The Sheep

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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The enemy had declared "no trumps." Rupert played out his ace and kingof clubs and cleared the adversary of that suit; then the Sheep, whom theFates had inflicted on him for a partner, took the third round with thequeen of clubs, and, having no other club to lead back, opened anothersuit. The enemy won the remainder of the tricks--and the rubber. "I had four more clubs to play; we only wanted the odd trick to win therubber," said Rupert. "But I hadn't another club to lead you," exclaimed the Sheep, with hisready, defensive smile. "It didn't occur to you to throw your queen away on my king and leave mewith the command of the suit," said Rupert, with polite bitterness. "I suppose I ought to have--I wasn't certain what to do. I'm awfullysorry," said the Sheep. Being awfully and uselessly sorry formed a large part of his occupationin life. If a similar situation had arisen in a subsequent hand he wouldhave blundered just as certainly, and he would have been just asirritatingly apologetic. Rupert stared gloomily across at him as he sat smiling and fumbling withhis cards. Many men who have good brains for business do not possess therudiments of a card-brain, and Rupert would not have judged and condemnedhis prospective brother-in-law on the evidence of his bridge play alone.The tragic part of it was that he smiled and fumbled through life just asfatuously and apologetically as he did at the card-table. And behind thedefensive smile and the well-worn expressions of regret there shone ascarcely believable but quite obvious self-satisfaction. Every sheep ofthe pasture probably imagines that in an emergency it could becometerrible as an army with banners--one has only to watch how they stamptheir feet and stiffen their necks when a minor object of suspicion comesinto view and behaves meekly. And probably the majority of human sheepsee themselves in imagination taking great parts in the world's moreimpressive dramas, forming swift, unerring decisions in moments ofcrisis, cowing mutinies, allaying panics, brave, strong, simple, but, inspite of their natural modesty, always slightly spectacular. "Why in the name of all that is unnecessary and perverse should Kathleenchoose this man for her future husband?" was the question that Rupertasked himself ruefully. There was young Malcolm Athling, asnice-looking, decent, level-headed a fellow as any one could wish tomeet, obviously her very devoted admirer, and yet she must throw herselfaway on this pale-eyed, weak-mouthed embodiment of self-approvingineptitude. If it had been merely Kathleen's own affair Rupert wouldhave shrugged his shoulders and philosophically hoped that she might makethe best of an undeniably bad bargain. But Rupert had no heir; his ownboy lay underground somewhere on the Indian frontier, in goodly company.And the property would pass in due curse to Kathleen and Kathleen'shusband. The Sheep would live there in the beloved old home, rearing upother little Sheep, fatuous and rabbit-faced and self-satisfied likehimself, to dwell in the land and possess it. It was not a soothingprospect. Towards dusk on the afternoon following the bridge experience Rupert andthe Sheep made their way homeward after a day's mixed shooting. TheSheep's cartridge bag was nearly empty, but his game bag showed no signsof over-crowding. The birds he had shot at had seemed for the most partas impervious to death or damage as the hero of a melodrama. And foreach failure to drop his bird he had some explanation or apology ready onhis lips. Now he was striding along in front of his host, chatteringhappily over his shoulder, but obviously on the look-out for some belatedrabbit or woodpigeon that might haply be secured as an eleventh-houraddition to his bag. As they passed the edge of a small copse a largebird rose from the ground and flew slowly towards the trees, offering aneasy shot to the oncoming sportsmen. The Sheep banged forth with bothbarrels, and gave an exultant cry. "Horray! I've shot a thundering big hawk!" "To be exact, you've shot a honey-buzzard. That is the hen bird of oneof the few pairs of honey-buzzards breeding in the United Kingdom. We'vekept them under the strictest preservation for the last four years; everygame-keeper and village gun loafer for twenty miles round has been warnedand bribed and threatened to respect their sanctity, and egg-snatchingagents have been carefully guarded against during the breeding season.Hundreds of lovers of rare birds have delighted in seeing theirsnap-shotted portraits in _Country Life_, and now you've reduced the henbird to a lump of broken feathers." Rupert spoke quietly and evenly, but for a moment or two a gleam ofpositive hatred shone in his eyes. "I say, I'm so sorry," said the Sheep, with his apologetic smile. "Ofcourse I remember hearing about the buzzards, but somehow I didn'tconnect this bird with them. And it was such an east shot--" "Yes," said Rupert; "that was the trouble." Kathleen found him in the gun-room smoothing out the feathers of the deadbird. She had already been told of the catastrophe. "What a horrid misfortune," she said sympathetically. "It was my dear Robbie who first discovered them, the last time he washome on leave. Don't you remember how excited he was about them? Let'sgo and have some tea." Both bridge and shooting were given a rest for the next two or threeweeks. Death, who enters into no compacts with party whips, had forced aParliamentary vacancy on the