Mr. Fargus, who lived next door down the Green, and
outside whose gate the bicycle had made its celebrated
shortage record, was a grey little man with grey whiskers
and always in a grey suit. He had a large and
very red wife and six thin and rather yellowish daughters.
Once a day, at four in summer and at two in winter,
the complete regiment of Farguses moved out in an
immense mass and proceeded in a dense crowd for a
walk. The female Farguses, having very long legs,
walked very fast, and the solitary male Fargus, having
very short legs, walked very slowly, and was usually,
therefore, trotting to keep up with the pack.
He had, moreover, not only to keep pace but also to
keep place. He was forever getting squeezed out
from between two tall Farguses and trotting agitatedly
around the heels of the battalion to recover a position
in it. He always reminded Sabre of a grey old
Scotch terrier toddling along behind and around the
flanks of a company of gaunt, striding mastiffs.
He returned from those walks panting slightly and a
little perspiring, and at the door gave the appearance
of being dismissed, and trotted away rather like a
little grey old Scotch terrier toddling off to the
stables. The lady Farguses called this daily walk
“exercise”; and it certainly was exercise
for Mr. Fargus.
The eldest Miss Fargus was a grim thirty-nine and
the youngest Miss Fargus a determined twenty-eight.
They called their father “Papa” and used
the name a good deal. When Sabre occasionally
had tea at the Farguses’ on a Sunday afternoon
Mr. Fargus always appeared to be sitting at the end
of an immense line of female Farguses. Mrs. Fargus
would pour out a cup and hand it to the Miss Fargus
at her end of the line with the loud word “Papa!”
and it would whiz down the chain from daughter to
daughter to the clamorous direction, each to each,
“Papa!—Papa!—Papa!—Papa!”
The cup would reach Mr. Fargus at the speed of a thunderbolt;
and Mr. Fargus, waiting for it with agitated hands
as a nervous fielder awaits a rushing cricket ball,
would stop it convulsively and usually drop and catch
at and miss the spoon, whereupon the entire chain
of Farguses would give together a very loud “Tchk!”
and immediately shoot at their parent a plate of buns
with “Buns—Buns—Buns—Buns”
all down the line. Similarly when Mr. Fargus’s
grey little face would sometimes appear above the dividing
wall to Sabre in the garden there would come a loud
cry of “Papa, the plums!” and from several
quarters of the garden this would he echoed “Papa,
the plums!” “Papa, the plums!” and
the grey little head, in the middle of a sentence,
would disappear with great swiftness.
Copyrights
If Winter Comes from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
