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The Gold Bat
By
P.G. Wodehouse
[Dedication]
To THAT PRINCE OF SLACKERS, HERBERT WESTBROOK.
CHAPTER
I - THE FIFTEENTH PLACE
CHAPTER
III - THE MAYOR'S STATUE
CHAPTER
IV - THE LEAGUE'S WARNING
CHAPTER
V - MILL RECEIVES VISITORS
CHAPTER
VI - TREVOR REMAINS FIRM
CHAPTER
VII - "WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE LEAGUE".
CHAPTER
VIII - O'HARA ON THE TRACK
CHAPTER
IX - MAINLY ABOUT FERRETS
CHAPTER
X - BEING A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS.
CHAPTER
XI - THE HOUSE-MATCHES
CHAPTER
XII - NEWS OF THE GOLD BAT
CHAPTER
XIII - VICTIM NUMBER THREE
CHAPTER
XIV - THE WHITE FIGURE
CHAPTER
XV - A SPRAIN AND A VACANT PLACE.
CHAPTER
XVI - THE RIPTON MATCH
CHAPTER
XVII - THE WATCHERS IN THE VAULT.
CHAPTER
XVIII - O'HARA EXCELS HIMSELF
CHAPTER
XIX - THE MAYOR'S VISIT
CHAPTER
XX - THE FINDING OF THE BAT
CHAPTER
XXI - THE LEAGUE REVEALED
CHAPTER
XXII - A DRESS REHEARSAL
CHAPTER
XXIII - WHAT RENFORD SAW
CHAPTER I - THE FIFTEENTH
PLACE
"Outside!"
"Don't
be an idiot, man. I bagged it first."
"My
dear chap, I've been waiting here a month."
"When
you fellows have quite finished rotting about in front of that bath don't l=
et
me detain you."
"Anybody
seen that sponge?"
"Well,
look here"--this in a tone of compromise--"let's toss for it.&quo=
t;
"All
right. Odd man out."
All
of which, being interpreted, meant that the first match of the Easter term =
had
just come to an end, and that those of the team who, being day boys, changed
over at the pavilion, instead of performing the operation at leisure and in
comfort, as did the members of houses, were discussing the vital question--=
who
was to have first bath?
The
Field Sports Committee at Wrykyn--that is, at the school which stood some
half-mile outside that town and took its name from it--were not lavish in t=
heir
expenditure as regarded the changing accommodation in the pavilion. Letters
appeared in every second number of the Wrykinian, some short, others long, =
some
from members of the school, others from Old Boys, all protesting against the
condition of the first, second, and third fifteen dressing-rooms.
"Indignant" would inquire acidly, in half a page of small type, if
the editor happened to be aware that there was no hair-brush in the second
room, and only half a comb. "Disgusted O. W." would remark that w=
hen
he came down with the Wandering Zephyrs to play against the third fifteen, =
the
water supply had suddenly and mysteriously failed, and the W.Z.'s had been
obliged to go home as they were, in a state of primeval grime, and he thoug=
ht that
this was "a very bad thing in a school of over six hundred boys",=
though
what the number of boys had to do with the fact that there was no water he
omitted to explain. The editor would express his regret in brackets, and th=
ings
would go on as before.
There
was only one bath in the first fifteen room, and there were on the present
occasion six claimants to it. And each claimant was of the fixed opinion th=
at,
whatever happened subsequently, he was going to have it first. Finally, on =
the
suggestion of Otway, who had reduced tossing to a fine art, a mystic game of
Tommy Dodd was played. Otway having triumphantly obtained first innings, the
conversation reverted to the subject of the match.
The
Easter term always opened with a scratch game against a mixed team of maste=
rs
and old boys, and the school usually won without any great exertion. On this
occasion the match had been rather more even than the average, and the team=
had
only just pulled the thing off by a couple of tries to a goal. Otway expres=
sed
an opinion that the school had played badly.
"Why
on earth don't you forwards let the ball out occasionally?" he asked.
Otway was one of the first fifteen halves.
"They
were so jolly heavy in the scrum," said Maurice, one of the forwards.
"And when we did let it out, the outsides nearly always mucked it.&quo=
t;
"Well,
it wasn't the halves' fault. We always got it out to the centres."
"It
wasn't the centres," put in Robinson. "They played awfully well. =
Trevor
was ripping."
"Trevor
always is," said Otway; "I should think he's about the best capta=
in
we've had here for a long time. He's certainly one of the best centres.&quo=
t;
"Best
there's been since Rivers-Jones," said Clephane.
Rivers-Jones
was one of those players who mark an epoch. He had been in the team fifteen
years ago, and had left Wrykyn to captain Cambridge and play three years in
succession for Wales. The school regarded the standard set by him as one th=
at
did not admit of comparison. However good a Wrykyn centre three-quarter mig=
ht
be, the most he could hope to be considered was "the best since
Rivers-Jones". "Since" Rivers-Jones, however, covered fifteen
years, and to be looked on as the best centre the school could boast of dur=
ing
that time, meant something. For Wrykyn knew how to play football.
Since
it had been decided thus that the faults in the school attack did not lie w=
ith
the halves, forwards, or centres, it was more or less evident that they mus=
t be
attributable to the wings. And the search for the weak spot was even further
narrowed down by the general verdict that Clowes, on the left wing, had pla=
yed
well. With a beautiful unanimity the six occupants of the first fifteen room
came to the conclusion that the man who had let the team down that day had =
been
the man on the right--Rand-Brown, to wit, of Seymour's.
"I'll
bet he doesn't stay in the first long," said Clephane, who was now in =
the
bath, vice Otway, retired. "I suppose they had to try him, as he was t=
he
senior wing three-quarter of the second, but he's no earthly good."
"He
only got into the second because he's big," was Robinson's opinion. &q=
uot;A
man who's big and strong can always get his second colours."
"Even
if he's a funk, like Rand-Brown," said Clephane. "Did any of you =
chaps
notice the way he let Paget through that time he scored for them? He simply
didn't attempt to tackle him. He could have brought him down like a shot if
he'd only gone for him. Paget was running straight along the touch-line, and
hadn't any room to dodge. I know Trevor was jolly sick about it. And then he
let him through once before in just the same way in the first half, only Tr=
evor
got round and stopped him. He was rank."
"Missed
every other pass, too," said Otway.
Clephane
summed up.
"He
was rank," he said again. "Trevor won't keep him in the team
long."
"I
wish Paget hadn't left," said Otway, referring to the wing three-quart=
er
who, by leaving unexpectedly at the end of the Christmas term, had let
Rand-Brown into the team. His loss was likely to be felt. Up till Christmas
Wrykyn had done well, and Paget had been their scoring man. Rand-Brown had
occupied a similar position in the second fifteen. He was big and speedy, a=
nd
in second fifteen matches these qualities make up for a great deal. If a man
scores one or two tries in nearly every match, people are inclined to overl=
ook
in him such failings as timidity and clumsiness. It is only when he comes t=
o be
tried in football of a higher class that he is seen through. In the second =
fifteen
the fact that Rand-Brown was afraid to tackle his man had almost escaped
notice. But the habit would not do in first fifteen circles.
"All
the same," said Clephane, pursuing his subject, "if they don't pl=
ay
him, I don't see who they're going to get. He's the best of the second
three-quarters, as far as I can see."
It
was this very problem that was puzzling Trevor, as he walked off the field =
with
Paget and Clowes, when they had got into their blazers after the match. Clo=
wes
was in the same house as Trevor--Donaldson's--and Paget was staying there, =
too.
He had been head of Donaldson's up to Christmas.
"It
strikes me," said Paget, "the school haven't got over the holiday=
s yet.
I never saw such a lot of slackers. You ought to have taken thirty points o=
ff
the sort of team you had against you today."
"Have
you ever known the school play well on the second day of term?" asked
Clowes. "The forwards always play as if the whole thing bored them to
death."
"It
wasn't the forwards that mattered so much," said Trevor. "They'll=
shake
down all right after a few matches. A little running and passing will put t=
hem
right."
"Let's
hope so," Paget observed, "or we might as well scratch to Ripton =
at
once. There's a jolly sight too much of the mince-pie and Christmas pudding
about their play at present." There was a pause. Then Paget brought out
the question towards which he had been moving all the time.
"What
do you think of Rand-Brown?" he asked.
It
was pretty clear by the way he spoke what he thought of that player himself,
but in discussing with a football captain the capabilities of the various
members of his team, it is best to avoid a too positive statement one way or
the other before one has heard his views on the subject. And Paget was one =
of
those people who like to know the opinions of others before committing
themselves.
Clowes,
on the other hand, was in the habit of forming his views on his own account,
and expressing them. If people agreed with them, well and good: it afforded
strong presumptive evidence of their sanity. If they disagreed, it was
unfortunate, but he was not going to alter his opinions for that, unless
convinced at great length that they were unsound. He summed things up, and =
gave
you the result. You could take it or leave it, as you preferred.
"I
thought he was bad," said Clowes.
"Bad!"
exclaimed Trevor, "he was a disgrace. One can understand a chap having=
his
off-days at any game, but one doesn't expect a man in the Wrykyn first to f=
unk.
