CHAPTER 22 THE ADVENTURE OF THE GIANT

After receiving a thousand messages for Collins, both affectionate and jocular--one from Mr. Pescod being on no account to forget to tell her to try anti-fat--they said good-bye to these kind folk and marched into Faringdon the next morning, very sorry it was the last, but determined to make a brave show. Through watery Lechdale they went, over the Isis (as the Thames is called here), and past Buscot.

It was just after leaving Buscot that Gregory, who had been ahead alone, suddenly rushed back in a wild state of excitement.

"What do you think I've seen?" he panted. "A giant! A real live giant!" "Don't be an ass!" said Jack

"But I have," he protested--"I have. He's there in that wood, kneeling by the stream, washing his face. I watched him walk to it. He's enormous! He's as tall as this caravan nearly. Do come and peep at him."

They all very readily accompanied Gregory into the wood, and there, sure enough, was a giant, combing his hair.

He heard them coming, and looked round. They stopped, open-eyed and openmouthed.

"Here, I say," the giant said at last, "this won't do. You mustn't look at me like that--free. It's a penny each, you know."

He had a broad Yorkshire accent and a kind face. "Where do you come from?" he asked.

"We come from London," said Janet. "We are on a caravan journey." "A caravan journey," said the giant. "So am I. I always am, in fact." "Are you?" said Gregory. "How splendid!"

"Splendid!" said the giant. "Do you think so? I'd give a good deal to sleep in a bed in a house. Excuse me if I sit down," he added. "My legs aren't very strong."

He sat down, but even then he was taller than any of the children. "Where is your caravan?" Janet asked.

"Just over there," the giant said. "They're waiting for me. I came here

to make my toilet. Where are you going?" "We're going to Faringdon," said Robert.

"That's where we've come from," said the giant. "There's been a fair there. We're going to Cirencester."

"What a shame!" said Horace. "That means we've missed you."

"But you're seeing me now," said the giant, adding again, with his Yorkshire laugh, "free."

"I know," said Jack,. "but that's not the same as at a fair. The naphtha lamps, you know."

The giant shuddered. "I like to be away from them," he said. "Who else is there with you?" asked Gregory.

"The King," said the giant. "The King!" they all exclaimed.

"Yes, King Pip. He's a dwarf. We travel together, but we show separately. A penny each."

"Might we see him if we paid a penny?" Janet asked. "I shouldn't if I were you," said the giant.

"Why not?" said Gregory. "Isn't he nice?"

"No," said the giant very firmly. "He's not; he's nasty." "I'm so sorry," said Janet.

"So am I," said the giant.

"I've always liked giants best," said Mary. "But why don't you leave him?" said Jack.

"I can't," said the giant. "We don't belong to ourselves. We belong to Mr. Kite. Mr. Kite is the showman."

"And did you sell yourself to him like a slave?" Hester asked.

The giant laughed. "Very much like a slave," he said. "You see, there's nothing else to do when you're big like me and have no money. I'm too weak to work, and it's ridiculous, too. No one ought to be so big. So I must do what I can."

"What's the matter with King Pip?" Robert asked.

"He's selfish and bad-tempered," said the giant. "He thinks it's a fine thing to be so small."

"And you think it a fine thing to be so big, don't you?" said Robert.

The giant opened his blue eyes. "I! Not me. I'd give everything I ever possessed to be five feet seven instead of seven feet five. It's never done me any good."

"But it's rather grand to be as big as that," Robert suggested.

"Grand! You may have the grandeur. It's worse than being a criminal. I can't walk out unless it's pitch dark or very early morning, because if I did the people would see me free--as you are doing--I have to live in a narrow stuffy carriage. I'm ill, too. Giants are always ill."

Janet was full of sympathy. "We're so sorry," she said. "And here's our money--it isn't fair to be seeing you free." And she held out sixpence.

"Oh, no," said the giant. "I didn't mean that. I like to see you and talk. There's too few people to talk to naturally. Most of them ask silly questions all the time, especially the doctors. If you want to pay to see me, you must come to the fair. I shall be on view to-night."

"But we're going the other way," said Robert.

"I'm very sorry," said the giant. "I should have looked forward to seeing you."

"What's your name?" Gregory asked.

"My real name is William Steward," said the giant, "but they call me the Human Colossus."

"Is there anything we could do for you?"

Janet asked. "We have some papers; would you like them?"

"No," said the giant; "I don't read much. There is one thing I'd like, but I don't suppose you have it. A little tobacco. I'm clean out of it, and I'd like a smoke."

"We've got tobacco all right," said Robert. "You know," he added to Janet, "in that tin labelled 'For --'"

But Janet stopped him in time, and drew him aside. "Run and get it," she said; "but be sure to scrape the label off. He wouldn't like to see 'For Tramps and Gipsies' on it."

Robert was quickly back, and handed the tin to the giant, who was delighted.

He was just beginning his thanks when a shrill whistle sounded, and he said good-bye instead.

"That's His Majesty," he explained. "He thinks I've been long enough. And I am long enough," he added, making his only joke--"too long. Well, good-bye. I'm glad to have met you. Don't forget to look for the Human Colossus whenever you come to a fair. It's easy to remember the Human Colossus. Good-bye."

And he shambled off through the trees to the road.

They had their last lunch with Kink just outside Faringdon's red town, and then sped him on his solitary way home, promising, however, to come and meet him somewhere outside London in three or four days' time; and so they stood in a group in the middle of the road until the Slowcoach and its driver and its black guardian were out of sight. And if some of their eyes were not quite dry, I am sure you don't blame them.

"Now," said Robert, as he made a note of what his pedometer said-- sixty-seven miles and a quarter, for he considered this the end of the real walk--"now for the station."

First, however, a telegram had to go, and Hester insisted on sending it, as she had an idea, and this is what she sent:

"Avory, The Gables, Chiswick. Alas! alack! we're coming back."

They caught a train on the funny little branch-line which turned them out at Uffington, and, armed with Mr. Scott's present, "The Scouring of the White Horse," which Mary carried and occasionally read scraps from as they walked along, they made for the green hills and the famous animal cut on their side. To reach it was impossible, for the London train left at 6.24, and it was now nearly three, and there was tea to be eaten; but they came near enough to see it distinctly, and to marvel that the name of horse should ever have been given to it. As Gregory said, "It's no more like a horse than Shakespeare is like a swan."

And then they had tea at a nice inn at Uffington, in a parlour full of photograph frames, and returned to the station.

As the train left, they leaned back in their seats, a great deal more tired than they had ever been in the Slowcoach.

"What a hateful rate this train goes at!" said Robert. "I prefer two miles an hour."

"Oh, yes," they said.

At Paddington they found Collins and Eliza Pollard, with a station omnibus, and they rattled down to Chiswick, pouring out the news, especially that from Lycett's farm.

And so, after dropping Mary and Jack and Horace at their homes, they came once again to "The Gables." A cold supper was waiting for them-- one of those nice late meals after a journey--and Mrs. Avory and Runcie sat with them while they ate it.

"You must be glad to be back," Runcie said, " and to sleep in nice beds once more."

"Oh, Runcie," said Hester, "you don't really understand anything."

"I understand what King Edward's head is like on a shilling," said Runcie, with a little twinkle at Janet.

Janet blushed.

"What a shame," she said, "to tell that story! Hester, I suppose that was you, in one of your letters."

"Yes," said Hester; "but, Janet darling, you told me always to tell all the news."