Ford F150 2018 Electrical Wiring

Diagram
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PDFLanguage : EnglishBrand: Ford F150Type of machine: AutomotiveType of
document: Electrical Wiring DiagramModel: Ford F150 2018Content:Adjustable
PedalAdjustable Steering ColumnAudio System Navigation – Bang & Olufsen
Audio SystemAudio System Navigation – SYNCAudio System Navigation –
Without SYNCAuto-Start-Stop SystemAutomatic Climate Control SystemCharging
SystemClimate Controlled SeatsCluster and Panel IlluminationComponent
Location ViewsCooling FanCruise ControlCustomer AccessElectronic Engine
Controls – 2.7LElectronic Engine Controls – 3.0L DieselElectronic Engine Controls
– 3.3L TIVCTElectronic Engine Controls – 3.5L GTDIElectronic Engine Controls –
5.0LFog LampsFord Telematics-FleetFuse and Relay
InformationGroundsHeadlamps AutolampsHeated WindowHorn Cigar
LighterInstrument ClusterInterior LampsManual Climate Control SystemMemory
SeatsModule Communications NetworkParking AidParking, Rear and License
LampsPassive Anti-Theft SystemPower DistributionPower MirrorsPower
SeatsPower Steering ControlsPower WindowsRemote Keyless Entry and
AlarmRetractable Running BoardsReversing LampsRoof Opening PanelShift
InterlockStarting SystemSupplemental Restraint SystemTire Pressure Monitor
SystemTrailer Camper AdapterTransmission Controls – 10R80Transmission
Controls – 6R80Turn Signal Stop Hazard LampsTwo Wheel Drive Four Wheel
Drive SystemsVehicle Dynamic SystemsVehicle Emergency Messaging
SystemWipers and Washers
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"Let's go and see the living pictures," said Aubrey.
"But we've seen them."
"We'll go again. Perhaps they will turn on a fresh lot."
They liked the living pictures, because the lights were turned down,
and they could snuggle together like two kittens and bite each
other's fingers.
"Then we'll go for a walk—our walk. But no," sighed Boodles; "we
can't. It will be time for the ordeal."
The fairy-tale was getting on. Ogre time had come. Boodles was to
go and drink tea with her boy's parents.
"Perhaps we can go our walk later on."
"It won't be a real day if we don't," said she.
"Our walk" was beside the Tavy, where they had kissed as babies,
and loved to wander now that they were children. They thought they
were grown up, but that was absurd. People who are in love remain
as they were, and never grow up until some one opens the window
and lets the cold wind in. "Our walk" was fairyland; a strange and
pleasant place after goose dinner and Goose Fair.
Brightly was against the railings, and had done no business,
although the day was far spent. There was no demand for tie-clips
or clay-pipes. Somebody was playing the organ in the church, and
Brightly had that music for his dinner. Everybody seemed to be doing
well, and he was the one miserable exception. He put up his sharp
face, and chirped pathetically: "Wun't ye buy 'em, gentlemen? Tie-
clips, penny each. Dree for duppence. Butiful pipes, brave and shiny,
two a penny."
The roundabout over the way was taking pennies by the bushel; but
the roundabout supplied a demand, and Brightly did not. A fat be-
ribboned dog passed and snapped at Ju. She took it patiently, having
learnt the lesson from her master. Then two young people swept
round, and one of them collided with Brightly, and almost knocked
his thin figure through the railings.
"I beg your pardon," said a bright young voice. "I hope I didn't hurt
you."
"You'm welcome, sir," said Brightly, wondering what on earth the
young gentleman was apologising for.
"Why, it's the man with the rabbit-skins. What does he do with
them? Now he's selling pipes. Aubrey, I'm going to buy some. Oh,
look at the poor little dog! How it shivers! What is the matter with
it?"
"She'm hungry," explained Brightly.
"You look as if you were hungry too," said Aubrey with boyish
candour.
"I be a bit mazed like, sir," admitted Brightly.
"I want some pipes, please—a lot. Don't laugh, Aubrey," said
Boodles, looking down on the tray, with moisture in each eye and a
frown on her forehead. She had no money to spare, poor child, only
a threepenny-bit and four coppers; but she would have parted with
the lot to feed the hungry had not Aubrey taken and restrained her
charitable little hand.
