The Picts & the Martyrs. Arthur Ransome

at the string.

      “Uncle Jim says the woodcutters used it long before we were born. And he used it when he was a little boy. Rotten luck for us if anybody’s using it now.” She opened the door.

      No one can see much when they look through a small window into a dark room, and what little Dorothea had been able to make out in the gloom had not been cheering. When the door was opened and the light poured in, the hut at first looked even less like a place in which it was possible that anybody, unless perhaps real Picts, savages or badgers, could settle down to live. It was like peering into a wood pile. A huge mass of firewood seemed to fill the hut. Dead branches of trees had been hauled into the hut and thrown one above another on the earthen floor.

      “If somebody’s using it, we’re done,” said Peggy.

      But Nancy was forcing her way in between wall and firewood. Dorothea and Peggy followed her. Dick, after one glance, went back and came in through the window instead.

      And suddenly the thought of living in the hut began to seem more hopeful. Once past that great barricade of tree branches there was room for them to move about, and they could see that whatever the hut lacked it had something that in houses matters more than anything else.

      “What a gorgeous fireplace,” said Dorothea.

      “I told you it was a good one,” said Nancy.

      It was an enormous fireplace, taking up nearly half of one wall, a huge cavern of a fireplace, of the old kind, built for burning wood, with no grate, but an iron bar, very rusty, stretching from one side to the other with a great hook hanging on it.

      “That’s for a kettle,” said Peggy.

      “Yes,” said Dorothea.

      “This is something new,” said Nancy, looking at a wooden chair that had lost its back. “There wasn’t any furniture when we were here.”

      “What are those pegs for?” asked Dick.

      He was looking up at two great beams, black with age and smoke, that stretched from one side of the hut to the other under the ridge of the roof. Huge wooden pegs, a yard or so apart, stuck out of the beams.

      “Hanging things on,” said Peggy. “Guns, perhaps. Uncle Jim says a gamekeeper lived here before the woodcutters.”

      “Jolly useful,” said Dick. “And that shelf over the fireplace is just the thing for keeping books on, and my microscope … ”

      Dorothea looked at him. Well, if Dick thought it was all right ….

      “Nobody’s using it,” said Nancy suddenly. “If anybody was there’d be some bedding about, and there isn’t. Let’s make a fire and see what it’s really like.”

      “It doesn’t smell really damp,” said Peggy.

      “All hands to breaking up wood,” said Nancy. “Whoever was here has left a good lot of logs as well as all that small stuff. But we want sticks to get it started. Small twigs first. Who’s got any matches?”

      “I have,” said Dick, who had put a box in his pocket before leaving school to be ready for such moments as this.

      “Good,” said Nancy. “Look here. The twigs aren’t too dry. Handful of dry leaves … We’ll get a fire started and then we’ll clear all these sticks out and have room to turn round … ”

      Dick, climbing out through the window, was back in a moment with some dry leaves. Nancy made a little heap of them in the old fireplace on the soft grey ash of old fires. She put a match to them and as they flared up built them in with twigs. The twigs caught fire, little jets of flame spouting from their ends. She built the twigs in with sticks, and as these too crackled and flamed, she added bigger sticks and small logs that someone had left piled neatly in a corner. The fire roared cheerfully up the chimney.

      “It must have taken somebody an age to collect all these sticks,” said Dorothea.

      “It won’t take ten minutes to get them out,” said Peggy, and, with all four of them working as hard as they could, the pile of dead branches that had half filled the hut soon began to grow smaller.

      “Make a proper wood pile outside,” said Nancy. “It’ll all come in handy. They’ll want a saw to cut it up.”

      “There’s a saw here,” said Dick. As the pile of branches grew lower in the hut he had seen something hanging on the wall behind it. He had worked his way in between the wood and the wall till he could reach it, and was looking at it now, feeling its blade with a finger. He brought it out into the sunlight. “Jolly well hidden,” he said. “And properly looked after. Whoever it belongs to put grease on it to stop it rusting. Fingerprints on it,” he added. “A bit smaller than mine … ”

      “Won’t do it any harm to use it,” said Nancy.

      “But perhaps there’s a sort of Pict living here already,” said Dorothea.

      “Couldn’t be,” said Nancy. “Where could he sleep with the whole place bung full of sticks like it was?”

      “Just somebody collecting wood and leaving a saw behind,” said Dick. “Jolly useful for us.”

      Even when all the branches were cleared out, the floor was left covered with broken twigs, but, somehow, the hut, that had seemed very small at first, had seemed to be growing as branch after branch was lugged out into the open. Now, with nothing but small stuff left on the floor, it seemed quite roomy. It was unfurnished, except for the chair that had lost its back, and the shelf that ran along the wall above the fireplace, but Dick and Dorothea, picking up broken sticks and throwing them on the fire, were already beginning to think of it as a home.

      “Where will we have the hammocks?” said Dorothea.

      “We could hang them under the two big beams,” said Dick.

      Nancy and Peggy were watching them hopefully.

      “Will it do?” said Nancy at last. “Do you think you could manage?”

      “There’s a three-legged stool in our bedroom,” said Peggy. “You could have that.”

      “We’ll have to do something about a table for you,” said Nancy.

      “Picts never had tables,” said Dorothea.

      “We’ll fix up something,” said Nancy. “If you’re writing a story you’ll want one. But the point is, will it do?”

      “It’s going to be splendid,” said Dorothea. “It’s a perfect place to write in.”

      “Jolly good for watching birds,” said Dick. “Butterflies, too. I saw a red admiral and two fritillaries just outside. And I’m pretty sure I heard a woodpecker.”

      “The main thing is it’s so near the house,” said Nancy. “And utterly out of sight. Once we’ve nipped out without being spotted we can be up here in two shakes. Ten times better than if you had to clear out altogether or be on the other side of the lake. And you can go past Beckfoot and out on the promontory … ”

      “To get Scarab out of the boathouse?” said Dick.

      “Giminy,” said Nancy. “I forgot that. We’ll have to make a harbour for your boat somewhere up the river. It wouldn’t do for the Great Aunt to find her in our boathouse. What’s the time?”

      “Half-past twelve,” said Dick. “Twenty-seven and half minutes to one.”

      “Less than six hours and she’ll be here,” said Nancy. “Come on. We’ve got to fix up your hammocks. We’ve got to bring bedding. You’ll want stores and cooking things. We’ve got to turn Dorothea’s lair back into a beastly spare room. And then we’ve got to be all proper in party dresses ready to soothe the savage beast when the Great Aunt comes gorgoning in. We’ll manage her all right so long as we can keep your secret. What her codfish eyes don’t see her conger heart can’t grieve