neighbourhood at the least convenientseason, and the local partisans on either side found themselves immersedin the discomforts of a mid-winter election. Rupert took his politicsseriously and keenly. He belonged to that type of strangely but ratherhappily constituted individuals which these islands seem to produce in afair plenty; men and women who for no personal profit or gain go forthfrom their comfortable firesides or club card-rooms to hunt to and fro inthe mud and rain and wind for the capture or tracking of a stray votehere and there on their party's behalf--not because they think they oughtto, but because they want to. And his energies were welcome enough onthis occasion, for the seat was a closely disputed possession, and itsloss or retention would count for much in the present position of theParliamentary game. With Kathleen to help him, he had worked his cornerof the constituency with tireless, well-directed zeal, taking his shareof the dull routine work as well as of the livelier episodes. Thetalking part of the campaign wound up on the eve of the poll with ameeting in a centre where more undecided votes were supposed to beconcentrated than anywhere else in the division. A good final meetinghere would mean everything. And the speakers, local and imported, leftnothing undone to improve the occasion. Rupert was down for theunimportant task of moving the complimentary vote to the chairman whichshould close the proceedings. "I'm so hoarse," he protested, when the moment arrived; "I don't believeI can make my voice heard beyond the platform." "Let me do it," said the Sheep; "I'm rather good at that sort of thing." The chairman was popular with all parties, and the Sheep's opening wordsof complimentary recognition received a round of applause. The oratorsmiled expansively on his listeners and seized the opportunity to add afew words of political wisdom on his own account. People looked at theclock or began to grope for umbrellas and discarded neckwraps. Then, inthe midst of a string of meaningless platitudes, the Sheep deliveredhimself of one of those blundering remarks which travel from one end of aconstituency to the other in half an hour, and are seized on by the otherside as being more potent on their behalf than a ton of electionliterature. There was a general shuffling and muttering across thelength and breadth of the hall, and a few hisses made themselves heard.The Sheep tried to whittle down his remark, and the chairmanunhesitatingly threw him over in his speech of thanks, but the damage wasdone. "I'm afraid I lost touch with the audience rather over that remark," saidthe Sheep afterwards, with his apologetic smile abnormally developed. "You lost us the election," said the chairman, and he proved a trueprophet. A month or so of winter sport seemed a desirable pick-me-up after thestrenuous work and crowning discomfiture of the election. Rupert andKathleen hied them away to a small Alpine resort that was just cominginto prominence, and thither the Sheep followed them in due course, inhis role of husband-elect. The wedding had been fixed for the end ofMarch. It was a winter of early and unseasonable thaws, and the far end of thelocal lake, at a spot where swift currents flowed into it, was decoratedwith notices, written in three languages, warning skaters not to ventureover certain unsafe patches. The folly of approaching too near thesedanger spots seemed to have a natural fascination for the Sheep. "I don't see what possible danger there can be," he protested, with hisinevitable smile, when Rupert beckoned him away from the proscribed area;"the milk that I put out on my window-sill last night was frozen an inchdeep." "It hadn't got a strong current flowing through it," said Rupert; "in anycase, there is not much sense in hovering round a doubtful piece of icewhen there are acres of good ice to skate over. The secretary of the ice-committee has warned you once already." A few minutes later Rupert heard a loud squeal of fear, and saw a darkspot blotting the smoothness of the lake's frozen surface. The Sheep wasstruggling helplessly in an ice-hole of his own making. Rupert gave oneloud curse, and then dashed full tilt for the shore; outside a low stablebuilding on the lake's edge he remembered having seen a ladder. If hecould slide it across the ice-hole before the Sheep went under the rescuewould be comparatively simple work. Other skaters were dashing up from adistance, and, with the ladder's help, they could get him out of hisdeath-trap without having to trust themselves on the margin of rottenice. Rupert sprang on to the surface of lumpy, frozen snow, andstaggered to where the ladder lay. He had already lifted it when therattle of a chain and a furious outburst of growls burst on his hearing,and he was dashed to the ground by a mass of white and tawny fur. Asturdy young yard-dog, frantic with the pleasure of performing his firstpiece of actice guardian service, was ramping and snarling over him,rendering the task of regaining his feet or securing the ladder a matterof considerable difficulty. When he had at last succeeded in bothefforts he was just by a hair's-breadth too late to be of any use. TheSheep had definitely disappeared under the ice-rift. Kathleen Athling and her husband stay the greater part of the year withRupert, and a small Robbie stands in some danger of being idolised by adevoted uncle. But for twelve months of the year Rupert's mostinseparable and valued companion is a sturdy tawny and white yard-dog.

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