"Give him this," he whispered.
"Feed the little dog," said Boodles, as she gave Brightly the coin,
which was half-a-crown, as white and big, it seemed to Brightly, as
the moon itself. Then they went on, while Brightly was left to see
visions and to dream. He called out to tell them they had taken
neither pipes nor tie-clips, but his asthmatic voice was drowned as
usual by the noises of the fair, and it was quite a different set of
faces and figures that went before him. He picked Ju up, tucked her
under his arm, and shuffled away to buy food. He had seen the girl's
face with pity on it through his big glasses, only dimly, but it was
enough to show him what she was; something out of the church
window, or out of the big black book they read from, the book that
rested upon the wings of a golden goose, or perhaps she had come
from the wonderful restaurant called Jerusalem just to show him and
Ju there was somewhere or other, either in Palestine or above
Dartmoor, some very superior Duke of Cornwall who took a kindly
interest in worms, himself, and other creeping things. Brightly
stopped, oblivious to holiday-makers, and tried to think of Boodles'
name. He found it just as he reached the place where he could
obtain a royal meal of scraps for threepence. "Her's a reverent angel,
Ju," he whispered.

Beyond the bridge, which crossed the Tavy near the entrance to the
field where the main pleasure-fair was making noises curiously
suggestive of a savage war-dance, Thomasine walked slowly to and
fro. She had been doing that ever since eleven o'clock, varying the
occupation by standing still for an hour or so gazing with patient
cow's eyes along the road. Pendoggat had promised to meet her
there, and treat her to all the fun of the fair. He had told her not to
move from that spot until he arrived, and she had to be obedient.
She had been waiting four hours in her best clothes, sometimes
shaking the dust from her new petticoat, or wiping her eyes with her
Sunday handkerchief, but never going beyond the bridge or
venturing into the fair-field. One or two young men had accosted
her, but she had told them in a frightened way she was waiting for a
gentleman. She had seen her former young man. Will Pugsley, pass
with a new sweetheart upon his arm; and although Thomasine was
unable to reason she was able to feel miserable. Pendoggat was
upon the other side, kicking a calf he had purchased along the road,
enjoying himself after his own manner. He had forgotten all about
Thomasine, and all that his promise and the holiday meant to her.
Besides, Annie Crocker was with him like a sort of burr, clinging
wherever he went, and not to be easily shaken off; and she too
wanted to be in the fair-field; only, as she kept on reminding him, it
was no place for a decent woman alone, and she couldn't go unless
he took her. To which Pendoggat replied that she wasn't a decent
woman, and if she had been nobody would want to speak to her.
They swore at each other in a subdued fashion whenever they found
themselves in a quiet corner.
"Come on, my love! Come along wi' I, and have a ride on the
whirligig," shouted a drunken soldier with a big wart on his nose,
staggering up to Thomasine, and grabbing at her arm. The girl
trembled, but allowed the soldier to catch hold of her, because she
did not know she had a legal right to resist. After all this was a form
of courtship, though it was rather rough and sudden. Like many girls
of her class Thomasine did not see anything strange in being
embraced by a man before she knew what his name was. The
soldier dragged her to the parapet of the bridge and kissed her
savagely, heedless of the passers-by. Then he began to take her to
the fair-ground, swearing at her when she hung back.
"I've got to bide here," she pleaded. "I'm waiting for a gentleman."
The drunken soldier declared he would smash the gentleman, or any
one else, who tried to take his prize from him; but he proved to be a
man whose words were mightier than his deeds, for when he saw a
big policeman approaching with a question in his eye he abandoned
Thomasine and fled. The girl dusted her clothes in a patient fashion
and went on waiting.
The next local excitement was the arrival of Peter and Mary in a kind
of whirlwind, both of them well warmed with excitement and
Plymouth gin. Thomasine nodded to them, but they did not see her.
Mary had been buying flower-seeds for her garden, a whole packet
of sweet-peas and some mignonette. Peter had objected to such
folly when he discovered that the produce would not be edible. Their
garden was small, and they could not waste good soil for the
purpose of growing useless flowers. But Mary was always insisting
upon being as civilised as she could. "Miss Boodles du grow a brave
lot o' flowers in her garden, and she'm a proper young lady," she
said. Mary knew she could not become a proper lady, but she might
do her best by trying to grow "a brave lot o' flowers" in her garden.
