reasonably comfortable quarters and fly from this inscrutable
horror? But fly whither? He could not get out of the barn; and
the idea of scurrying blindly hither and thither in the dark,
within the captivity of the four walls, with this phantom gliding
after him, and visiting him with that soft hideous touch upon
cheek or shoulder at every turn, was intolerable. But to stay
where he was, and endure this living death all night–was that
better? No. What, then, was there left to do? Ah, there was but
one course; he knew it well–he must put out his hand and find
that thing!
It was easy to think this; but it was hard to brace himself up to
try it. Three times he stretched his hand a little way out into
the dark, gingerly; and snatched it suddenly back, with a gasp–
not because it had encountered anything, but because he had felt
so sure it was just GOING to. But the fourth time, he groped a
little further, and his hand lightly swept against something soft
and warm. This petrified him, nearly, with fright; his mind was
in such a state that he could imagine the thing to be nothing else
than a corpse, newly dead and still warm. He thought he would
rather die than touch it again. But he thought this false thought
because he did not know the immortal strength of human curiosity.
In no long time his hand was tremblingly groping again–against
his judgment, and without his consent–but groping persistently
on, just the same. It encountered a bunch of long hair; he
shuddered, but followed up the hair and found what seemed to be a
warm rope; followed up the rope and found an innocent calf!–for
the rope was not a rope at all, but the calf’s tail.
The King was cordially ashamed of himself for having gotten all
that fright and misery out of so paltry a matter as a slumbering
calf; but he need not have felt so about it, for it was not the
calf that frightened him, but a dreadful non-existent something
which the calf stood for; and any other boy, in those old
superstitious times, would have acted and suffered just as he had
done.
The King was not only delighted to find that the creature was only
a calf, but delighted to have the calf’s company; for he had been
feeling so lonesome and friendless that the company and
comradeship of even this humble animal were welcome. And he had
been so buffeted, so rudely entreated by his own kind, that it was
a real comfort to him to feel that he was at last in the society
of a fellow-creature that had at least a soft heart and a gentle
spirit, whatever loftier attributes might be lacking. So he
resolved to waive rank and make friends with the calf.
While stroking its sleek warm back–for it lay near him and within
easy reach–it occurred to him that this calf might be utilised in
more ways than one. Whereupon he re-arranged his bed, spreading
it down close to the calf; then he cuddled himself up to the
calf’s back, drew the covers up over himself and his friend, and
in a minute or two was as warm and comfortable as he had ever been
in the downy couches of the regal palace of Westminster.
Pleasant thoughts came at once; life took on a cheerfuller
seeming. He was free of the bonds of servitude and crime, free of
the companionship of base and brutal outlaws; he was warm; he was
sheltered; in a word, he was happy. The night wind was rising; it
swept by in fitful gusts that made the old barn quake and rattle,
then its forces died down at intervals, and went moaning and
wailing around corners and projections–but it was all music to
the King, now that he was snug and comfortable: let it blow and
rage, let it batter and bang, let it moan and wail, he minded it
not, he only enjoyed it. He merely snuggled the closer to his
friend, in a luxury of warm contentment, and drifted blissfully
out of consciousness into a deep and dreamless sleep that was full