The Suprising Adventures of Sir Toady Lion With Those of General Napoleon Smith

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Suprising Adventures of Sir Toady Lion

With Those of General Napoleon Smith, by S. R. Crockett

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license

Title: The Suprising Adventures of Sir Toady Lion With Those of General Napoleon Smith

Author: S. R. Crockett

Illustrator: Gordon Brownie

Release Date: April 1, 2012 [EBook #39340]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIR TOADY LION ***

Produced by David Edwards, Matthew Wheaton and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This

file was produced from images generously made available

by The Internet Archive)

Sir Toady Lion

AS THE HIGHLANDERS HAD CLUNG TO THE CAVALRY STIRRUPS AT BALACLAVA. Page 257.

THE SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF SIR TOADY LION WITH THOSE OF GENERAL NAPOLEON SMITH

AN IMPROVING HISTORY

FOR

OLD BOYS, YOUNG BOYS, GOOD BOYS, BAD BOYS,

BIG BOYS, LITTLE BOYS, COW BOYS, AND

TOM-BOYS

BY

S. R. CROCKETT

author

of "

Sweetheart Travellers

,

The Raiders

", &c.

ILLUSTRATED BY GORDON BROWNE

NEW YORK

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

Copyright, 1897

by

Frederick A. Stokes

Company

Too Good Boys

Not Allowed

To Read This Book

By Order

Field Marshal Napoleon Smith

Sir Toady Lion.

CHAPTER I.

PRISSY, HUGH JOHN, AND SIR TOADY LION.

T is always difficult to be great, but it is specially difficult when greatness is thrust upon one, as it were, along with the additional burden of a distinguished historical name. This was the case with General Napoleon Smith. Yet when this story opens he was not a general. That came later, along with the cares of empire and the management of great campaigns.

But already in secret he was Napoleon Smith, though his nurse sometimes still referred to him as Johnnie, and his father—but stay. I will reveal to you the secret of our soldier's life right at the start. Though a Napoleon, our hero was no Buonaparte. No, his name was Smith—plain Smith; his father was the owner of four large farms and a good many smaller ones, near that celebrated Border which separates the two hostile countries of England and Scotland. Neighbours referred to the General's father easily as Picton Smith of Windy Standard, from the soughing, mist-nursing mountain of heather and fir-trees which gave its name to the estate, and to the large farm he had cultivated himself ever since the death of his wife, chiefly as a means of distracting his mind, and keeping at a distance loneliness and sad thoughts.

Hugh John Smith had never mentioned the fact of his Imperial descent to his father, but in a moment of confidence he had told his old nurse, who smiled with a world-weary wisdom, which betrayed her knowledge of the secrets of courts—and said that doubtless it was so. He had also a brother and sister, but they were not, at that time, of the race of the Corporal of Ajaccio. On the contrary, Arthur George, the younger, aged five, was an engine-driver. There was yet another who rode in a mail-cart, and puckered up his face upon being addressed in a strange foreign language, as Was-it-then? A darling—goo-goo—then it was! This creature, however, was not owned as a brother by Hugh John and Arthur George, and indeed may at this point be dismissed from the story. The former went so far as stoutly to deny his brother's sex, in the face of such proofs as were daily afforded by Baby's tendency to slap his sister's face wherever they met, and also to seize things and throw them on the floor for the pleasure of seeing them break. Arthur George, however, had secret hopes that Baby would even yet turn out a satisfactory boy whenever he saw him killing flies on the window, and on these occasions hounded him on to yet deadlier exertions. But he dared not mention his anticipations to his soldier brother, that haughty scion of an Imperial race. For reasons afterwards to be given, Arthur George was usually known as Toady Lion.

Then Hugh John had a sister. Her name was Priscilla. Priscilla was distinguished also, though not in a military sense. She was literary, and wrote books on the sly, as Hugh John said. He considered this secrecy the only respectable part of a very shady business. Specially he objected to being made to serve as the hero of Priscilla's tales, and went so far as to promise to thump his sister if he caught her introducing him as of any military rank under that of either general or colour-sergeant.

Look here, Pris, he said on one occasion, if you put me into your beastly girl books all about dolls and love and trumpery, I'll bat you over the head with a wicket!

Hum—I dare say, if you could catch me, said Priscilla, with her nose very much in the air.

Catch you! I'll catch and bat you now if you say much.

Much, much! Can't, can't! There! 'Fraid cat! Um-m-um!

By Jove, then, I just will!