Later Thomasine saw Boodles and Aubrey pass over the bridge,
walking solemnly for the first time that day. The little girl was about
to be tried by ordeal, and she was getting anxious about her
personal appearance. Her shoes were so dusty, and there was a tiny
hole in her stocking right over her ankle, and her face was hot, and
her hat was crooked. "You did it, Aubrey," she said. She wasn't
looking at all nice, and her hair was tumbling, and threatening to be
down her back any moment. "And I'm only seventeen, Aubrey. I
know they'll hate me."
They went up the hill among the green trees; and beneath the wall,
where nobody could see them, Aubrey dusted his sweetheart's
shoes, and put her hat straight, and guided her hands to where
hairpins were breaking loose from the radiant head, and told her she
was sweetness itself down to the smallest freckle. "Well, if they are
not nice I shall say I'm only a baby and can't help it. And then you
must say it was all your fault, because you came and kissed me with
your pretty girl's face and made me love it."
Thomasine watched Boodles as she went out of sight, trying to
think, but not succeeding. She regarded Boodles as a young lady, a
being made like herself, and belonging to her species, and yet as
different from her as Pendoggat was different from old Weevil.
Boodles could talk, and Thomasine could not; Boodles could walk
prettily, while she could only slouch; Boodles adorned her clothes,
while she could only hang them upon her in a misfitting kind of way.
The life of the soul was in the eyes of Boodles; the life of the body in
Thomasine's. It was all the difference between the rare bird which is
costly, and the common one which any one may capture, had
Thomasine known it. She knew nothing except that she was totally
unlike the little girl of the radiant head. She did not know how
debased she was, how utterly ignorant, and how vilely cheap. She
had been accustomed to put a low price upon herself, because the
market was overstocked with girls as debased, ignorant, and cheap,
as herself; girls who might have been feminine, but had missed it
somehow; girls whose bodies cost twopence, and whose souls a
brass ring.
The Bellamies had a pretty home on the hill above Tavistock
overlooking the moor. There was a verandah in front where every
fine evening the mistress sat to watch the tors melting in the sunset.
She and her husband were both artistic. Aubrey might have been
said to be a proof of it. Tea was set out upon the verandah, where
Mr. Bellamie was frowning at the crude noises of the fair, while his
wife observed the old fashion of "mothering" the cups. They were a
fragile couple, and everything about them seemed to suggest egg-
shell porcelain—their faces, their furniture, and even the flowers in
their garden. It was useless to look for passion there. It would have
broken them as boiling water breaks a glass. They never lost their
self-control. When they were angry they spoke and acted very much
as they did when they were pleased.
"Here is the little girl," said Mr. Bellamie in his gentle way. "The red
poppies in her hat go well with her hair. Did you see her turn then?
A good deal of natural grace there. She does not offend at present.
It is a pretty picture, I think."
"Beauty and love—like his name. He is always a pretty picture,"
murmured the lady, looking at her son. "I wish he would not wear
that red tie."
"It suits on this occasion, with her strong colour. She is quite artistic.
The only fault is that she knocks her ankles together while walking.
That is said, though I know not why, to be a sign of innocence. She
is Titianesque, a combination of rich surface with splendid tints. Not
at all unfinished. Not in the least crude."
"Mother, here she is!" cried Aubrey, "I had to drag her up the hill.
She is so shy."
"It's not true," said Boodles. She advanced to Mrs. Bellamie, her
golden lashes drooping. Then she put up her mouth quite naturally,
her eyes asking to be kissed; and it was done so tastefully that the
lady complied, and said: "I have wanted to see you for a long time."
"A soft voice," murmured Mr. Bellamie. "I was afraid with that colour
it might be loud."
"They are very young. It will not last," said the lady to herself. "But
she will not do Aubrey any harm."
Boodles was soon talking in her pretty sing-song voice, describing all
their fun, and saying what a jolly day it had been, and how nice it
was to have Aubrey at home, and she hoped he would never be
away for so long again, until Mr. Bellamie roused himself and began
to question her. The child had to describe Lewside Cottage and her
quiet dull life; and it came out gradually—for Boodles was perfectly
honest—how poor they were, and the respectable Bellamies were
shocked to hear of the numerous housekeeping difficulties, and the
limited number of the little girl's frocks, and what was still worse, the
fact that old Weevil was no relation; until Mr. Bellamie began to fear
that things were getting inartistic, and his fragile wife asked gently
whether the child's parents were still living.