He mucked five out of every six passes I gave him, too, and the ball wasn't=
a
bit slippery. Still, I shouldn't mind that so much if he had only gone for =
his
man properly. It isn't being out of practice that makes you funk. And even =
when
he did have a try at you, Paget, he always went high."
"That," said Clowes thoughtfully, "would seem to show that he was game."<= o:p>
Nobody
so much as smiled. Nobody ever did smile at Clowes' essays in wit, perhaps
because of the solemn, almost sad, tone of voice in which he delivered them=
. He
was tall and dark and thin, and had a pensive eye, which encouraged the more
soulful of his female relatives to entertain hopes that he would some day t=
ake
orders.
"Well,"
said Paget, relieved at finding that he did not stand alone in his views on
Rand-Brown's performance, "I must say I thought he was awfully bad
myself."
"I
shall try somebody else next match," said Trevor. "It'll be rathe=
r hard,
though. The man one would naturally put in, Bryce, left at Christmas, worse
luck."
Bryce
was the other wing three-quarter of the second fifteen.
"Isn't
there anybody in the third?" asked Paget.
"Barry,"
said Clowes briefly.
"Clowes
thinks Barry's good," explained Trevor.
"He
is good," said Clowes. "I admit he's small, but he can tackle.&qu=
ot;
"The
question is, would he be any good in the first? A chap might do jolly well =
for
the third, and still not be worth trying for the first."
"I
don't remember much about Barry," said Paget, "except being colla=
red by
him when we played Seymour's last year in the final. I certainly came away =
with
a sort of impression that he could tackle. I thought he marked me jolly
well."
"There
you are, then," said Clowes. "A year ago Barry could tackle Paget.
There's no reason for supposing that he's fallen off since then. We've seen
that Rand-Brown can't tackle Paget. Ergo, Barry is better worth playing for=
the
team than Rand-Brown. Q.E.D."
"All
right, then," replied Trevor. "There can't be any harm in trying =
him.
We'll have another scratch game on Thursday. Will you be here then,
Paget?"
"Oh,
yes. I'm stopping till Saturday."
"Good
man. Then we shall be able to see how he does against you. I wish you hadn't
left, though, by Jove. We should have had Ripton on toast, the same as last
term."
Wrykyn
played five schools, but six school matches. The school that they played tw=
ice
in the season was Ripton. To win one Ripton match meant that, however many
losses it might have sustained in the other matches, the school had had, at=
any
rate, a passable season. To win two Ripton matches in the same year was alm=
ost
unheard of. This year there had seemed every likelihood of it. The match be=
fore
Christmas on the Ripton ground had resulted in a win for Wrykyn by two goals
and a try to a try. But the calculations of the school had been upset by th=
e sudden
departure of Paget at the end of term, and also of Bryce, who had hitherto =
been
regarded as his understudy. And in the first Ripton match the two goals had
both been scored by Paget, and both had been brilliant bits of individual p=
lay,
which a lesser man could not have carried through.
The
conclusion, therefore, at which the school reluctantly arrived, was that th=
eir
chances of winning the second match could not be judged by their previous
success. They would have to approach the Easter term fixture from another--a
non-Paget--standpoint. In these circumstances it became a serious problem: =
who
was to get the fifteenth place? Whoever played in Paget's stead against Rip=
ton
would be certain, if the match were won, to receive his colours. Who, then,
would fill the vacancy?
"Rand-Brown,
of course," said the crowd.
But
the experts, as we have shown, were of a different opinion.
Trevor did not take long to resume =
a garb
of civilisation. He never wasted much time over anything. He was gifted wit=
h a
boundless energy, which might possibly have made him unpopular had he not
justified it by results. The football of the school had never been in such =
a flourishing
condition as it had attained to on his succeeding to the captaincy. It was =
not
only that the first fifteen was good. The excellence of a first fifteen does
not always depend on the captain. But the games, even down to the very humb=
lest
junior game, had woken up one morning--at the beginning of the previous
term--to find themselves, much to their surprise, organised going concerns.
Like the immortal Captain Pott, Trevor was "a terror to the shirker and
the lubber". And the resemblance was further increased by the fact tha=
t he
was "a toughish lot", who was "little, but steel and
india-rubber". At first sight his appearance was not imposing.
Paterfamilias, who had heard his son's eulogies on Trevor's performances du=
ring
the holidays, and came down to watch the school play a match, was generally
rather disappointed on seeing five feet six where he had looked for at leas=
t six
foot one, and ten stone where he had expected thirteen. But then, what there
was of Trevor was, as previously remarked, steel and india-rubber, and he
certainly played football like a miniature Stoddart. It was characteristic =
of
him that, though this was the first match of the term, his condition seemed=
to
be as good as possible. He had done all his own work on the field and most =
of Rand-Brown's,
and apparently had not turned a hair. He was one of those conscientious peo=
ple
who train in the holidays.
When
he had changed, he went down the passage to Clowes' study. Clowes was in the
position he frequently took up when the weather was good--wedged into his
window in a sitting position, one leg in the study, the other hanging outsi=
de
over space. The indoor leg lacked a boot, so that it was evident that its o=
wner
had at least had the energy to begin to change. That he had given the thing=
up
after that, exhausted with the effort, was what one naturally expected from
Clowes. He would have made a splendid actor: he was so good at resting.
"Hurry
up and dress," said Trevor; "I want you to come over to the baths=
."
"What
on earth do you want over at the baths?"
"I
want to see O'Hara."
"Oh,
yes, I remember. Dexter's are camping out there, aren't they? I heard they
were. Why is it?"
"One
of the Dexter kids got measles in the last week of the holidays, so they
shunted all the beds and things across, and the chaps went back there inste=
ad
of to the house."
In
the winter term the baths were always boarded over and converted into a sor=
t of
extra gymnasium where you could go and box or fence when there was no room =
to
do it in the real gymnasium. Socker and stump-cricket were also largely pla=
yed
there, the floor being admirably suited to such games, though the light was
always rather tricky, and prevented heavy scoring.
"I
should think," said Clowes, "from what I've seen of Dexter's beau=
ties,
that Dexter would like them to camp out at the bottom of the baths all the =
year
round. It would be a happy release for him if they were all drowned. And I
suppose if he had to choose any one of them for a violent death, he'd pick
O'Hara. O'Hara must be a boon to a house-master. I've known chaps break rul=
es
when the spirit moved them, but he's the only one I've met who breaks them =
all
day long and well into the night simply for amusement. I've often thought o=
f writing
to the S.P.C.A. about it. I suppose you could call Dexter an animal all
right?"
"O'Hara's
right enough, really. A man like Dexter would make any fellow run amuck. And
then O'Hara's an Irishman to start with, which makes a difference."
There
is usually one house in every school of the black sheep sort, and, if you g=
o to
the root of the matter, you will generally find that the fault is with the
master of that house. A house-master who enters into the life of his house,=
coaches
them in games--if an athlete--or, if not an athlete, watches the games,
umpiring at cricket and refereeing at football, never finds much difficulty=
in
keeping order. It may be accepted as fact that the juniors of a house will
never be orderly of their own free will, but disturbances in the junior
day-room do not make the house undisciplined. The prefects are the criterio=
n. If
you find them joining in the general "rags", and even starting pr=
ivate
ones on their own account, then you may safely say that it is time the mast=
er
of that house retired from the business, and took to chicken-farming. And t=
hat
was the state of things in Dexter's. It was the most lawless of the houses.=
Mr
Dexter belonged to a type of master almost unknown at a public school--the =
usher
type. In a private school he might have passed. At Wrykyn he was out of pla=
ce.
To him the whole duty of a house-master appeared to be to wage war against =
his
house.
When
Dexter's won the final for the cricket cup in the summer term of two years =
back,
the match lasted four afternoons--four solid afternoons of glorious,
up-and-down cricket. Mr Dexter did not see a single ball of that match bowl=
ed.
He was prowling in sequestered lanes and broken-down barns out of bounds on=
the
off-chance that he might catch some member of his house smoking there. As if
the whole of the house, from the head to the smallest fag, were not on the
field watching Day's best bats collapse before Henderson's bowling, and
Moriarty hit up that marvellous and unexpected fifty-three at the end of the
second innings!
That
sort of thing definitely stamps a master.
"What
do you want to see O'Hara about?" asked Clowes.
"He's
got my little gold bat. I lent it him in the holidays."
A
remark which needs a footnote. The bat referred to was made of gold, and was
about an inch long by an eighth broad. It had come into existence some ten
years previously, in the following manner. The inter-house cricket cup at
Wrykyn had originally been a rather tarnished and unimpressive vessel, whose
only merit consisted in the fact that it was of silver. Ten years ago an Old
Wrykinian, suddenly reflecting that it would not be a bad idea to do someth=
ing
for the school in a small way, hied him to the nearest jeweller's and purch=
ased
another silver cup, vast withal and cunningly decorated with filigree work,=
and
standing on a massive ebony plinth, round which were little silver lozenges
just big enough to hold the name of the winning house and the year of grace.
This he presented with his blessing to be competed for by the dozen houses =
that
made up the school of Wrykyn, and it was formally established as the house
cricket cup. The question now arose: what was to be done with the other cup?