It is sad to be obliged to state here, in the very beginning of these veracious chronicles, that at this time Prissy and Napoleon Smith were by no means model children, though Prissy afterwards marvellously improved. Even their best friends admitted as much, and as for their enemies—well, their old gardener's remarks when they chased each other over his newly planted beds would be out of place even in a military periodical, and might be the means of preventing a book with Mr. Gordon Browne's nice pictures from being included in some well-conducted Sunday-school libraries.

General Napoleon Smith could not catch Priscilla (as, indeed, he well knew before he started), especially when she picked up her skirts and went right at hedges and ditches like a young colt. Napoleon looked upon this trait in Prissy's character as degrading and unsportsmanlike in the extreme. He regarded long skirts, streaming hair, and flapping, aggravating pinafores as the natural handicap of girls in the race of life, and as particularly useful when they cheeked their brothers. It was therefore wicked to neutralise these equalising disadvantages by strings tied round above the knees, or by the still more scientific device of a sash suspended from the belt before, passed between Prissy's legs, and attached to the belt behind.

But, then, as Napoleon admitted even at ten years of age, girls are capable of anything; and to his dying day he has never had any reason to change his opinion—at least, so far as he has yet got.

All right, then, I will listen to your old stuff if you will say you are sorry, and promise to be my horse, and let me lick you for an hour afterwards—besides giving me a penny.

It was thus that Priscilla, to whom in after times great lights of criticism listened with approval, was compelled to stoop to artifice and bribery in order to secure and hold her first audience. Whereupon the authoress took paper from her pocket, and as she did so, held the manuscript with its back to Napoleon Smith, in order to conceal the suspicious shortness of the lines. But that great soldier instantly detected the subterfuge.

It's a penny more for listening to poetry! he said, with sudden alacrity.

I know it is, replied Prissy sadly, but you might be nice about it just this once. I'm dreadfully, dreadfully poor this week, Hugh John!

So am I, retorted Napoleon Smith sternly; if I wasn't, do you think I would listen at all to your beastly old poetry? Drive on!

Thus encouraged, Priscilla meekly began—

"My love he is a soldier bold,

And my love is a knight;

He girds him in a coat of mail,

When he goes forth to fight."

That's not quite so bad as usual, said Napoleon condescendingly, toying meanwhile with the lash of an old dog-whip he had just boned out of the harness-room. Priscilla beamed gratefully upon her critic, and proceeded—

"He rides him forth across the sand——"

Who rides whom? cried Napoleon. Didn't the fool ride a horse?

It means himself, said Priscilla meekly.

"Then why doesn't it say so? cried the critic triumphantly, tapping his boot with the boned" dog-whip just like any ordinary lord of creation in presence of his inferiors.

It's poetry, explained Priscilla timidly.

It's silly! retorted Napoleon, judicially and finally.

Priscilla resumed her reading in a lower and more hurried tone. She knew that she was skating over thin ice.

"He rides him forth across the sand,

Upon a stealthy steed."

You mean 'stately,' you know, interrupted Napoleon—somewhat rudely, Priscilla thought. Yet he was quite within his rights, for Priscilla had not yet learned that a critic always knows what you mean to say much better than you do yourself.

No, I don't mean 'stately,' said Priscilla, I mean 'stealthy,' the way a horse goes on sand. You go and gallop on the sea-shore and you'll find out.

I've listened quite a pennyworth now."

"He rides him forth across the sand,

Upon a stealthy steed,

And when he sails upon the sea,

He plays upon a reed!"

"Great soft he was, cried Napoleon Smith; and if ever I hear you say that I did such a thing——"

Priscilla hurried on more quickly than ever.

"In all the world there's none can do

The deeds that he hath done:

When he hath slain his enemies,

Then he comes back alone."

That's better! said Napoleon, nodding encouragement. At any rate it isn't long. Now, give me my penny.

Shan't, said Priscilla, the pride of successful achievement swelling in her breast; besides, it isn't Saturday yet, and you've only listened to three verses anyway. You will have to listen to ever so much more than that before you get a penny.

Hugh John! Priscilla! came a voice from a distance.

The great soldier Napoleon Smith instantly effected a retreat in masterly fashion behind a gooseberry bush.

There's Jane calling us, said Priscilla; she wants us to go in and be washed for dinner.

Course she does, sneered Napoleon; think she's out screeching like that for fun? Well, let her. I am not going in to be towelled till I'm all over red and scurfy, and get no end of soap in my eyes.

"But Jane wants you; she'll be so cross if you don't come."

"I don't care for Jane," said Napoleon Smith with dignity, but all the same making himself as small as possible behind his gooseberry bush.

