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                         SQUIB AND HIS FRIENDS.


[Illustration:

  “_Squib flung himself upon the dog, and threw his arms about his
    neck._”

  Page 17.
]




              SQUIB AND HIS FRIENDS ❧ BY E. EVERETT-GREEN


 LONDON, EDINBURGH,
 AND NEW YORK
 THOMAS NELSON
 AND SONS

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CONTENTS.


                      I. “THE ODD ONE,”             9

                     II. GOING AWAY,               28

                    III. THE CHALET IN THE HILLS,  47

                     IV. THE LITTLE GOAT-HERD,     65

                      V. COMRADES,                 84

                     VI. HERR ADLER,              102

                    VII. HAPPY HOURS,             124

                   VIII. A WONDERFUL WALK,        148

                     IX. A STORY AND A FAREWELL,  175

                      X. A MOUNTAIN STORM,        204

                     XI. PLANS AND PROJECTS,      221

                    XII. FAREWELLS,               238

                   XIII. GOING HOME,              256

                    XIV. CONCLUSION,              272




                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


 “SQUIB FLUNG HIMSELF UPON THE DOG, AND THREW HIS ARMS   _Frontispiece_.
   ABOUT HIS NECK,”

 “SQUIB LISTENED WITH A STRANGE SENSE OF FASCINATION,”                68

 “BREATHLESSLY ONE BOY WORKED AND THE OTHER WATCHED,”                 94

 “DOWN, DOWN, DOWN—WITH A CRASH, AND A BANG, AND A                   169
   ROAR!”

 “SEPPI DREW SQUIB’S HAND DOWN UPON THE HEAD OF MOOR,”               254

 “SQUIB’S BROTHERS AND SISTERS REJOICED OVER THE PRETTY              283
   GIFTS HE HAD BROUGHT THEM,”




                         SQUIB AND HIS FRIENDS.




                               CHAPTER I.
                             “THE ODD ONE.”


That was the name Squib went by in the nursery and in the household—“the
odd one.” Not exactly because of any personal peculiarities—although he
had a few of these—but because he had no especial brother or sister
belonging to him, and seemed to stand alone, whilst all the others could
be paired off together.

Norman and Frank were big boys, away at school most of the year, near to
each other in age, and always together in the holidays. Philippa and
Molly came next, and were girls, devoted to each other and to their
family of dolls, and even more devoted to the live dolls in the
nursery—the little twin sisters, Hilda and Hulda, whom nobody knew apart
save themselves and the nurse. But Squib had no brother or sister to be
bracketed with him. The baby who came next in age to him had died in
infancy, and was only a dim memory to the brother just above him in age.
So he had always been, as it were, “the odd one” of the family, although
his sisters were very fond of him, and never refused him a share in
their games when he wanted to join in them.

But Squib did not care for dolls, and his tastes lay amongst things
beyond the walls of nursery or schoolroom. He wanted always to be out of
doors when not busy with his lessons for Mademoiselle (for so far he had
not gone to school, but had been taught with his sisters in the
schoolroom); and his pursuits were not of a kind to be attractive to the
dainty little ladies, Philippa and Molly, or to find favour in the eyes
of nurse, who reigned supreme over Hilda and Hulda. So Squib got into
the way of amusing himself in his own fashion, and took his name of “the
odd one” with great equanimity.

Squib was not his real name, as I suppose I need hardly say; it was a
nickname given him by his father some years before my story begins, and
it had stuck to him ever since. His real name was Sydenham, and he had
been called Syd for a time, till Colonel Rutland had hit upon this other
appellation.

And the reason for this was a habit of Squib’s which amused his father a
good deal. The child had a way of sitting perfectly still and silent for
a very long time in the room, not speaking, even when spoken to, until
some exhaustive mental process had taken place, after which he would
suddenly “go off,” as his father expressed it, and talk rapidly and
eagerly for several minutes straight on end; then having thus relieved
his mind and delivered himself of his thoughts, he would relapse into
dead silence until ready for the next explosion. And so his father
called him “Squib;” and Squib he became in time to the whole household.