"I don't know," said Boodles, flushing painfully because she felt
somehow she had done wrong.
Aubrey could not stand that. He jumped up and tried to choke his
sweetheart with small cakes, while Mr. Bellamie began to examine
her concerning her favourite pictures, and found she hadn't any, as
she had not been east of Exeter, and knew nothing whatever about
the big town, which is chiefly in Middlesex and Surrey, and partly in
most of the other counties. Mr. Bellamie was rather upset. No girl
could be really artistic if she had not seen the picture galleries. He
began to feel that it would be necessary either to check Aubrey's
amorous propensities or to divert them into some more artistic
channel. Mrs. Bellamie had already arrived at much the same
conclusion. Girls who know nothing of their parents could not
possibly be well-bred, and might easily become a source of danger
to those who were. Aubrey, of course, was not of their opinion.
While his father was weighing Boodles in the æsthetic balance and
finding her wanting, he went round to his mother, passed his arm
about her neck, and whispered fervently: "Isn't she sweet? I may
get her a ring, mother, mayn't I?"
"Don't be foolish, Aubrey," she whispered back. "You are only
children."
They went soon afterwards, but not back to the fair, which was
beginning to be marred by the drunkard and his language; they
went into the very different atmosphere of Tavy woods; and there
picked up the thread of the story, with the trees and the kind
weather about them. But it was not the same somehow. Boodles
had been to the gate of Castle Dolorous, had looked inside, and
thought she had seen the skulls and bones of the young men and
maidens, who had wandered in the woods to hear nightingales and
pick the tender grapes of passion, but had been caught instead by
the ogre, that he might trim his mantle with their hearts. She began
at last to wonder whether it could be a sin to have no recognised
parents and no name. Even the mongrel can be faithful, and the
hybrid flower beautiful; and in their way they are natural, and for
themselves they are loved. But they have no names of their own.
The plant may cast back in its seed to the weed stage, and the
owner of the mongrel may grow ashamed of it at last. Such a
splendid name as Bellamie could hardly be hyphened with a blank.
Still Boodles was very young, only a baby, as she said; and she soon
forgot the ogre; and they went down by the river and smeared their
kisses with ripe blackberries.
Aubrey's parents strolled in their garden, and agreed that Miss
Weevil's head was perfect. They also agreed that the boy had better
fall in love with some one else.
"He is so constant. It is what I love in him," said the mother. "He has
been devoted to the child always, and now that he is approaching
the age when boys do foolish things without consulting their
parents, he loves her more than ever. I thought the last time he
went away he would come back cured. What a nose she has!"
"She is a perfect Romney," said, her husband.
"I don't believe she knows her name. Boodles, she told me, means
beautiful, and her foster-father is called Weevil. Boodles Weevil does
not go at all with Aubrey Bellamie," said the lady.
The fragile gentleman agreed that the girl's name violated every
canon of art. "If Aubrey will not give her up—" he began, breaking
off a twig which threatened to mar the symmetry of the border.
"I shall not influence him. It is foolish to oppose young people.
Leave them alone, and they usually get tired of each other as they
get older. She is a good child. Aubrey is perfectly safe. He may go
about with her as much as he likes, but we must see he does not
run off with her and marry her."
"We had better find out everything that is to be known," said Mr.
Bellamie. "I will go and see this old Weevil. He may be a fine old
gentleman with a Rembrandt head for all we know. She may be well-
born, only it is remarkable that she remembers nothing about her
parents. She would be a daughter to be proud of, if she had studied
art. She offended slightly in the matter of drapery. I noticed a hole in
her stocking, but it might have been caused during the day."
"You did not kiss her, I think?" said his wife quickly.
"No, certainly not," came the answer.
"I don't want you to. Her mouth is pretty."
"We must go in," said Mr. Bellamie decisively. "They are beginning to
light up the fair. How horribly inartistic it all is!"