The School House, who happened to be the holders at the time, suggested dis=
interestedly
that it should become the property of the house which had won it last.
"Not so," replied the Field Sports Committee, "but far
otherwise. We will have it melted down in a fiery furnace, and thereafter
fashioned into eleven little silver bats. And these little silver bats shal=
l be
the guerdon of the eleven members of the winning team, to have and to hold =
for
the space of one year, unless, by winning the cup twice in succession, they
gain the right of keeping the bat for yet another year. How is that,
umpire?" And the authorities replied, "O men of infinite resource=
and
sagacity, verily is it a cold day when you get left behind. Forge ahead.&qu=
ot;
But, when they had forged ahead, behold! it would not run to eleven little
silver bats, but only to ten little silver bats. Thereupon the headmaster, a
man liberal with his cash, caused an eleventh little bat to be fashioned--f=
or
the captain of the winning team to have and to hold in the manner aforesaid.
And, to single it out from the others, it was wrought, not of silver, but o=
f gold.
And so it came to pass that at the time of our story Trevor was in possessi=
on
of the little gold bat, because Donaldson's had won the cup in the previous
summer, and he had captained them--and, incidentally, had scored seventy-fi=
ve
without a mistake.
"Well,
I'm hanged if I would trust O'Hara with my bat," said Clowes, referrin=
g to
the silver ornament on his own watch-chain; "he's probably pawned your=
s in
the holidays. Why did you lend it to him?"
"His
people wanted to see it. I know him at home, you know. They asked me to lun=
ch
the last day but one of the holidays, and we got talking about the bat,
because, of course, if we hadn't beaten Dexter's in the final, O'Hara would
have had it himself. So I sent it over next day with a note asking O'Hara to
bring it back with him here."
"Oh,
well, there's a chance, then, seeing he's only had it so little time, that =
he
hasn't pawned it yet. You'd better rush off and get it back as soon as
possible. It's no good waiting for me. I shan't be ready for weeks."
"Where's
Paget?"
"Teaing
with Donaldson. At least, he said he was going to."
"Then
I suppose I shall have to go alone. I hate walking alone."
"If
you hurry," said Clowes, scanning the road from his post of vantage,
"you'll be able to go with your fascinating pal Ruthven. He's just gone
out."
Trevor
dashed downstairs in his energetic way, and overtook the youth referred to.=
Clowes
brooded over them from above like a sorrowful and rather disgusted Providen=
ce.
Trevor's liking for Ruthven, who was a Donaldsonite like himself, was one of
the few points on which the two had any real disagreement. Clowes could not
understand how any person in his senses could of his own free will make an
intimate friend of Ruthven.
"Hullo,
Trevor," said Ruthven.
"Come
over to the baths," said Trevor, "I want to see O'Hara about some=
thing.
Or were you going somewhere else."
"I
wasn't going anywhere in particular. I never know what to do in term-time. =
It's
deadly dull."
Trevor
could never understand how any one could find term-time dull. For his own p=
art,
there always seemed too much to do in the time.
"You
aren't allowed to play games?" he said, remembering something about a
doctor's certificate in the past.
"No,"
said Ruthven. "Thank goodness," he added.
Which
remark silenced Trevor. To a person who thanked goodness that he was not
allowed to play games he could find nothing to say. But he ceased to wonder=
how
it was that Ruthven was dull.
They
proceeded to the baths together in silence. O'Hara, they were informed by a
Dexter's fag who met them outside the door, was not about.
"When
he comes back," said Trevor, "tell him I want him to come to tea =
tomorrow
directly after school, and bring my bat. Don't forget."
The
fag promised to make a point of it.
CHAPTER III - THE MAYOR'S
STATUE
One of the rules that governed the =
life
of Donough O'Hara, the light-hearted descendant of the O'Haras of Castle
Taterfields, Co. Clare, Ireland, was "Never refuse the offer of a free
tea". So, on receipt--per the Dexter's fag referred to--of Trevor's
invitation, he scratched one engagement (with his mathematical master--not
wholly unconnected with the working-out of Examples 200 to 206 in Hall and =
Knight's
Algebra), postponed another (with his friend and ally Moriarty, of Dexter's,
who wished to box with him in the gymnasium), and made his way at a leisure=
ly
pace towards Donaldson's. He was feeling particularly pleased with himself
today, for several reasons. He had begun the day well by scoring brilliantly
off Mr Dexter across the matutinal rasher and coffee. In morning school he =
had
been put on to translate the one passage which he happened to have
prepared--the first ten lines, in fact, of the hundred which formed the
morning's lesson. And in the final hour of afternoon school, which was devo=
ted
to French, he had discovered and exploited with great success an entirely n=
ew
and original form of ragging. This, he felt, was the strenuous life; this w=
as
living one's life as one's life should be lived.
He
met Trevor at the gate. As they were going in, a carriage and pair dashed p=
ast.
Its cargo consisted of two people, the headmaster, looking bored, and a sma=
ll,
dapper man, with a very red face, who looked excited, and was talking volub=
ly.
Trevor and O'Hara raised their caps as the chariot swept by, but the salute
passed unnoticed. The Head appeared to be wrapped in thought.
"What's
the Old Man doing in a carriage, I wonder," said Trevor, looking after
them. "Who's that with him?"
"That,"
said O'Hara, "is Sir Eustace Briggs."
"Who's
Sir Eustace Briggs?"
O'Hara
explained, in a rich brogue, that Sir Eustace was Mayor of Wrykyn, a keen
politician, and a hater of the Irish nation, judging by his letters and
speeches.
They
went into Trevor's study. Clowes was occupying the window in his usual mann=
er.
"Hullo,
O'Hara," he said, "there is an air of quiet satisfaction about you
that seems to show that you've been ragging Dexter. Have you?"
"Oh,
that was only this morning at breakfast. The best rag was in French,"
replied O'Hara, who then proceeded to explain in detail the methods he had
employed to embitter the existence of the hapless Gallic exile with whom he=
had
come in contact. It was that gentleman's custom to sit on a certain desk wh=
ile
conducting the lesson. This desk chanced to be O'Hara's. On the principle t=
hat
a man may do what he likes with his own, he had entered the room privily in=
the
dinner-hour, and removed the screws from his desk, with the result that for=
the
first half-hour of the lesson the class had been occupied in excavating M. =
Gandinois
from the ruins. That gentleman's first act on regaining his equilibrium had
been to send O'Hara out of the room, and O'Hara, who had foreseen this
emergency, had spent a very pleasant half-hour in the passage with some mix=
ed chocolates
and a copy of Mr Hornung's Amateur Cracksman. It was his notion of a cheerf=
ul
and instructive French lesson.
"What
were you talking about when you came in?" asked Clowes. "Who's be=
en
slanging Ireland, O'Hara?"
"The
man Briggs."
"What
are you going to do about it? Aren't you going to take any steps?"
"Is
it steps?" said O'Hara, warmly, "and haven't we----"
He
stopped.
"Well?"
"Ye
know," he said, seriously, "ye mustn't let it go any further. I s=
hall
get sacked if it's found out. An' so will Moriarty, too."
"Why?"
asked Trevor, looking up from the tea-pot he was filling, "what on ear=
th
have you been doing?"
"Wouldn't
it be rather a cheery idea," suggested Clowes, "if you began at t=
he
beginning."
"Well,
ye see," O'Hara began, "it was this way. The first I heard of it =
was
from Dexter. He was trying to score off me as usual, an' he said, 'Have ye =
seen
the paper this morning, O'Hara?' I said, no, I had not. Then he said, 'Ah,'=
he
said, 'ye should look at it. There's something there that ye'll find
interesting.' I said, 'Yes, sir?' in me respectful way. 'Yes,' said he, 'the
Irish members have been making their customary disturbances in the House. W=
hy
is it, O'Hara,' he said, 'that Irishmen are always thrusting themselves for=
ward
and making disturbances for purposes of self-advertisement?' 'Why, indeed,
sir?' said I, not knowing what else to say, and after that the conversation=
ceased."
"Go
on," said Clowes.
"After
breakfast Moriarty came to me with a paper, and showed me what they had been
saying about the Irish. There was a letter from the man Briggs on the subje=
ct.
'A very sensible and temperate letter from Sir Eustace Briggs', they called=
it,
but bedad! if that was a temperate letter, I should like to know what an
intemperate one is. Well, we read it through, and Moriarty said to me, 'Can=
we
let this stay as it is?' And I said, 'No. We can't.' 'Well,' said Moriarty =
to
me, 'what are we to do about it? I should like to tar and feather the man,'=
he
said. 'We can't do that,' I said, 'but why not tar and feather his statue?'=
I said.
So we thought we would. Ye know where the statue is, I suppose? It's in the
recreation ground just across the river."
"I
know the place," said Clowes. "Go on. This is ripping. I always k=
new you
were pretty mad, but this sounds as if it were going to beat all previous
records."
"Have
ye seen the baths this term," continued O'Hara, "since they shift=
ed
Dexter's house into them? The beds are in two long rows along each wall.
Moriarty's and mine are the last two at the end farthest from the door.&quo=
t;
"Just
under the gallery," said Trevor. "I see."
