The History of Mr. Polly

Mr. Polly was particularly charmed by the ducklings.

They were piping about among the vegetables in the company of their foster mother, and as he and the plump woman came down the garden path the little creatures mobbed them, and ran over their boots and in between Mr. Polly’s legs, and did their best to be trodden upon and killed after the manner of ducklings all the world over.  Mr. Polly had never been near young ducklings before, and their extreme blondness and the delicate completeness of their feet and beaks filled him with admiration.  It is open to question whether there is anything more friendly in the world than a very young duckling.  It was with the utmost difficulty that he tore himself away to practise punting, with the plump woman coaching from the bank.  Punting he found was difficult, but not impossible, and towards four o’clock he succeeded in conveying a second passenger across the sundering flood from the inn to the unknown.

As he returned, slowly indeed, but now one might almost say surely, to the peg to which the punt was moored, he became aware of a singularly delightful human being awaiting him on the bank.  She stood with her legs very wide apart, her hands behind her back, and her head a little on one side, watching his gestures with an expression of disdainful interest.  She had black hair and brown legs and a buff short frock and very intelligent eyes.  And when he had reached a sufficient proximity she remarked:  “Hello!”

“Hello,” said Mr. Polly, and saved himself in the nick of time from disaster.

“Silly,” said the young lady, and Mr. Polly lunged nearer.

“What are you called?”

“Polly.”

“Liar!”

“Why?”

“I’m Polly.”

“Then I’m Alfred.  But I meant to be Polly.”

“I was first.”

“All right.  I’m going to be the ferryman.”

“I see.  You’ll have to punt better.”

“You should have seen me early in the afternoon.”

“I can imagine it….  I’ve seen the others.”

“What others?” Mr. Polly had landed now and was fastening up the punt.

“Whaim has scooted.”

“Scooted?”

“He conies and scoots them.  He’ll scoot you too, I expect.”

A mysterious shadow seemed to fall athwart the sunshine and pleasantness of the Potwell Inn.

“I’m not a scooter,” said Mr. Polly.

“Uncle Jim is.”

She whistled a little flatly for a moment, and threw small stones at a clump of meadow-sweet that sprang from the bank.  Then she remarked: 

“When Uncle Jim comes back he’ll cut your insides out….  P’raps, very likely, he’ll let me see.”

There was a pause.

“Who’s Uncle Jim?” Mr. Polly asked in a faded voice.

“Don’t you know who Uncle Jim is?  He’ll show you.  He’s a scorcher, is Uncle Jim.  He only came back just a little time ago, and he’s scooted three men.  He don’t like strangers about, don’t Uncle Jim.  He can swear.  He’s going to teach me, soon as I can whissle properly.”

“Teach you to swear!” cried Mr. Polly, horrified.

“And spit,” said the little girl proudly.  “He says I’m the gamest little beast he ever came across—­ever.”

For the first time in his life it seemed to Mr. Polly that he had come across something sheerly dreadful.  He stared at the pretty thing of flesh and spirit in front of him, lightly balanced on its stout little legs and looking at him with eyes that had still to learn the expression of either disgust or fear.

“I say,” said Mr. Polly, “how old are you?”

“Nine,” said the little girl.

She turned away and reflected.  Truth compelled her to add one other statement.

“He’s not what I should call handsome, not Uncle Jim,” she said.  “But he’s a scorcher and no mistake….  Gramma don’t like him.”