcomings and many of the villagers joined in the fun. This totally unexpected and delightful treat was brought to an end by the conclusion of the game and the retirement of the players to the neighbouring hostel, and with great regret we had to leave Smack and his friends. We succeeded in getting his unique scoring card, which will be handed down to posterity among the annals of this Club if it escapes confiscation by any self-respecting sanitary authority.

From Harefield we proceeded to Ickenham where one of our party left us: from Ickenham to Down Barns, where we had supper. Here the party broke up, and the writer and another Pilgrim wended their way home.

HARRY PAUL

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