Peter and Mary were being pushed about in the crowd below, still
enjoying themselves, although somewhat past riding on wooden
horses, for Mary was stupid and Peter was sleepy and absent-
minded. They had followed custom and done the fair thoroughly,
and had not forgotten the liquor. It was an unusual thing for Mary to
have a head like a swing and a body like a roundabout, but Peter
was used to it. He had been throwing at cocoa-nuts, without hitting
anything except a man's knee; and for some time he had admired
the ladies dancing in very short skirts to the tune of a merry music-
hall melody until Mary, who was terribly hampered by her big
umbrella, dragged him away from a spectacle so degrading. It was
time for them to return home. They got clear of the crowd, and set
their faces, as they supposed, towards the station.
Thomasine was upon the bridge no longer. She had been joined by
Will Pugsley, who had lost sight of his new sweetheart, as they had
managed to drift apart in the crowd, and were not likely to meet
again. She had probably been picked up by some one and would be
perfectly happy with her new partner. Thomasine went off with
young Pugsley, and it was only in the natural order of things that she
should meet Pendoggat at last, not alone, but accompanied by Annie
Crocker. It was unfortunate for Thomasine that she should have
Pugsley's arm round her waist, although it was not her fault, as he
had placed it there, and she supposed her waist had been made for
that sort of thing. It was impossible to tell whether Pendoggat had
seen her, as he never looked at any one. It was not a happy holiday
for Thomasine, although she did go home between Pugsley and
another drunken man, a young friend of his, who ought to have
made her feel common, had she been capable of self-examination.
It was at the bridge that Peter and Mary went wrong. They ought to
have crossed it, only they were so confused they hardly knew what
they were doing. It was another bridge of sighs. Lovers, who had
probably met for the first time that day, were embracing upon it;
and a couple of young soldiers were outraging the clear water of the
Tavy by being sick over the parapet. Peter and Mary stumbled on,
found themselves in darkness and a lonely road, and soon began to
wonder what had become of the town and the station. They had no
idea they were walking straight away from Tavistock in the direction
of Yelverton.
"Here us be!" cried Mary at length. "A lot o' gals in white dresses
biding for the train. Us be in time."
"There be hundreds and millions of 'em," said Peter sleepily.
The road was very dark, but they could see a low wall, and upon the
other side what appeared to be a host of dim white figures waiting
patiently. They went up to a building and found an iron gate, but the
gate was locked, and the house was in darkness. It looked as if the
last train had gone, and the station was closed for the night.
"Us mun climb the wall," said Mary. She began to shout at the girls
in the white dresses: "Open the gate, some of ye. Open the gate."
There was no reply from the white figures; only the murmuring of
the river, and a dreary rustling of dry autumnal foliage. Peter rubbed
his eyes and stared, and put his little peg-nose over the wall.
"It bain't the station," he muttered, with a violent belch. "It be a
gentleman's garden."
"Aw, Peter, don't ye be so vulish. It be vull o' volks biding to go
home."
They climbed the wall, far too sleepy and intoxicated to know they
were in the cemetery; and finding themselves upon soft grass they
went to sleep, using the mound of a young girl's grave for their
bolster, adding their drunken slumbers to the heavier sleep of those
who Mary thought were "biding to go home."
About the middle of the night Peter awoke, much refreshed and less
absent-minded, and discovered the nature and the dampness of
their resting-place. The little man was not in the least dismayed. He
aroused Mary with his fist and facetious remarks. "Us be only
lodgers. Us bain't come to bide," he said cheerfully.
Mary also saw the fun of the thing. It was a fitting climax to her
travelling experiences. Without being at all depressed by her
surroundings she said: "Aw, Peter! To think us be sleeping among
the corpses like." To the novelty of this experience was to be added
the fact that she had slept at last outside her native parish.
They went back to Tavistock, to find the town at rest, and the fair
dark and silent. Returning to the house where they had eaten at
midday, they banged upon the door and shouted for sleeping
accommodation, which was at last provided. Peter felt a thrill of
satisfaction when he comprehended that he was putting up at what
he was pleased to style an hotel. While he was examining the
furniture, the insecure bed, the chair without a back, the cracked
crockery, and all the other essentials of the civilised bedroom, Mary
began to shout violently—
"Aw, Peter, du'ye come along and see the light! 'Tis a hot hair-pin in
a bottle on a bit o' rope, and yew turns 'en on and off wi' a tap like
cider."
