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a cave…man； like Uncle George was tellin' us about： with a flint hatchet
and no clothes； and live in a cave and not know anybody！〃
〃And if anyone came to see us we didn't like；〃 I joined in； catching on
to the points of the idea； 〃we'd hit him on the head with the hatchet till he
dropped down dead。〃
〃And then；〃 said Harold； warming up； 〃we'd drag him into the cave
and SKIN HIM！〃
For a space we gloated silently over the fair scene our imaginations
had conjured up。 It was BLOOD we felt the need of just then。 We
wanted no luxuries； nothing dear…bought nor far…fetched。 Just plain
blood； and nothing else； and plenty of it。
Blood； however； was not to be had。 The time was out of joint； and
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we had been born too late。 So we went off to the greenhouse； crawled
into the heating arrangement underneath； and played at the dark and dirty
and unrestricted life of cave…men till we were heartily sick of it。 Then we
emerged once more into historic times； and went off to the road to look for
something living and sentient to throw stones at。
Nature； so often a cheerful ally； sometimes sulks and refuses to play。
When in this mood she passes the word to her underlings； and all the little
people of fur and feather take the hint and slip home quietly by back
streets。 In vain we scouted； lurked； crept； and ambuscaded。 Everything
that usually scurried； hopped； or flutteredthe small society of the
undergrowthseemed to have engagements elsewhere。 The horrid
thought that perhaps they had all gone off to the circus occurred to us
simultaneously； and we humped ourselves up on the fence and felt bad。
Even the sound of approaching wheels failed to stir any interest in us。
When you are bent on throwing stones at something； humanity seems
obtrusive and better away。 Then suddenly we both jumped off the fence
together； our faces clearing。 For our educated ear had told us that the
approaching rattle could only proceed from a dog…cart； and we felt sure it
must be the funny man。
We called him the funny man because he was sad and serious； and said
little； but gazed right into our souls； and made us tell him just what was on
our minds at the time； and then came out with some magnificently
luminous suggestion that cleared every cloud away。 What was more he
would then go off with us at once and play the thing right out to its finish；
earnestly and devotedly； putting all other things aside。 So we called him
the funny man； meaning only that he was different from those others who
thought it incumbent on them to play the painful mummer。 The ideal as
opposed to the real man was what we meant； only we were not acquainted
with the phrase。 Those others； with their laboured jests and clumsy
contortions； doubtless flattered themselves that THEY were funny men；
we； who had to sit through and applaud the painful performance； knew
better。
He pulled up to a walk as soon as he caught sight of us； and the dog…
cart crawled slowly along till it stopped just opposite。 Then he leant his
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DREAM DAYS
chin on his hand and regarded us long and soulfully； yet said he never a
word； while we jigged up and down in the dust； grinning bashfully but
with expectation。 For you never knew exactly what this man might say
or do。
〃You look bored；〃 he remarked presently； 〃thoroughly bored。 Or
elselet me see； you're not married； are you？〃
He asked this in such sad earnestness that we hastened to assure him
we were not married； though we felt he ought to have known that much；
we had been intimate for some time。
〃Then it's only boredom；〃 he said。 〃Just satiety and world… weariness。
Well； if you assure me you aren't married you can climb into this cart and
I'll take you for a drive。 I'm bored； too。 I want to do something dark
and dreadful and exciting。〃
We clambered in； of course； yapping with delight and treading all over
his toes； and as we set off； Harold demanded of him imperiously whither
he was going。
〃My wife；〃 he replied； 〃has ordered me to go and look up the curate
and bring him home to tea。 Does that sound sufficiently exciting for
you？〃
Our faces fell。 The curate of the hour was not a success； from our
point of view。 He was not a funny man； in any sense of the word。
〃but I'm not going to；〃 he added； cheerfully。 〃Then I was to stop at
some cottage and askwhat was it？ There was NETTLE… RASH mixed
up in it； I'm sure。 But never mind； I've forgotten； and it doesn't matter。
Look here； we're three desperate young fellows who stick at nothing。
Suppose we go off to the circus？〃
Of certain supreme moments it is not easy to write。 The varying
shades and currents of emotion may indeed be put into words by those
specially skilled that way； they often are； at considerable length。 But the
sheer； crude article itselfthe strong； live thing that leaps up inside you
and swells and strangles you； the dizziness of revulsion that takes the
breath like cold waterwho shall depict this and live？ All I knew was
that I would have died then and there； cheerfully； for the funny man； that I
longed for red Indians to spring out from the hedge on the dog…cart； just to
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show what I would do； and that； with all this； I could not find the least
little word to say to him。
Harold was less taciturn。 With shrill voice； uplifted in solemn chant；
he sang the great spheral circus…song； and the undying glory of the Ring。
Of its timeless beginning he sang； of its fashioning by cosmic forces； and
of its harmony with the stellar plan。 Of horses he sang； of their strength；
their swiftness； and their docility as to tricks。 Of clowns again； of the
glory of knavery； and of the e