Chapter Eighteen
Whistling cheerfully, Andrew Fielding made his way towards the center of the village.
On the way, he found a suitable spot for the bread and cheese Ruby had put in his bag.
He lay in the center of a bank of goldenrod, with his head on his knapsack, looking up into the unclouded blue sky, chewing.
Nothing had ever tasted so delicious. Finishing the bread and cheese, he drifted into a delightful doze, from which he awoke about an hour later.
Gathering his things together, he continued into the center of the village and made his way to the local inn.
He had a letter that needed to be sent to London, and was betting that the inn-keeper would know who would carry or drive the mail to the closest town with a post house.
The village was too small for such a luxury.
A strong smell of beer and tobacco smote his nose even before he went in the open door, but he didn’t find it unpleasant.
Many was the time he’d sought warmth or shelter in these places.
There weren’t many customers in there at this time of day; only the elderly, and the few non-workers who could afford to spend the daylight hours sitting idle.
They nursed a single tankard to make it last, having been chased out of their cottages by wives needing to get on with their chores without a man under their feet.
“Morning!” he said to the room at large. “Lovely day!”
There was a collection of assenting grunts as he made his way to the counter, and placed an order for ale. Once that was delivered, he asked about the mail.
The innkeeper, who went by the name of Rolly, pointed with his chin to a young fellow with a mop of straw-colored hair, most of it sticking straight up from his head, who was sitting in the corner with a tankard and an odd-looking dog by his side.
“Tim Turner over there takes the letters and such into Winchester two or three times a week,” he said, “an’ collects the stuff comin’ this way.
You’ll ’ave to give ’im a few pence, o’ course.
That’s ’ow ’e keeps body an’ soul together.
’e’s a bit simple, but ’e knows the way, an’ no one’s ever complained ’bout the post gettin’ lost. Come over ’ere, Tim. Gen’lman’s got a letter fer yer.”
The young man came over, his dog by his side, and Andrew gave him the folded sheet, sealed with a blob of candlewax. A London address was written in a fine hand on the front. He dug in his pocket and handed over a sixpence.
“Is that enough?” he said.
“Yar,” said the lad, and pocketed both the letter and the coin.
“’Is mum keeps most o’ the money,” said the innkeeper, “and just gives ’im a couple of coppers for ’is pocket. Otherwise, ’e’d drink it away. But ’e’s a good lad.”
Mr. Fielding nodded and bent to pat the dog, who gave his hand a brief lick, and swished his tail.
He was a mongrel that looked made up of bits of different animals put together by someone working in the dark.
His head had the look of a collie, with a white muzzle and a black patch over one eye.
But his smooth ears hung down like a hunting dog.
His body belonged to two entirely different animals, the shoulders being quite narrow, and the hind end large and rounded and festooned with a long plumy tail curled back over his rump.
“Nice dog,” he said. “You want me to draw him?”
“Draw ’im?” The boy looked puzzled.
“The gen’lman’s an artist,” said the innkeeper. “’E kin make a pitcher of Sam fer yer.”
In confirmation, Mr. Fielding took his sketchbook out and showed him the sketch of Harriet.
“Thass Missus Witherill,” said Tim.
“It is, right enough,” said the innkeeper. “You want t’ watch ’er, sir. She’s bin lookin’ fer an ’usband these past two years. She’ll ’ave yer, if yer ain’t careful.”
Andrew laughed at this second warning about his subject. “I paint ’em” he said, “that’s all! Come on, Sam, let’s see what I can do with you.”
It soon became clear that, while his master might be a penny short of a shilling, the dog was very intelligent. He followed Andrew to a table, sat down and stayed perfectly still, his head cocked to one side, as if listening for instructions
“That’s very good,” said the artist. “I hope Mrs. Witherill is as good a sitter as you,” he said. “But somehow I doubt it.”
His pencil ran swiftly over the pad, and a perfect likeness of Sam appeared. Tim Turner clearly thought it was magic. He kept looking at the sketch and announcing every few minutes, It’s Sam, it is. It’s Sam! When he was finished, Mr. Fielding pulled the page out of the pad and handed it to him.
“There,” he said. “Your best friend, saved forever.”
Tim ran around the room, showing it to everyone. “Look, it’s Sam! ’E drawed Sam!”
All the heads nodded in agreement. It was indeed Sam, exactly like. The innkeeper said, “Well now, Tim. I reckons as ’ow we should put old Sam up ’ere on this nail. That way, ’e won’t get lost, and yer kin see ’im every time yer comes in. Which is every day,” he said in an aside to Mr. Fielding.
Tim looked scandalized. “Yer can’t ’ang my Sam on that there nail!” he protested. “’Sides, ’e’s too ’eavy.”
“Nay, yer clodpole! The pitcher, not the dog!”
Everyone laughed, but Mr. Fielding gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “It’s a good idea to leave the picture here. Then everyone can see it and know what a good dog you’ve got.”
So it was agreed. Sam went up on the wall and Tim pointed it out to everyone who came in. “That’s my dog, that is. That’s Sam. The gen’lman drawed ’im. They dint put Sam on the nail, only the pitcher.”