Peter had to admit that electric light was something startling. He
perceived that the same phenomenon occurred in his bedroom, and
he was at a loss to account for it. Mary's shouts had alarmed the
young slut of a maid who had introduced them to their rooms, and
she hurried up to see what was wrong, well accustomed, poor
wench, to be on her feet most of the day and night. She found Peter
and Mary regarding their luminous bottles with fear and amazement,
not venturing to go too close lest some evil should befall them.
"Where be the oil?" asked Mary.
The ignorant little wench said there wasn't any oil; at least she
thought not. She knew nothing about the light, except how to turn it
on and off. It had only been put into the house lately, and she
confessed it saved her a lot of work. She believed it was expensive,
as her master had told her not to waste it. A man had come in one
day and hung the little bottles in the rooms, and they had given light
ever since when they were wanted. They did not seem to wear out,
and nothing was ever put into them. Some telegraph-wires had been
put about the house at the same time, but she didn't know what
they were for, as they did not appear to have anything to do with
the post-office. That was all the little slut could tell them. She
demonstrated how easy it was to turn the light on and off. She
plunged them into darkness, and restored them to light. She couldn't
tell them how it was done, but there was a big barrel in the top attic,
and perhaps the light was kept in that.
Peter was unable to concur. He had recovered from his first
bewilderment, and his learning asserted itself. He considered that
the light was natural, like that of the sun. It was merely a matter of
imprisoning it within an air-tight bottle; but what he could not
understand was where the light went to when the tap was turned.
This, however, was nothing but a little engineering problem, which a
certain amount of application on his part would inevitably solve. He
could make clocks and watches; at least he thought he could,
though he had never tried; and the lighting of Ger Cottage with
luminous bottles would, he considered, be an undertaking quite
within his powers.
"Us wun't have no more lamps," he said. "Us will hang up thikky
bottles. Can us buy 'em?" he asked the little slut.
"There be a shop where they sells 'em, bits o' rope and all. I seed
'em in the window," said the girl.
"Us will buy two or dree in the morning," declared Mary. "Can us
hang 'em up, du'ye reckon, Peter?"
Her brother replied that the task would be altogether beyond her;
but it was not likely to present any serious difficulties to him. He
promised to hang up one light-giving bottle in his own hut-circle, and
another in Mary's. She would pay for the fittings, and he would in
return charge her a reasonable sum for his services.
The proprietor of the lodging-house made a poor bargain when he
took in Peter and Mary. They spent most of the remainder of the
night turning the wonderful light on and off, "like cider," as Mary
said.

CHAPTER XII
 ABOUT THE OCTAVE OF ST. GOOSE
Things had gone wrong with Peter and Mary ever since the festival.
Excitement, Plymouth liquors, and ignorance were largely to blame
for the general "contrairiness" of things; but the root of the trouble
lay in the fact of their refusal to be decent savages; of Peter's claims
to be a handy man, and of Mary's desire to be civilised.
Old Sal had last been seen wandering towards Helmen Barton; that
was the principal grievance. Others were the complete failure of
Peter as an electrical engineer; the discovery that nearly a pound's
worth of precious shillings had been dissipated at the fair in idle
pleasures alone; and the loss of a number of little packages
containing such things as tea, sugar, and rice, which Mary had
bought in Tavistock and placed, as she thought, in a position of
safety. The pills and flower-seeds had proved also a source of
trouble. A bottle of almighty pills had been thrust upon Peter for his
liver's sake, and Mary had later on acquired packets of sweet-peas
and mignonette in order that her garden might be made glorious.
The loss of the groceries caused the first lamentation. Mary had a
clear recollection of buying them, or at least she remembered paying
for them, but beyond that memory did nothing for her. She had no
impression of walking about the streets with her arms full of
packages; they were not in her pocket, nor had they ever been in
Peter's; she could not have left them in the shop; she was ready to
swear she had not dropped them. The only possible conclusion was
that the pixies had stolen them. Peter the hypocrite grunted at that.
Although he offered sacrifice continually to the pixies that dwelt in
Grandfather's bosom, he declared there were no such things.
School-master had told him they were all dead. Education had in
some obscure way shot, trapped, or poisoned the lot.
