The History of Mr Polly

“He comes 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.”

V

Mr. Polly found the plump woman in the big bricked kitchen lighting a fire for tea. He went to the root of the matter at once.

“I say,” he asked, “who’s Uncle Jim?”

The plump woman blanched and stood still for a moment. A stick fell out of the bundle in her hand unheeded.

“That little granddaughter of mine been saying things?” she asked faintly.

“Bits of things,” said Mr. Polly.

“Well, I suppose I must tell you sooner or later. He’s–. It’s Jim. He’s the Drorback to this place, that’s what he is. The Drorback. I hoped you mightn’t hear so soon…. Very likely he’s gone.”

“She don’t seem to think so.”

“‘E ‘asn’t been near the place these two weeks and more,” said the plump woman.

“But who is he?”

“I suppose I got to tell you,” said the plump woman.

“She says he scoots people,” Mr. Polly remarked after a pause.

“He’s my own sister’s son.” The plump woman watched the crackling fire for a space. “I suppose I got to tell you,” she repeated.

She softened towards tears. “I try not to think of it, and night and day he’s haunting me. I try not to think of it. I’ve been for easy-going all my life. But I’m that worried and afraid, with death and ruin threatened and evil all about me! I don’t know what to do! My own sister’s son, and me a widow woman and ’elpless against his doin’s!”