"That's
it. Well, at half-past ten sharp every night Dexter sees that we're all in,
locks the door, and goes off to sleep at the Old Man's, and we don't see him
again till breakfast. He turns the gas off from outside. At half-past seven=
the
next morning, Smith"--Smith was one of the school porters--"unloc=
ks
the door and calls us, and we go over to the Hall to breakfast."
"Well?"
"Well,
directly everybody was asleep last night--it wasn't till after one, as there
was a rag on--Moriarty and I got up, dressed, and climbed up into the galle=
ry.
Ye know the gallery windows? They open at the top, an' it's rather hard to =
get
out of them. But we managed it, and dropped on to the gravel outside."=
"Long
drop," said Clowes.
"Yes.
I hurt myself rather. But it was in a good cause. I dropped first, and whil=
e I
was on the ground, Moriarty came on top of me. That's how I got hurt. But it
wasn't much, and we cut across the grounds, and over the fence, and down to=
the
river. It was a fine night, and not very dark, and everything smelt ripping
down by the river."
"Don't
get poetical," said Clowes. "Stick to the point."
"We
got into the boat-house--"
"How?"
asked the practical Trevor, for the boat-house was wont to be locked at one=
in
the morning. "Moriarty had a key that fitted," explained O'Hara,
briefly. "We got in, and launched a boat--a big tub--put in the tar an=
d a
couple of brushes--there's always tar in the boat-house--and rowed
across."
"Wait
a bit," interrupted Trevor, "you said tar and feathers. Where did=
you
get the feathers?"
"We
used leaves. They do just as well, and there were heaps on the bank. Well, =
when
we landed, we tied up the boat, and bucked across to the Recreation Ground.=
We
got over the railings--beastly, spiky railings--and went over to the statue=
. Ye
know where the statue stands? It's right in the middle of the place, where
everybody can see it. Moriarty got up first, and I handed him the tar and a
brush. Then I went up with the other brush, and we began. We did his face
first. It was too dark to see really well, but I think we made a good job of
it. When we had put about as much tar on as we thought would do, we took out
the leaves--which we were carrying in our pockets--and spread them on. Then=
we
did the rest of him, and after about half an hour, when we thought we'd done
about enough, we got into our boat again, and came back."
"And
what did you do till half-past seven?"
"We
couldn't get back the way we'd come, so we slept in the boat-house."
"Well--I'm--hanged,"
was Trevor's comment on the story.
Clowes
roared with laughter. O'Hara was a perpetual joy to him.
As
O'Hara was going, Trevor asked him for his gold bat.
"You
haven't lost it, I hope?" he said.
O'Hara
felt in his pocket, but brought his hand out at once and transferred it to
another pocket. A look of anxiety came over his face, and was reflected in
Trevor's.
"I
could have sworn it was in that pocket," he said.
"You
haven't lost it?" queried Trevor again.
"He
has," said Clowes, confidently. "If you want to know where that b=
at is,
I should say you'd find it somewhere between the baths and the statue. At t=
he
foot of the statue, for choice. It seems to me--correct me if I am wrong--t=
hat
you have been and gone and done it, me broth av a bhoy."
O'Hara
gave up the search.
"It's
gone," he said. "Man, I'm most awfully sorry. I'd sooner have los=
t a
ten-pound note."
"I
don't see why you should lose either," snapped Trevor. "Why the b=
lazes
can't you be more careful."
O'Hara
was too penitent for words. Clowes took it on himself to point out the brig=
ht
side.
"There's
nothing to get sick about, really," he said. "If the thing doesn't
turn up, though it probably will, you'll simply have to tell the Old Man th=
at
it's lost. He'll have another made. You won't be asked for it till just bef=
ore
Sports Day either, so you will have plenty of time to find it."
The
challenge cups, and also the bats, had to be given to the authorities before
the sports, to be formally presented on Sports Day.
"Oh,
I suppose it'll be all right," said Trevor, "but I hope it won't =
be
found anywhere near the statue."
O'Hara
said he hoped so too.
CHAPTER IV - THE LEAGUE'S
WARNING
The team to play in any match was a=
lways
put upon the notice-board at the foot of the stairs in the senior block a d=
ay
before the date of the fixture. Both first and second fifteens had matches =
on
the Thursday of this week. The second were playing a team brought down by an
old Wrykinian. The first had a scratch game.
When
Barry, accompanied by M'Todd, who shared his study at Seymour's and rarely =
left
him for two minutes on end, passed by the notice-board at the quarter to el=
even
interval, it was to the second fifteen list that he turned his attention. N=
ow
that Bryce had left, he thought he might have a chance of getting into the
second. His only real rival, he considered, was Crawford, of the School Hou=
se,
who was the other wing three-quarter of the third fifteen. The first name he
saw on the list was Crawford's. It seemed to be written twice as large as a=
ny
of the others, and his own was nowhere to be seen. The fact that he had hal=
f expected
the calamity made things no better. He had set his heart on playing for the
second this term.
Then
suddenly he noticed a remarkable phenomenon. The other wing three-quarter w=
as
Rand-Brown. If Rand-Brown was playing for the second, who was playing for t=
he
first?
He
looked at the list.
"Come
on," he said hastily to M'Todd. He wanted to get away somewhere where =
his
agitated condition would not be noticed. He felt quite faint at the shock of
seeing his name on the list of the first fifteen. There it was, however, as
large as life. "M. Barry." Separated from the rest by a thin red
line, but still there. In his most optimistic moments he had never dreamed =
of
this. M'Todd was reading slowly through the list of the second. He did
everything slowly, except eating.
"Come
on," said Barry again.
M'Todd
had, after much deliberation, arrived at a profound truth. He turned to Bar=
ry,
and imparted his discovery to him in the weighty manner of one who realises=
the
importance of his words.
"Look
here," he said, "your name's not down here."
"I
know. Come on."
"But
that means you're not playing for the second."
"Of
course it does. Well, if you aren't coming, I'm off."
"But,
look here----"
Barry
disappeared through the door. After a moment's pause, M'Todd followed him. =
He
came up with him on the senior gravel.
"What's
up?" he inquired.
"Nothing,"
said Barry.
"Are
you sick about not playing for the second?"
"No."
"You
are, really. Come and have a bun."
In
the philosophy of M'Todd it was indeed a deep-rooted sorrow that could not =
be
cured by the internal application of a new, hot bun. It had never failed in=
his
own case.
"Bun!"
Barry was quite shocked at the suggestion. "I can't afford to get myse=
lf
out of condition with beastly buns."
"But
if you aren't playing----"
"You
ass. I'm playing for the first. Now, do you see?"
M'Todd
gaped. His mind never worked very rapidly.=
"What about Rand-Brown, then?" he said.
"Rand-Brown's
been chucked out. Can't you understand? You are an idiot. Rand-Brown's play=
ing
for the second, and I'm playing for the first."
"But
you're----"
He
stopped. He had been going to point out that Barry's tender years--he was o=
nly
sixteen--and smallness would make it impossible for him to play with success
for the first fifteen. He refrained owing to a conviction that the remark w=
ould
not be wholly judicious. Barry was touchy on the subject of his size, and
M'Todd had suffered before now for commenting on it in a disparaging spirit=
.
"I
tell you what we'll do after school," said Barry, "we'll have som=
e running
and passing. It'll do you a lot of good, and I want to practise taking pass=
es
at full speed. You can trot along at your ordinary pace, and I'll sprint up
from behind."
M'Todd
saw no objection to that. Trotting along at his ordinary pace--five miles an
hour--would just suit him.
"Then
after that," continued Barry, with a look of enthusiasm, "I want =
to
practise passing back to my centre. Paget used to do it awfully well last t=
erm,
and I know Trevor expects his wing to. So I'll buck along, and you race up =
to
take my pass. See?"
This
was not in M'Todd's line at all. He proposed a slight alteration in the sch=
eme.
"Hadn't
you better get somebody else--?" he began.
"Don't
be a slack beast," said Barry. "You want exercise awfully badly.&=
quot;
And,
as M'Todd always did exactly as Barry wished, he gave in, and spent from
four-thirty to five that afternoon in the prescribed manner. A suggestion on
his part at five sharp that it wouldn't be a bad idea to go and have some t=
ea
was not favourably received by the enthusiastic three-quarter, who proposed=
to
devote what time remained before lock-up to practising drop-kicking. It was=
a
painful alternative that faced M'Todd. His allegiance to Barry demanded tha=
t he
should consent to the scheme. On the other hand, his allegiance to afternoon
tea--equally strong--called him back to the house, where there was cake, and
also muffins. In the end the question was solved by the appearance of Drumm=
ond,
of Seymour's, garbed in football things, and also anxious to practise
drop-kicking. So M'Todd was dismissed to his tea with opprobrious epithets,=
and
Barry and Drummond settled down to a little serious and scientific work.