"You'm a gurt vule," was Mary's retort. "Dartmoor be vull o' piskies,
allus was, and allus will be. When I was a little maid and went to
schule wi' Master, though he never larnt I more than ten fingers and
ten toes be twenty, though I allus remembered it, for Master had a
brave way of larning young volks—What was I telling, Peter? Aw ees,
I mind now. 'Twas when I went to schule wi' Ann Middleweek, her
picked up a pisky oven and broke 'en all to bits, 'cause her said the
piskies were proper little brutes, and her was beat cruel that night
wi' brimmles and vuzzy-bushes 'cause her'd broke the oven, and her
was green and blue next day. 'Twas the piskies stole my tea and
sugar, sure 'nuff. If I'd ha' spat on 'em, and marked 'em proper wi' a
cross betwixt two hearts, they'd ha' been here now."
Mary worried so much over her lost groceries that she felt quite ill.
As Peter also became apprehensive of the state of his health every
time that he looked at the bottle of pills, they decided to take a few.
Then Peter went out into the garden to sow the flower-seeds, while
Mary tramped over the moor to search for her missing goose.
Peter imagined that he had mastered the science of horticulture. At
least he would not have accepted advice upon the subject from any
one. Vegetables he had grown all his life, and in exactly the same
way as they had been grown in his boyhood, and he was quite as
successful as his neighbours. He was a ridiculous little man, and in
several ways as much of a savage as his ancestors, but he had
inherited something from them besides their unpleasant ways. His
pretensions to being skilled with his hands and clever with his brain
were grotesque enough; but he possessed a faculty which is owned
by few, because it is not required by civilised beings, a faculty which
to strangers appeared incredible. When a bullock or a pony was
pointed out to him, as it stood outlined against the sky on the top of
some distant tor, or even as it walked against the dull background of
the moor, he would put his hand to his eyes, and almost at once,
and always correctly, give the owner's name. He earned several
shillings at certain seasons of the year, and could have earned more
had he not been lazy, by going out to search for missing animals.
Peter was always in demand by the commoners about the time of
the drift.
Flowers were useless things according to Peter, and concerning their
culture he knew nothing. However, Mary insisted upon the seeds
being planted, to give her garden a civilised appearance, so Peter set
about the task. The packet of sweet-peas had broken in his pocket
during the fair, and upon returning he had placed them in a small
bottle. The mignonette was his first care. The instructions outside
stated that the seed was to be sown "in February, under glass."
Peter shook his head at that. February was a long way off, but he
went on to argue that if the seed would grow during the winter it
was certainly safe to sow it during the far warmer month of October.
It was the "under glass" that puzzled him. This was evidently
something new in gardening, and Peter objected to new-fangled
methods. It occurred to him that the expression might have been
intended for "under grass," but that seemed equally absurd. School-
master would know, but Peter was not going to expose his ignorance
by asking questions. Besides, it would mean a long walk, and
Master's cottage possessed the distinct disadvantage of being a
considerable distance from the inn. Peter had no idea what sort of a
plant mignonette might be, but he supposed it was a foreign growth
which managed to flourish upon certain nutritive qualities possessed
by glass. There were plenty of bottles in the linhay. Peter broke up a
couple with the crowbar, collected the fragments—the instructions
omitted to state how much glass—scattered the seeds in an
unimportant corner of the garden, strewed the pieces of glass over
them, and trod the whole down firmly. Then he dug a trench and
buried the sweet-peas.
Soon afterwards he began to feel ill; and when Mary returned
without news of Old Sal she said she was "cruel sick-like tu." They
conferred together, agreed that the trouble was caused by "the oil in
their livers," and concluded they had better go on with the pills.
Presently they were suffering torments; the night was a sleepless
time of groans and invocations; and in the morning they were
worse. Peter was the most grievously afflicted, at least he said he
was; and described the state of his feelings with the expressive
phrase: "My belly be filled wi' little hot things jumping up and down."
"So be mine. Whatever be the matter wi' us?" groaned Mary.
"They pills. Us ha' took tu many."
"Mebbe us didn't tak' enough. Us ha' only took half the bottle, and
he said dree bottles for a cure."
"Us wun't tak' no more. I'll smash that old bottle on they seeds.
'Twill dung 'em proper," said Peter, shuffling painfully across the floor
and reaching for the bottle.
A moment later he began to howl. He had discovered something,
and terror made him own to it.
