HIGH ADVENTURES IN A FARMYARD


A bullet-headed little boy of eight sat astride upon a farmyard gate,
whistling and beating time with a hazel-switch. He had fastened his belt
round the gate-post and was using it as a bridle, his bare knees gripped
the wooden bar under him, and his little brass-tipped heels flashed in
the sun like spurs. It was Saturday morning, which meant no lessons with
Parson Boase at the vicarage, and a fine day in late August, which meant
escape from the roof of Cloom and the tongue and hand of its mistress.
Ishmael Ruan, his head stuffed with the myths and histories with which
the Parson was preparing him for St. Renny Grammar School, felt in the
mood for high adventures, and his surroundings were romantic enough to
stir the blood.

Cloom Manor, a deep-roofed, heavy-mullioned pile of grey granite dating
from the Restoration, presented a long, low front to the moorland, a
front beautified by a pillared porch with the Ruan arms sculptured above
it, and at the back it was built round a square court, from which an
arch, hollowed through the house itself, led into the farmyard. The
windows were low-browed and deep-set, thickly leaded into small squares,
with an occasional pane of bottle glass, which winked like an eye
rounded by amaze. Within, the wide fireplaces and ceilings were enriched
by delicate mouldings, whose once clean-cut outlines were blurred to a
pleasing, uncertain quality by successive coats of whitewash. The room
where Ishmael had been born boasted a domed ceiling, and a band of
moulding half-way up the walls culminated over the bed's head in a
representation of the Crucifixion--the drooping Christ surrounded by a
medley of soldiers and horses, curiously intent dogs and swooning women,