Making
allowances for the inevitable attack of nerves that attends a first appeara=
nce
in higher football circles than one is accustomed to, Barry did well against
the scratch team--certainly far better than Rand-Brown had done. His smalln=
ess
was, of course, against him, and, on the only occasion on which he really g=
ot
away, Paget overtook him and brought him down. But then Paget was exception=
ally
fast. In the two most important branches of the game, the taking of passes =
and
tackling, Barry did well. As far as pluck went he had enough for two, and w=
hen the
whistle blew for no-side he had not let Paget through once, and Trevor felt
that his inclusion in the team had been justified. There was another scratch
game on the Saturday. Barry played in it, and did much better. Paget had go=
ne
away by an early train, and the man he had to mark now was one of the maste=
rs,
who had been good in his time, but was getting a trifle old for football. B=
arry
scored twice, and on one occasion, by passing back to Trevor after the mann=
er
of Paget, enabled the captain to run in. And Trevor, like the captain in Bi=
lly Taylor,
"werry much approved of what he'd done." Barry began to be regard=
ed
in the school as a regular member of the fifteen. The first of the fixture-=
card
matches, versus the Town, was due on the following Saturday, and it was
generally expected that he would play. M'Todd's devotion increased every da=
y.
He even went to the length of taking long runs with him. And if there was o=
ne
thing in the world that M'Todd loathed, it was a long run.
On
the Thursday before the match against the Town, Clowes came chuckling to
Trevor's study after preparation, and asked him if he had heard the latest.=
"Have
you ever heard of the League?" he said.
Trevor
pondered.
"I
don't think so," he replied.
"How
long have you been at the school?"
"Let's
see. It'll be five years at the end of the summer term."
"Ah,
then you wouldn't remember. I've been here a couple of terms longer than yo=
u,
and the row about the League was in my first term."
"What
was the row?"
"Oh,
only some chaps formed a sort of secret society in the place. Kind of
Vehmgericht, you know. If they got their knife into any one, he usually got
beans, and could never find out where they came from. At first, as a matter=
of
fact, the thing was quite a philanthropical concern. There used to be a good
deal of bullying in the place then--at least, in some of the houses--and, as
the prefects couldn't or wouldn't stop it, some fellows started this
League."
"Did
it work?"
"Work!
By Jove, I should think it did. Chaps who previously couldn't get through t=
he
day without making some wretched kid's life not worth living used to go abo=
ut
as nervous as cats, looking over their shoulders every other second. There =
was
one man in particular, a chap called Leigh. He was hauled out of bed one ni=
ght,
blindfolded, and ducked in a cold bath. He was in the School House."
"Why
did the League bust up?"
"Well,
partly because the fellows left, but chiefly because they didn't stick to t=
he
philanthropist idea. If anybody did anything they didn't like, they used to=
go
for him. At last they put their foot into it badly. A chap called Robinson-=
-in
this house by the way--offended them in some way, and one morning he was fo=
und
tied up in the bath, up to his neck in cold water. Apparently he'd been the=
re
about an hour. He got pneumonia, and almost died, and then the authorities
began to get going. Robinson thought he had recognised the voice of one of =
the chaps--I
forget his name. The chap was had up by the Old Man, and gave the show away
entirely. About a dozen fellows were sacked, clean off the reel. Since then=
the
thing has been dropped."
"But
what about it? What were you going to say when you came in?"
"Why,
it's been revived!"
"Rot!"
"It's
a fact. Do you know Mill, a prefect, in Seymour's?"
"Only
by sight."
"I
met him just now. He's in a raving condition. His study's been wrecked. You
never saw such a sight. Everything upside down or smashed. He has been show=
ing
me the ruins."
"I
believe Mill is awfully barred in Seymour's," said Trevor. "Anybo=
dy might
have ragged his study."
"That's
just what I thought. He's just the sort of man the League used to go for.&q=
uot;
"That doesn't prove that it's been revived, all the same," objected Trevor.<= o:p>
"No,
friend; but this does. Mill found it tied to a chair."
It
was a small card. It looked like an ordinary visiting card. On it, in neat
print, were the words, "With the compliments of the League".
"That's
exactly the same sort of card as they used to use," said Clowes.
"I've seen some of them. What do you think of that?"
"I
think whoever has started the thing is a pretty average-sized idiot. He's b=
ound
to get caught some time or other, and then out he goes. The Old Man wouldn't
think twice about sacking a chap of that sort."
"A
chap of that sort," said Clowes, "will take jolly good care he is=
n't caught.
But it's rather sport, isn't it?"
And
he went off to his study.
Next
day there was further evidence that the League was an actual going concern.
When Trevor came down to breakfast, he found a letter by his plate. It was
printed, as the card had been. It was signed "The President of the
League." And the purport of it was that the League did not wish Barry =
to
continue to play for the first fifteen.
CHAPTER V - MILL RECEIVES
VISITORS
Trevor's first idea was that somebo=
dy had
sent the letter for a joke,--Clowes for choice.
He
sounded him on the subject after breakfast.
"Did
you send me that letter?" he inquired, when Clowes came into his study=
to
borrow a Sportsman.
"What
letter? Did you send the team for tomorrow up to the sporter? I wonder what
sort of a lot the Town are bringing."
"About
not giving Barry his footer colours?"
Clowes
was reading the paper.
"Giving
whom?" he asked.
"Barry.
Can't you listen?"
"Giving
him what?"
"Footer
colours."
"What
about them?"
Trevor
sprang at the paper, and tore it away from him. After which he sat on the
fragments.
"Did
you send me a letter about not giving Barry his footer colours?"
Clowes
surveyed him with the air of a nurse to whom the family baby has just said =
some
more than usually good thing.
"Don't
stop," he said, "I could listen all day."
Trevor
felt in his pocket for the note, and flung it at him. Clowes picked it up, =
and
read it gravely.
"What
are footer colours?" he asked.
"Well,"
said Trevor, "it's a pretty rotten sort of joke, whoever sent it. You
haven't said yet whether you did or not."
"What
earthly reason should I have for sending it? And I think you're making a
mistake if you think this is meant as a joke."
"You
don't really believe this League rot?"
"You
didn't see Mill's study 'after treatment'. I did. Anyhow, how do you account
for the card I showed you?"
"But
that sort of thing doesn't happen at school."
"Well,
it has happened, you see."
"Who
do you think did send the letter, then?"
"The
President of the League."
"And
who the dickens is the President of the League when he's at home?"
"If
I knew that, I should tell Mill, and earn his blessing. Not that I want
it."
"Then,
I suppose," snorted Trevor, "you'd suggest that on the strength of
this letter I'd better leave Barry out of the team?"
"Satirically
in brackets," commented Clowes.
"It's
no good your jumping on me," he added. "I've done nothing. All I
suggest is that you'd better keep more or less of a look-out. If this Leagu=
e's
anything like the old one, you'll find they've all sorts of ways of getting=
at
people they don't love. I shouldn't like to come down for a bath some morni=
ng,
and find you already in possession, tied up like Robinson. When they found
Robinson, he was quite blue both as to the face and speech. He didn't speak
very clearly, but what one could catch was well worth hearing. I should adv=
ise
you to sleep with a loaded revolver under your pillow."
"The
first thing I shall do is find out who wrote this letter."
"I
should," said Clowes, encouragingly. "Keep moving."
In
Seymour's house the Mill's study incident formed the only theme of conversa=
tion
that morning. Previously the sudden elevation to the first fifteen of Barry,
who was popular in the house, at the expense of Rand-Brown, who was unpopul=
ar,
had given Seymour's something to talk about. But the ragging of the study p=
ut
this topic entirely in the shade. The study was still on view in almost its
original condition of disorder, and all day comparative strangers flocked to
see Mill in his den, in order to inspect things. Mill was a youth with few
friends, and it is probable that more of his fellow-Seymourites crossed the
threshold of his study on the day after the occurrence than had visited him=
in
the entire course of his school career. Brown would come in to borrow a kni=
fe,
would sweep the room with one comprehensive glance, and depart, to be follo=
wed
at brief intervals by Smith, Robinson, and Jones, who came respectively to
learn the right time, to borrow a book, and to ask him if he had seen a pen=
cil
anywhere. Towards the end of the day, Mill would seem to have wearied somew=
hat
of the proceedings, as was proved when Master Thomas Renford, aged fourteen
(who fagged for Milton, the head of the house), burst in on the thin preten=
ce
that he had mistaken the study for that of his rightful master, and gave ve=
nt
to a prolonged whistle of surprise and satisfaction at the sight of the rui=
ns.
On that occasion, the incensed owner of the dismantled study, taking a mean
advantage of the fact that he was a prefect, and so entitled to wield the r=
od,
produced a handy swagger-stick from an adjacent corner, and, inviting Master
Renford to bend over, gave him six of the best to remember him by. Which
ceremony being concluded, he kicked him out into the passage, and Renford w=
ent
down to the junior day-room to tell his friend Harvey about it.
"Gave
me six, the cad," said he, "just because I had a look at his beas=
tly
study. Why shouldn't I look at his study if I like? I've a jolly good mind =
to
go up and have another squint."
Harvey
warmly approved the scheme.
"No,
I don't think I will," said Renford with a yawn. "It's such a fag=
going
upstairs."
"Yes,
isn't it?" said Harvey.
"And
he's such a beast, too."
"Yes,
isn't he?" said Harvey.
"I'm
jolly glad his study has been ragged," continued the vindictive Renfor=
d.
"It's
jolly exciting, isn't it?" added Harvey. "And I thought this term=
was
going to be slow. The Easter term generally is."