But if you don't come in, Jane will tell father——

"I don't care for father— the prone but gallant General was proceeding to declare in the face of Priscilla's horrified protestations that he mustn't speak so, when a slow heavy step was heard on the other side of the hedge, and a deep voice uttered the single syllable, John!"

Yes, father, a meek young man standing up behind the gooseberry bush instantly replied: he was trying to brush himself as clean as circumstances would permit. Yes, father; were you calling me, father?

Incredible as it seems, the meek and apologetic words were those of that bold enemy of tyrants, General Napoleon Smith.

Priscilla smiled at the General as he emerged from the hands of Jane, red and scurfy, just as he had said. She smiled meaningly and aggravatingly, so that Napoleon was reduced to shaking his clenched fist covertly at her.

Wait till I get you out, he said, using the phrase time-honoured by such occasions.

Priscilla Smith only smiled more meaningly still. First catch your hare! she said under her breath.

Napoleon Smith stalked in to lunch, the children's dinner at the house of Windy Standard, with an expression of fixed and Byronic gloom on his face, which was only lightened by the sight of his favourite pigeon-pie (with a lovely crust) standing on the side-board.

Say grace, Hugh John, commanded his father.

And General Napoleon Smith said grace with all the sweet innocence of a budding angel singing in the cherub choir, aiming at the same time a kick at his sister underneath the table, which overturned a footstool and damaged the leg of a chair.

CHAPTER II

THE GOSPEL OF DASHT-MEAN.

T was on the day preceding a great review near the Border town of Edam, that Hugh John Picton Smith first became a soldier and a Napoleon. His father's house was connected by a short avenue with a great main road along which king and beggar had for a thousand years gone posting to town. Now the once celebrated highway lies deserted, for along the heights to the east run certain bars of metal, shining and parallel, over which rush all who can pay the cost of a third-class ticket—a roar like thunder preceding them, white steam and sulphurous reek wreathing after them. The great highway beneath is abandoned to the harmless impecunious bicyclist, and on the North Road the sweeping cloud dust has it all its own way.

But Hugh John loved the great thoroughfare, deserted though it was. To his mind there could be no loneliness upon its eye-taking stretches, for who knew but out of the dust there might come with a clatter Mr. Dick Turpin, late of York and Tyburn; Robert the Bruce, charging south into England with his Galloway garrons, to obtain some fresh English beef wherewithal to feed his scurvy Scots; or (best of all) his Majesty King George's mail-coach Highflyer, the picture of which, coloured and blazoned, hung in his father's workroom.

People told him that all these great folks were long since dead. But Hugh John knew better than to believe any rot grown-ups might choose to palm off on him. What did grown-ups know anyway? They were rich, of course. Unlimited shillings were at their command; and as for pennies—well, all the pennies in the world lived in their breeches' pockets. But what use did they make of these god-like gifts? Did you ever meet them at the tuck-shop down in the town buying fourteen cheese-cakes for a shilling, as any sensible person would? Did they play with real-real trains, drawn by locomotives of shining brass? No! they preferred either one lump of sugar or none at all in their tea. This showed how much they knew about what was good for them.

So if such persons informed him that Robert the Bruce had been dead some time, or showed him the rope with which Turpin was hung, coiled on a pedestal in a horrid dull museum (free on Saturdays, 10 to 4), Hugh John Picton looked and nodded, for he was an intelligent boy. If you didn't nod sometimes as if you were taking it all in, they would explain it all over again to you—with abominable dates and additional particulars, which they would even ask you afterwards if you remembered.

MR. DICK TURPIN, LATE OF YORK AND TYBURN.

For many years Hugh John had gone every day down to the porter's lodge at the end of the avenue, and though old Betty the rheumaticky warder was not allowed to let him out, he stared happily enough through the bars. It was a white gate of strong wood, lovely to swing on if you happened to be there when it was opened for a carriageful of calling-folk in the afternoon, or for Hugh John's father when he went out a-riding.

But you had to hide pretty quick behind the laurels, and rush out in that strictly limited period before old Betty found her key, and yet after the tail of Agincourt, his father's great grey horse, had switched round the corner. If you were the least late, Betty would get ahead of you, and the gates of Paradise would be shut. If you were a moment too soon, it was just as bad—or even worse. For then the voice of He-whom-it-was-decidedly-most-healthy-to-obey would sound up the road, commanding instant return to the Sandheap or the High Garden.

So on these occasions Hugh John mostly brought Sir Toady Lion with him—otherwise Arthur George the Sturdy, and at yet other times variously denominated Prince Murat, the Old Guard, the