He carried an armful of books from his room. He wanted to see them lying about on the grass, to feel the companionship of them. He handled them one after another, feeling his power over them, savoring the thought that he could, when he chose, extract the treasure from each in turn.
Now he began to read The Merchant of Venice. He read hour after hour without tiring. The sun rose high, the noonday was hot. Shaw pressed his bare feet happily into the tender coolness of the young grass. He grew hungry again and ate more cream and honey. After that he thought he would like a dip in the pool. The neighbors would be at the picnic. He would have the pool to himself.
But when he reached it he found the hired man, Jack Searle, already splashing about, only his surprisingly beautiful face and classic head visible. He called out to Shaw:—
“Oh, hullo, kid! So you stopped at home too, did you? Good egg! Come in for a swim!”
“That’s what I’ve come for.”
“Why didn’t you go to the picnic?”
“Didn’t want to. Wanted to read.”
“Ha ha, so you’re taking my advice, Mr. Noble Brow!”
“I didn’t want to go.” He made Shaw uncomfortable and sulky.
“Neither did I! Just to stop work is picnic enough for me. They can have their bloody picnic!”
Shaw recoiled from him. He had never heard such language before.
Searle laughed. “Well, you are a good little boy, ain’t you? Come along in and I’ll talk proper, I promise you. What have you been reading?”
“The Merchant of Venice.”
“But that ain’t a book! It’s a play.”
“ ’T isn’t a play! It’s a book.”
“It’s a play! I saw it once in Liverpool when I was on shore leave from a coal schooner.”
“You couldn’t! It’s all printed in a book. I have it upstairs. It’s by Shakespeare. It’s about a Jew that wanted to cut a pound of flesh off a Christian because the Christian owed him money and had spat on him.”
“That’s it! That’s the play! Haven’t you ever seen a play, you poor young blighter?”
“No, but I’ve heard of them—Uncle Tom’s Cabin and East Lynne and Colleen Bawn. I’d not be allowed to go. My folks think plays are wicked.”
“But they let you read ’em!”
“They don’t know.”
“Well, I wish you could have seen this play. That old Shy-lock would curdle your blood. By gum, he sharpened his knife and showed the whites of his eyes and kept on saying he would have the flesh, till the audience was sitting up like they would at a cockfight. He was right, too.”
“Right!” Shaw gasped. “Why—it would have killed Antonio!”
“What if it had! He deserved killing—him and his friends. Look at the way they’d treated Shylock! You bet I’d have done the same as he did.” He plunged head-first into the pool and for a moment was hidden in a smother of wavelets.
Shaw pulled off his clothes and waded in. The air was balmy, the coolness of the water delicious. Searle splashed him, played with him like another boy, yet he was older than Mark or Luke, who were so solid and staid. Shaw had an idea.
“Say,” he said, “would you like to come home with me and see the book? There’s nobody there but me.”
“All right,” agreed Searle, “I’ll go.” It seemed to Shaw that he did whatever came into his head without a moment’s consideration. Shaw stared up at him, as they plodded across the rough field, in wonder and a sort of wistful admiration.
Searle went into the house without ceremony and stared about him. He put up his hand and touched the low ceiling. He cast his eyes disparagingly over the room. “Not much of a house,” he said.
“It’s pretty old,” said Shaw.
“I like everything new and glossy. They’ve a better house where I work.”
“But the farmer is sort of mean, isn’t he?”
Shaw had a feeling of resentment for this disparagement of his home.
Searle flashed him a look from his fine eyes. “Mean!” he repeated. “Mean! Mean don’t express it! He’s as mean as dirt! He’d skin a louse for its hide and tallow. He makes me feel like old Shylock, he does! He’s insulted me in every shape and form.”
“Has he spat on you?” Shaw asked.
Searle grinned. “No, he hasn’t done that! I’d pity him if he did. But he’s said everything he can think of. We’re parting. This is the last you’ll see of me.”
“I wish you weren’t going.”
“Don’t you wish me to stay here! I wouldn’t wish that on a dog. I’m going—and I’m going to take my pound of flesh! Only it’ll be a hundred pounds!”
“What! Not off the farmer?” Shaw gave a small boy’s delighted gasp at an imagined horror. “There’d be nothing left!”
“I’m talking rot. You forget it,” said Searle, suddenly calm. He strolled about the room, inquisitively. “I don’t s’pose your grandpa has anything to drink about the place?”
“To drink?” repeated Shaw. “Tea, do you mean? Or buttermilk?”
“Lord, no! Whiskey, I mean, or a drop of gin.”
Shaw was horrified. “There’s never anything like that in our house,” he said gruffly. “I had cream for breakfast with honey in it. Would you like some?”
“You bet I would! You sound like a millionaire! I’ll wait here while you get it.” He sat down by the table and leant his head on his hand.
He was sitting there when Shaw returned with the cream. He looked dreamy. He roused himself and took what Shaw offered.
“The best is good enough for you, isn’t it?” He grinned into Shaw’s face. “Cream and honey! You’ll be owning a carriage and pair one of these days. You’ll be traveling de luxe on the best steamships. Don’t forget me, will you? When a ragged chap comes out of a lane to hold your horses or a steward comes to wrap up your legs as you lie stretched in your deck chair—that’ll be me!”
“What’s a steward and a deck chair and de luxe?” asked Shaw.
“De luxe is the costliest—when you pay through the nose for everything you want. A deck chair is the sort of sofa what rich folks loll in, while the stewards tuck them up like babies.”
“They couldn’t! Not men.”
“They do! You just wait and see!”
The strong “oi” sound in his voice, his cockney knowingness, his queer beauty, made Shaw uncomfortable. At the same time he liked having him with him, entertaining him, listening to his flattering talk.
The cream and honey, Searle said, made him feel sick. He lighted a cigarette and Shaw marveled to see such a thing in that house. Outdoors under the trees he offered Shaw one and taught him how to inhale. He handled Shaw’s books with more respect than he had shown to anything before, but Shaw was shocked to find that he could not read. A feeling of deep compassion for Searle surged through him. He said hesitatingly:—
“I’ll teach you how, if you like. We could meet on the sly.”
“Thanks,” answered Searle indifferently. “I’ll think about it.”
After he had gone Shaw again returned to his reading. The sun began to send its light slanting between the tree trunks.