This
remark seemed to suggest a train of thought to Renford, who made the follow=
ing
cryptic observation. "Have you seen them today?"
To
the ordinary person the words would have conveyed little meaning. To Harvey
they appeared to teem with import.
"Yes,"
he said, "I saw them early this morning."
"Were
they all right?"
"Yes.
Splendid."
"Good,"
said Renford.
Barry's
friend Drummond was one of those who had visited the scene of the disaster
early, before Mill's energetic hand had repaired the damage done, and his
narrative was consequently in some demand.
"The
place was in a frightful muck," he said. "Everything smashed exce=
pt
the table; and ink all over the place. Whoever did it must have been fairly
sick with him, or he'd never have taken the trouble to do it so thoroughly.
Made a fair old hash of things, didn't he, Bertie?"
"Bertie"
was the form in which the school elected to serve up the name of De Bertini.
Raoul de Bertini was a French boy who had come to Wrykyn in the previous te=
rm.
Drummond's father had met his father in Paris, and Drummond was supposed to=
be
looking after Bertie. They shared a study together. Bertie could not speak =
much
English, and what he did speak was, like Mill's furniture, badly broken.
"Pardon?"
he said.
"Doesn't
matter," said Drummond, "it wasn't anything important. I was only
appealing to you for corroborative detail to give artistic verisimilitude t=
o a
bald and unconvincing narrative."
Bertie
grinned politely. He always grinned when he was not quite equal to the inte=
llectual
pressure of the conversation. As a consequence of which, he was generally, =
like
Mrs Fezziwig, one vast, substantial smile.
"I
never liked Mill much," said Barry, "but I think it's rather bad =
luck
on the man."
"Once,"
announced M'Todd, solemnly, "he kicked me--for making a row in the
passage." It was plain that the recollection rankled.
Barry
would probably have pointed out what an excellent and praiseworthy act on
Mill's part that had been, when Rand-Brown came in.
"Prefects'
meeting?" he inquired. "Or haven't they made you a prefect yet,
M'Todd?"
M'Todd
said they had not.
Nobody
present liked Rand-Brown, and they looked at him rather inquiringly, as if =
to
ask what he had come for. A friend may drop in for a chat. An acquaintance =
must
justify his intrusion.
Rand-Brown
ignored the silent inquiry. He seated himself on the table, and dragged up a
chair to rest his legs on.
"Talking
about Mill, of course?" he said.
"Yes,"
said Drummond. "Have you seen his study since it happened?"
"Yes."
Rand-Brown
smiled, as if the recollection amused him. He was one of those people who do
not look their best when they smile.
"Playing
for the first tomorrow, Barry?"
"I
don't know," said Barry, shortly. "I haven't seen the list."=
He
objected to the introduction of the topic. It is never pleasant to have to
discuss games with the very man one has ousted from the team.
Drummond,
too, seemed to feel that the situation was an embarrassing one, for a few
minutes later he got up to go over to the gymnasium.
"Any
of you chaps coming?" he asked.
Barry
and M'Todd thought they would, and the three left the room.
"Nothing
like showing a man you don't want him, eh, Bertie? What do you think?"
said Rand-Brown.
Bertie
grinned politely.
CHAPTER VI - TREVOR REMAI=
NS
FIRM
The most immediate effect of telling
anybody not to do a thing is to make him do it, in order to assert his
independence. Trevor's first act on receipt of the letter was to include Ba=
rry
in the team against the Town. It was what he would have done in any case, b=
ut,
under the circumstances, he felt a peculiar pleasure in doing it. The incid=
ent also
had the effect of recalling to his mind the fact that he had tried Barry in=
the
first instance on his own responsibility, without consulting the committee.=
The
committee of the first fifteen consisted of the two old colours who came
immediately after the captain on the list. The powers of a committee varied
according to the determination and truculence of the members of it. On any
definite and important step, affecting the welfare of the fifteen, the capt=
ain
theoretically could not move without their approval. But if the captain
happened to be strong-minded and the committee weak, they were apt to be
slightly out of it, and the captain would develop a habit of consulting the=
m a day
or so after he had done a thing. He would give a man his colours, and inform
the committee of it on the following afternoon, when the thing was done and
could not be repealed.
Trevor
was accustomed to ask the advice of his lieutenants fairly frequently. He n=
ever
gave colours, for instance, off his own bat. It seemed to him that it might=
be
as well to learn what views Milton and Allardyce had on the subject of Barr=
y,
and, after the Town team had gone back across the river, defeated by a goal=
and
a try to nil, he changed and went over to Seymour's to interview Milton.
Milton
was in an arm-chair, watching Renford brew tea. His was one of the few stud=
ies
in the school in which there was an arm-chair. With the majority of his
contemporaries, it would only run to the portable kind that fold up.
"Come
and have some tea, Trevor," said Milton.
"Thanks.
If there's any going."
"Heaps.
Is there anything to eat, Renford?"
The
fag, appealed to on this important point, pondered darkly for a moment.
"There
was some cake," he said.
"That's
all right," interrupted Milton, cheerfully. "Scratch the cake. I =
ate
it before the match. Isn't there anything else?"
Milton
had a healthy appetite.
"Then
there used to be some biscuits."
"Biscuits
are off. I finished 'em yesterday. Look here, young Renford, what you'd bet=
ter
do is cut across to the shop and get some more cake and some more biscuits,=
and
tell 'em to put it down to me. And don't be long."
"A
miles better idea would be to send him over to Donaldson's to fetch somethi=
ng
from my study," suggested Trevor. "It isn't nearly so far, and I'=
ve
got heaps of stuff."
"Ripping.
Cut over to Donaldson's, young Renford. As a matter of fact," he added,
confidentially, when the emissary had vanished, "I'm not half sure that
the other dodge would have worked. They seem to think at the shop that I've=
had
about enough things on tick lately. I haven't settled up for last term yet.
I've spent all I've got on this study. What do you think of those
photographs?"
Trevor
got up and inspected them. They filled the mantelpiece and most of the wall
above it. They were exclusively theatrical photographs, and of a variety to
suit all tastes. For the earnest student of the drama there was Sir Henry
Irving in The Bells, and Mr Martin Harvey in The Only Way. For the admirers=
of
the merely beautiful there were Messrs Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell.
"Not
bad," said Trevor. "Beastly waste of money."
"Waste
of money!" Milton was surprised and pained at the criticism. "Why,
you must spend your money on something."
"Rot,
I call it," said Trevor. "If you want to collect something, why d=
on't
you collect something worth having?"
Just
then Renford came back with the supplies.
"Thanks," said Milton, "put 'em down. Does the billy boil, young Renford?"<= o:p>
Renford
asked for explanatory notes.
"You're
a bit of an ass at times, aren't you?" said Milton, kindly. "What=
I
meant was, is the tea ready? If it is, you can scoot. If it isn't, buck up =
with
it."
A
sound of bubbling and a rush of steam from the spout of the kettle proclaim=
ed
that the billy did boil. Renford extinguished the Etna, and left the room,
while Milton, murmuring vague formulae about "one spoonful for each pe=
rson
and one for the pot", got out of his chair with a groan--for the Town
match had been an energetic one--and began to prepare tea.
"What
I really came round about--" began Trevor.
"Half
a second. I can't find the milk."
He
went to the door, and shouted for Renford. On that overworked youth's
appearance, the following dialogue took place.
"Where's
the milk?"
"What
milk?"
"My
milk."
"There
isn't any." This in a tone not untinged with triumph, as if the speaker
realised that here was a distinct score to him.
"No
milk?"
"No."
"Why
not?"
"You
never had any."
"Well,
just cut across--no, half a second. What are you doing downstairs?"
"Having
tea."
"Then
you've got milk."
"Only
a little." This apprehensively.
"Bring
it up. You can have what we leave."
Disgusted
retirement of Master Renford.
"What
I really came about," said Trevor again, "was business."
"Colours?"
inquired Milton, rummaging in the tin for biscuits with sugar on them.
"Good brand of biscuit you keep, Trevor."
"Yes.
I think we might give Alexander and Parker their third."
"All
right. Any others?"
"Barry
his second, do you think?"
"Rather.
He played a good game today. He's an improvement on Rand-Brown."
"Glad
you think so. I was wondering whether it was the right thing to do, chucking
Rand-Brown out after one trial like that. But still, if you think Barry's
better--"
"Streets
better. I've had heaps of chances of watching them and comparing them, when
they've been playing for the house. It isn't only that Rand-Brown can't tac=
kle,
and Barry can. Barry takes his passes much better, and doesn't lose his head
when he's pressed."
"Just
what I thought," said Trevor. "Then you'd go on playing him for t=
he
first?"
"Rather.
He'll get better every game, you'll see, as he gets more used to playing in=
the
first three-quarter line. And he's as keen as anything on getting into the
team. Practises taking passes and that sort of thing every day."
"Well,
he'll get his colours if we lick Ripton."
"We
ought to lick them. They've lost one of their forwards, Clifford, a red-hai=
red
chap, who was good out of touch. I don't know if you remember him."
"I
suppose I ought to go and see Allardyce about these colours, now. Good-bye.=
"
There
was running and passing on the Monday for every one in the three teams. Tre=
vor
and Clowes met Mr Seymour as they were returning. Mr Seymour was the footba=
ll
master at Wrykyn.
