The Golden Scarecrow | Page 8

little darker I believe I'd have seen him. And then last night,
after I was in bed and was thinking about what you'd said I know he
was near the window, only I didn't look lest he should go away. But of
course Mr. Lasher would say that's all rot, like the pirates, only I know
it isn't." Hugh broke off for lack of breath, nothing else would have
stopped him. When he was encouraged he was a terrible talker. He
suddenly added in a sharp little voice like the report from a pistol: "So
one can't be lonely or anything, can one, if there's always some one
about?"
Mr. Pidgen was greatly touched. He put his hand upon Hugh's shoulder.
"My dear boy," he said, "my dear boy--dear me, dear me. I'm afraid
you're going to have a dreadful time when you grow up. I really mustn't
encourage you. And yet, who can help himself?"
"But you said yourself that you'd seen him, that you knew him quite
well?"
"And so I do--and so I do. But you'll find, as you grow older, there are
many people who won't believe you. And there's this, too. The more
you live in your head, dreaming and seeing things that aren't there, the
less you'll see the things that are there. You'll always be tumbling over
things. You'll never get on. You'll never be a success."
"Never mind," said Hugh, "it doesn't matter much what you say now,
you're only talking 'for my good' like Mr. Lasher. I don't care, I heard
what you said yesterday, and it's made all the difference. I'll come and
stay with you."

"Well, so you shall," said Mr. Pidgen. "I can't help it. You shall come
as often as you like. Upon my soul, I'm younger to-day than I've felt for
a long time. We'll go to the pantomime together if you aren't too old for
it. I'll manage to ruin you all right. What's that shining?" He pointed in
front of him.
They had come to a rise in the Polwint Road. To their right, running to
the very foot of their path, was the moor. It stretched away, like a cloud,
vague and indeterminate to the horizon. To their left a dark brown field
rose in an ascending wave to a ridge that cut the sky, now
crocus-coloured. The field was lit with the soft light of the setting sun.
On the ridge of the field something, suspended, it seemed, in midair,
was shining like a golden fire.
"What's that?" said Mr. Pidgen again. "It's hanging. What the devil!"
They stopped for a moment, then started across the field. When they
had gone a little way Mr. Pidgen paused again.
"It's like a man with a golden helmet. He's got legs, he's coming to us."
They walked on again. Then Hugh cried, "Why, it's only an old
Scarecrow. We might have guessed."
The sun, at that instant, sank behind the hills and the world was grey.
The Scarecrow, perched on the high ridge, waved its tattered sleeves in
the air. It was an old tin can that had caught the light; the can hanging
over the stake that supported it in drunken fashion seemed to wink at
them. The shadows came streaming up from the sea and the dark woods
below in the hollow drew closer to them.
The Scarecrow seemed to lament the departure of the light. "Here,
mind," he said to the two of them, "you saw me in my glory just now
and don't you forget it. I may be a knight in shining armour after all. It
only depends upon the point of view."
"So it does," said Mr. Pidgen, taking his hat off, "you were very fine, I

shan't forget."
VI
They stood there in silence for a time....
VII
At last they turned back and walked slowly home, the intimacy of their
new friendship growing with their silence. Hugh was happier than he
had ever been before. Behind the quiet evening light he saw wonderful
prospects, a new life in which he might dream as he pleased, a new
friend to whom he might tell these dreams, a new confidence in his
own power....
But it was not to be.
That very night Mr. Pidgen died, very peacefully, in his sleep, from
heart failure. He had had, as he had himself said, a happy life.
VIII
Years passed and Hugh Seymour grew up. I do not wish here to say
much more about him. It happened that when he was twenty-four his
work compelled him to live in that Square in London known as March
Square (it will be very carefully described in a minute). Here he lived
for five years, and, during that time, he was happy enough to