It was commonly whispered about the place that Squib was the Colonel’s
favourite amongst his children. Colonel Rutland was not a man who had
taken a great deal of notice of his sons and daughters as they appeared
upon the scene. He was a busy man, having a large estate to order, being
a magistrate, churchwarden, and guardian of the poor-law, and having
social duties to attend to as well. He was a most devoted husband; and
people used to say that never was there a happier couple than he and
Lady Mary, his beautiful wife. He was proud of his fine young family in
the aggregate, but did not notice the children very much individually,
until one or two small incidents brought Squib before his eyes.

The first of these was a severe altercation which he chanced to overhear
between the child and his nurse when Squib was five years old. He was
walking through the shrubberies one morning when the sound of raised
voices attracted his attention, the first being that of a child lifted
in indignant protest.

“It’s not a lie. I never tell lies! I _did_ hear father sing it his own
self!”

“Master Syd, that’s not true. Your father never would sing such a wicked
song. It only makes it worse, telling stories about it!”

“It isn’t a story!—it isn’t, I tell you! I heard him my own self, and
lots of other people heard him, too. It’s you who are wicked, saying I
tell lies and father sings wicked songs!” and the crunch of the gravel
betrayed the fact that Squib had brought his small foot heavily down
upon it in a stamp of passionate wrath.

Colonel Rutland turned a corner and came full upon the combatants. The
nurse—a most excellent and trustworthy woman, who had been for twelve
years with them—was looking very grieved and disturbed as she held Squib
by the hand, as if with the intention of taking him at once before some
domestic tribunal; whilst the child’s square, determined face was
flushed a deep crimson, his dark-grey eyes looked almost black, as they
had a way of doing in moments of passion and excitement, and his whole
frame was quivering with anger and protest as he reiterated his
assertion that he was speaking nothing but the truth.

“What is all this?” asked Colonel Rutland in a deep voice. “Squib, what
do you mean by resisting your nurse like that? I will have no
insubordination to authority in my house—you know that as well as I do.”
For Colonel Rutland, with his military training, was a martinet in his
house about discipline, and his children knew perfectly that he would be
more severe over an act of disobedience than over any other kind of
transgression.

Squib and the nurse both started at the sound of the Colonel’s voice,
and nurse dropped the hand she was holding and made a respectful
courtesy to her master. Squib stood perfectly silent, after his fashion,
for a full minute, and then burst into rapid speech,—

“I wasn’t resisting her, father. She told me I was telling lies—and I’m
not. You did sing it. I heard you; and it isn’t wicked—and she didn’t
ought to say it was. I don’t tell lies. I never did. It isn’t lies—it’s
only about them!”

The Colonel held up his hand to command silence.

“What does all this mean?” he asked, turning to nurse.

“If you please, sir, I heard Master Syd singing something that didn’t
sound right for a young gentleman, and when I told him I wouldn’t have
wicked words sung, he turned and said that he’d heard you sing them,
which I was quite sure was not true, and I told him so. And then he went
off into one of his tantrums—which I hoped he was learning to get better
of—and that’s all I know about it. But I am quite sure he is not
speaking the truth.”

“Leave him to me and I will get at the rights of the matter,” said the
Colonel; and nurse, who had an ailing baby indoors (Squib’s little
brother who shortly afterwards died), was glad to go in to see after
him, leaving Squib and his father to settle things together about the
song.

“Now, Squib,” said Colonel Rutland, with grave severity of manner, “let
me hear the whole truth of this from you. What is it you were singing?
Don’t be afraid to speak the truth.”

“I’m not afraid a bit!” cried Squib, after his habitual pause. “I’ll
sing it to you now. _You’ll_ know it—it’s your own song,” and taking a
deep breath and swelling himself out in unconscious imitation of a
singer about to commence his song, the child broke out with the
following words, sung in a deep voice as like that of a man as he could
achieve—

                          “Fi-ive del dies—
                          The father of lies!”

And then suddenly breaking off he looked up at his father and cried,—

“You know you did sing it yourself, father—so it can’t be wicked!”

The Colonel was puzzled. There was something in the