"I
see you've given Barry his second, Trevor."
"Yes,
sir."
"I
think you're wise to play him for the first. He knows the game, which is the
great thing, and he will improve with practice," said Mr Seymour, thus
corroborating Milton's words of the previous Saturday.
"I'm
glad Seymour thinks Barry good," said Trevor, as they walked on. "=
;I
shall go on playing him now."
"Found
out who wrote that letter yet?"
Trevor
laughed.
"Not
yet," he said.
"Probably
Rand-Brown," suggested Clowes. "He's the man who would gain most =
by
Barry's not playing. I hear he had a row with Mill just before his study was
ragged."
"Everybody in Seymour's has had rows with Mill some time or other," said Trevor.<= o:p>
Clowes
stopped at the door of the junior day-room to find his fag. Trevor went on
upstairs. In the passage he met Ruthven.
Ruthven
seemed excited.
"I
say. Trevor," he exclaimed, "have you seen your study?"
"Why,
what's the matter with it?"
"You'd
better go and look."
CHAPTER VII - "WITH =
THE
COMPLIMENTS OF THE LEAGUE"
Trevor went and looked.
It
was rather an interesting sight. An earthquake or a cyclone might have made=
it
a little more picturesque, but not much more. The general effect was not un=
like
that of an American saloon, after a visit from Mrs Carrie Nation (with
hatchet). As in the case of Mill's study, the only thing that did not seem =
to
have suffered any great damage was the table. Everything else looked rather=
off
colour. The mantelpiece had been swept as bare as a bone, and its contents
littered the floor. Trevor dived among the debris and retrieved the latest
addition to his art gallery, the photograph of this year's first fifteen. It
was a wreck. The glass was broken and the photograph itself slashed with a =
knife
till most of the faces were unrecognisable. He picked up another treasure, =
last
year's first eleven. Smashed glass again. Faces cut about with knife as bef=
ore.
His collection of snapshots was torn into a thousand fragments, though, as =
Mr
Jerome said of the papier-mache trout, there may only have been nine hundre=
d.
He did not count them. His bookshelf was empty. The books had gone to swell=
the
contents of the floor. There was a Shakespeare with its cover off. Pages
twenty-two to thirty-one of Vice Versa had parted from the parent
establishment, and were lying by themselves near the door. The Rogues' March
lay just beyond them, and the look of the cover suggested that somebody had
either been biting it or jumping on it with heavy boots.
There
was other damage. Over the mantelpiece in happier days had hung a dozen sea
gulls' eggs, threaded on a string. The string was still there, as good as n=
ew,
but of the eggs nothing was to be seen, save a fine parti-coloured powder--=
on
the floor, like everything else in the study. And a good deal of ink had be=
en
upset in one place and another.
Trevor
had been staring at the ruins for some time, when he looked up to see Clowes
standing in the doorway.
"Hullo,"
said Clowes, "been tidying up?"
Trevor
made a few hasty comments on the situation. Clowes listened approvingly.
"Don't
you think," he went on, eyeing the study with a critical air, "th=
at
you've got too many things on the floor, and too few anywhere else? And I
should move some of those books on to the shelf, if I were you."
Trevor
breathed very hard.
"I
should like to find the chap who did this," he said softly.
Clowes
advanced into the room and proceeded to pick up various misplaced articles =
of
furniture in a helpful way.
"I
thought so," he said presently, "come and look here."
Tied
to a chair, exactly as it had been in the case of Mill, was a neat white ca=
rd,
and on it were the words, "With the Compliments of the League".
"What
are you going to do about this?" asked Clowes. "Come into my room=
and
talk it over."
"I'll
tidy this place up first," said Trevor. He felt that the work would be=
a
relief. "I don't want people to see this. It mustn't get about. I'm not
going to have my study turned into a sort of side-show, like Mill's. You go=
and
change. I shan't be long."
"I
will never desert Mr Micawber," said Clowes. "Friend, my place is=
by your
side. Shut the door and let's get to work."
Ten
minutes later the room had resumed a more or less--though principally
less--normal appearance. The books and chairs were back in their places. The
ink was sopped up. The broken photographs were stacked in a neat pile in one
corner, with a rug over them. The mantelpiece was still empty, but, as Clow=
es
pointed out, it now merely looked as if Trevor had been pawning some of his
household gods. There was no sign that a devastating secret society had rag=
ed
through the study.
Then
they adjourned to Clowes' study, where Trevor sank into Clowes' second-best
chair--Clowes, by an adroit movement, having appropriated the best one--wit=
h a
sigh of enjoyment. Running and passing, followed by the toil of
furniture-shifting, had made him feel quite tired.
"It
doesn't look so bad now," he said, thinking of the room they had left.
"By the way, what did you do with that card?"
"Here
it is. Want it?"
"You
can keep it. I don't want it."
"Thanks.
If this sort of things goes on, I shall get quite a nice collection of these
cards. Start an album some day."
"You
know," said Trevor, "this is getting serious."
"It
always does get serious when anything bad happens to one's self. It always
strikes one as rather funny when things happen to other people. When Mill's
study was wrecked, I bet you regarded it as an amusing and original 'turn'.
What do you think of the present effort?"
"Who
on earth can have done it?"
"The
Pres--"
"Oh,
dry up. Of course it was. But who the blazes is he?"
"Nay,
children, you have me there," quoted Clowes. "I'll tell you one t=
hing,
though. You remember what I said about it's probably being Rand-Brown. He c=
an't
have done this, that's certain, because he was out in the fields the whole
time. Though I don't see who else could have anything to gain by Barry not
getting his colours."
"There's
no reason to suspect him at all, as far as I can see. I don't know much abo=
ut
him, bar the fact that he can't play footer for nuts, but I've never heard
anything against him. Have you?"
"I
scarcely know him myself. He isn't liked in Seymour's, I believe."
"Well,
anyhow, this can't be his work."
"That's
what I said."
"For
all we know, the League may have got their knife into Barry for some reason.
You said they used to get their knife into fellows in that way. Anyhow, I m=
ean
to find out who ragged my room."
"It
wouldn't be a bad idea," said Clowes.
*
O'Hara
came round to Donaldson's before morning school next day to tell Trevor tha=
t he
had not yet succeeded in finding the lost bat. He found Trevor and Clowes in
the former's den, trying to put a few finishing touches to the same.
"Hullo,
an' what's up with your study?" he inquired. He was quick at noticing
things. Trevor looked annoyed. Clowes asked the visitor if he did not think=
the
study presented a neat and gentlemanly appearance.
"Where
are all your photographs, Trevor?" persisted the descendant of Irish
kings.
"It's
no good trying to conceal anything from the bhoy," said Clowes. "=
Sit
down, O'Hara--mind that chair; it's rather wobbly--and I will tell ye the
story."
"Can
you keep a thing dark?" inquired Trevor.
O'Hara
protested that tombs were not in it.
"Well,
then, do you remember what happened to Mill's study? That's what's been goi=
ng
on here."
O'Hara
nearly fell off his chair with surprise. That some philanthropist should rag
Mill's study was only to be expected. Mill was one of the worst. A worm wit=
hout
a saving grace. But Trevor! Captain of football! In the first eleven! The t=
hing
was unthinkable.
"But
who--?" he began.
"That's
just what I want to know," said Trevor, shortly. He did not enjoy
discussing the affair.
"How
long have you been at Wrykyn, O'Hara?" said Clowes.
O'Hara
made a rapid calculation. His fingers twiddled in the air as he worked out =
the
problem.
"Six
years," he said at last, leaning back exhausted with brain work.
"Then
you must remember the League?"
"Remember
the League? Rather."
"Well,
it's been revived."
O'Hara
whistled.
"This'll
liven the old place up," he said. "I've often thought of reviving=
it
meself. An' so has Moriarty. If it's anything like the Old League, there's
going to be a sort of Donnybrook before it's done with. I wonder who's runn=
ing
it this time."
"We
should like to know that. If you find out, you might tell us."
"I
will."
"And
don't tell anybody else," said Trevor. "This business has got to =
be
kept quiet. Keep it dark about my study having been ragged."
"I
won't tell a soul."
"Not
even Moriarty."
"Oh,
hang it, man," put in Clowes, "you don't want to kill the poor bh=
oy,
surely? You must let him tell one person."
"All
right," said Trevor, "you can tell Moriarty. But nobody else, min=
d."
O'Hara
promised that Moriarty should receive the news exclusively.
"But
why did the League go for ye?"
"They
happen to be down on me. It doesn't matter why. They are."
"I
see," said O'Hara. "Oh," he added, "about that bat. The
search is being 'vigorously prosecuted'--that's a newspaper quotation--&quo=
t;
"Times?"
inquired Clowes.
"Wrykyn
Patriot," said O'Hara, pulling out a bundle of letters. He inspected e=
ach
envelope in turn, and from the fifth extracted a newspaper cutting.
"Read
that," he said.