"Us be dead corpses! Us be pizened! Us ha' swallowed they peas!"
he shouted.
"Aw, my dear life! Where be the pills, then?" cried Mary.
"I've tilled 'em," said Peter. "They be in the garden, and them peas
be growing in our bellies."
"Aw, Peter, us will die! I be a-going to see Master," groaned Mary.
Peter said he should come too. He was afraid to be left alone, with
Grandfather ticking sardonically at him, and sweet-peas germinating
in his bowels. If it had been only Mary who was suffering he would
have prescribed for her; but as he was himself in pain he argued
that it would be advisable to seek outside assistance. Master was a
"brave larned man," and he would know what ought to be done to
save their lives. They made themselves presentable, and laboured
bitterly across the moor to St. Mary Tavy village.
Master was never out. He lived in a little whitewashed cottage near
the road, gazing out of his front window all day, with a heap of
books on a little table beside him, and pedantic spectacles upon his
nose. He was nearly eighty, and belonged to the old school of dames
and masters now practically extinct, an entirely ignorant class, who
taught the children nothing because they were perfectly illiterate
themselves. Master was held in reverence by the villagers. That pile
of books, and the wonderful silver spectacles which he was always
polishing with knowing glances, were to them symbols of unbounded
knowledge. They brought their letters to the old man that he might
read them aloud and explain obscure passages. Not a pig was killed
without Master's knowledge, and not a child was christened until the
Nestor of the neighbourhood had been consulted.
"Please to come in, varmer. Please to sot down, Mary," said Master,
as he received the groaning pilgrims into his tiny owlery, "varmer"
being the correct and lawful title of every commoner. "Have a drop o'
cider, will ye? You'm welcome. I knows you be main cruel fond of a
drop o' cider, varmer."
Peter was past cider just then. He groaned and Mary moaned, and
they both doubled up in their chairs; while Master arranged his
beautiful spectacles, and looked at them in a learned fashion, and at
last hit upon the brilliant idea that they were afflicted with spasms of
the abdomen.
"You've been yetting too many worts?" he suggested with kindly
sympathy.
"Us be tilling peas in our bellies," explained Mary. .
Master had not much sense of humour. He thought at first the
remark was made seriously, and he began to upbraid them for
venturing on such daring experiments. But Mary went on: "Us
bought pills to Goosie Vair, 'cause us ha' got too much oil in our
livers, and us bought stinking-peas tu. Us ha' swallowed the peas,
and tilled the pills. Us be gripped proper, so us ha' come right to
wance to yew."
Master replied that they had done wisely. He played with his books,
wiped his spectacles, and dusted the snuff from his nose with a
handkerchief as big as a bath-towel. Then he folded his gnarled
hands peacefully across his brass watch-chain, and talked to them
like a good physician.
"I'll tell ye why you'm gripped," he said. "'Tis because you swallowed
them peas instead o' the pills. Du'ye understand what I be telling?"
Peter and Mary answered that so far they were quite able to follow
him, and Mary added: "A cruel kind larned man be Master. Sees a
thing to wance, he du."
"Us ha' got innards, and they'm called vowels," Master went on.
"Some calls 'em intestates, but that be just another name for the
same thing. Us ha' got five large vowels, and two small ones. The
large ones be called a, e, i, o, u, and the small ones be called w and
y. I can't tell ye why, but 'tis so. Some of them peas yew ha'
swallowed have got into a, and some ha' got into o, and mebbe
some ha' got into w and y. Du'ye understand what I mean?"
The invalids replied untruthfully that they did, while Peter stated that
Master had done him good already.
"They be growing there, and 'tis the growing that gripes ye. Du'ye
understand that?" continued Master.
Peter ventured to ask how much growth might be looked for.
"They grows six foot and more, if they bain't stopped," said Master
ominously.
"How be us to stop 'em?" wailed Mary.
"I'll tell ye," said Master. "Yew mun get home and bide quiet, and not
drink. Then mebbe the peas will wilt off and die wi'out taking root."
"Shall us dig up the pills and tak' some?" Suggested Peter.
"Best let 'em bide. They be doing the ground good," said Master. "It
bain't nothing serious, varmer," he went on. "Yew and Mary will be
well again to-morrow. Don't ye drink and 'twill be all right. The peas