It
was from the local paper, and ran as follows:--
"Hooligan
Outrage--A painful sensation has been caused in the town by a deplorable
ebullition of local Hooliganism, which has resulted in the wanton disfigure=
ment
of the splendid statue of Sir Eustace Briggs which stands in the New Recrea=
tion
Grounds. Our readers will recollect that the statue was erected to commemor=
ate
the return of Sir Eustace as member for the borough of Wrykyn, by an
overwhelming majority, at the last election. Last Tuesday some youths of the
town, passing through the Recreation Grounds early in the morning, noticed =
that
the face and body of the statue were completely covered with leaves and some
black substance, which on examination proved to be tar. They speedily lodged
information at the police station. Everything seems to point to party spite=
as
the motive for the outrage. In view of the forth-coming election, such an a=
ct
is highly significant, and will serve sufficiently to indicate the tactics
employed by our opponents. The search for the perpetrator (or perpetrators)=
of
the dastardly act is being vigorously prosecuted, and we learn with
satisfaction that the police have already several clues."
"Clues!"
said Clowes, handing back the paper, "that means the bat. That gas abo=
ut
'our opponents' is all a blind to put you off your guard. You wait. There'l=
l be
more painful sensations before you've finished with this business."
"They
can't have found the bat, or why did they not say so?" observed O'Hara=
.
"Guile,"
said Clowes, "pure guile. If I were you, I should escape while I could.
Try Callao. There's no extradition there.
'On no petition Is extradit=
ion Allowed in
Callao.'
Either
of you chaps coming over to school?"
CHAPTER VIII - O'HARA ON =
THE
TRACK
Tuesday mornings at Wrykyn were dev=
oted--up
to the quarter to eleven interval--to the study of mathematics. That is to =
say,
instead of going to their form-rooms, the various forms visited the
out-of-the-way nooks and dens at the top of the buildings where the
mathematical masters were wont to lurk, and spent a pleasant two hours there
playing round games or reading fiction under the desk. Mathematics being on=
e of
the few branches of school learning which are of any use in after life, nob=
ody
ever dreamed of doing any work in that direction, least of all O'Hara. It w=
as a
theory of O'Hara's that he came to school to enjoy himself. To have done any
work during a mathematics lesson would have struck him as a positive waste =
of
time, especially as he was in Mr Banks' class. Mr Banks was a master who si=
mply
cried out to be ragged. Everything he did and said seemed to invite the mem=
bers
of his class to amuse themselves, and they amused themselves accordingly. O=
ne
of the advantages of being under him was that it was possible to predict to=
a nicety
the moment when one would be sent out of the room. This was found very
convenient.
O'Hara's
ally, Moriarty, was accustomed to take his mathematics with Mr Morgan, whose
room was directly opposite Mr Banks'. With Mr Morgan it was not quite so ea=
sy
to date one's expulsion from the room under ordinary circumstances, and in =
the
normal wear and tear of the morning's work, but there was one particular ac=
tion
which could always be relied upon to produce the desired result.
In
one corner of the room stood a gigantic globe. The problem--how did it get =
into
the room?--was one that had exercised the minds of many generations of
Wrykinians. It was much too big to have come through the door. Some thought
that the block had been built round it, others that it had been placed in t=
he
room in infancy, and had since grown. To refer the question to Mr Morgan wo=
uld,
in six cases out of ten, mean instant departure from the room. But to make =
the
event certain, it was necessary to grasp the globe firmly and spin it round=
on
its axis. That always proved successful. Mr Morgan would dash down from his
dais, address the offender in spirited terms, and give him his marching ord=
ers
at once and without further trouble.
Moriarty
had arranged with O'Hara to set the globe rolling at ten sharp on this
particular morning. O'Hara would then so arrange matters with Mr Banks that
they could meet in the passage at that hour, when O'Hara wished to impart to
his friend his information concerning the League.
O'Hara
promised to be at the trysting-place at the hour mentioned.
He
did not think there would be any difficulty about it. The news that the Lea=
gue
had been revived meant that there would be trouble in the very near future,=
and
the prospect of trouble was meat and drink to the Irishman in O'Hara.
Consequently he felt in particularly good form for mathematics (as he
interpreted the word). He thought that he would have no difficulty whatever=
in
keeping Mr Banks bright and amused. The first step had to be to arouse in h=
im
an interest in life, to bring him into a frame of mind which would induce h=
im
to look severely rather than leniently on the next offender. This was effec=
ted
as follows:--
It
was Mr Banks' practice to set his class sums to work out, and, after some
three-quarters of an hour had elapsed, to pass round the form what he called
"solutions". These were large sheets of paper, on which he had wo=
rked
out each sum in his neat handwriting to a happy ending. When the head of the
form, to whom they were passed first, had finished with them, he would make=
a
slight tear in one corner, and, having done so, hand them on to his neighbo=
ur.
The neighbour, before giving them to his neighbour, would also tear them
slightly. In time they would return to their patentee and proprietor, and it
was then that things became exciting.
"Who
tore these solutions like this?" asked Mr Banks, in the repressed voic=
e of
one who is determined that he will be calm.
No
answer. The tattered solutions waved in the air.
He
turned to Harringay, the head of the form.
"Harringay,
did you tear these solutions like this?"
Indignant
negative from Harringay. What he had done had been to make the small tear in
the top left-hand corner. If Mr Banks had asked, "Did you make this sm=
all
tear in the top left-hand corner of these solutions?" Harringay would =
have
scorned to deny the impeachment. But to claim the credit for the whole work
would, he felt, be an act of flat dishonesty, and an injustice to his gifted
collaborateurs.
"No,
sir," said Harringay.
"Browne!"
"Yes,
sir?"
"Did
you tear these solutions in this manner?"
"No,
sir."
And
so on through the form.
Then
Harringay rose after the manner of the debater who is conscious that he is
going to say the popular thing.
"Sir--"
he began.
"Sit
down, Harringay."
Harringay
gracefully waved aside the absurd command.
"Sir," he said, "I think I am expressing the general consensus of opinion amo= ng my--ahem--fellow-students, when I say that this class sincerely regrets the unfortunate state the solutions have managed to get themselves into."<= o:p>
"Hear,
hear!" from a back bench.
"It
is with--"
"Sit
down, Harringay."
"It
is with heartfelt--"
"Harringay,
if you do not sit down--"
"As
your ludship pleases." This sotto voce.
And
Harringay resumed his seat amidst applause. O'Hara got up.
"As
me frind who has just sat down was about to observe--"
"Sit
down, O'Hara. The whole form will remain after the class."
"--the
unfortunate state the solutions have managed to get thimsilves into is
sincerely regretted by this class. Sir, I think I am ixprissing the general
consensus of opinion among my fellow-students whin I say that it is with
heart-felt sorrow--"
"O'Hara!"
"Yes,
sir?"
"Leave
the room instantly."
"Yes,
sir."
From the tower across the gravel came the melodious sound of chimes. The college clock was beginning to strike ten. He had scarcely got into the passage, and closed the door after him, when a roar as of a bereaved spirit rang through= the room opposite, followed by a string of words, the only intelligible one bei= ng the noun-substantive "globe", and the next moment the door opened= and Moriarty came out. The last stroke of ten was just booming from the clock.<= o:p>
There
was a large cupboard in the passage, the top of which made a very comfortab=
le
seat. They climbed on to this, and began to talk business.
"An'
what was it ye wanted to tell me?" inquired Moriarty.
O'Hara
related what he had learned from Trevor that morning.
"An'
do ye know," said Moriarty, when he had finished, "I half suspect=
ed,
when I heard that Mill's study had been ragged, that it might be the League
that had done it. If ye remember, it was what they enjoyed doing, breaking =
up a
man's happy home. They did it frequently."
"But
I can't understand them doing it to Trevor at all."
"They'll
do it to anybody they choose till they're caught at it."
"If
they are caught, there'll be a row."
"We
must catch 'em," said Moriarty. Like O'Hara, he revelled in the prospe=
ct
of a disturbance. O'Hara and he were going up to Aldershot at the end of the
term, to try and bring back the light and middle-weight medals respectively.
Moriarty had won the light-weight in the previous year, but, by reason of
putting on a stone since the competition, was now no longer eligible for th=
at
class. O'Hara had not been up before, but the Wrykyn instructor, a good jud=
ge
of pugilistic form, was of opinion that he ought to stand an excellent chan=
ce.
As the prize-fighter in Rodney Stone says, "When you get a good Irishm=
an,
you can't better 'em, but they're dreadful 'asty." O'Hara was attending
the gymnasium every night, in order to learn to curb his "dreadful 'as=
tiness",
and acquire skill in its place.
"I
wonder if Trevor would be any good in a row," said Moriarty.
"He
can't box," said O'Hara, "but he'd go on till he was killed entir=
ely.
I say, I'm getting rather tired of sitting here, aren't you? Let's go to the
other end of the passage and have some cricket."
So,
having unearthed a piece of wood from the debris at the top of the cupboard,
and rolled a handkerchief into a ball, they adjourned.
Recalling
the stirring events of six years back, when the League had first been start=
ed,
O'Hara remembered that the members of that enterprising society had been wo=
nt
to hold meetings in a secluded spot, where it was unlikely that they would =
be
disturbed. It seemed to him that the first thing he ought to do, if he want=
ed
to make their nearer acquaintance now, was to find their present rendezvous.
They must have one. They would never run the risk involved in holding
mass-meetings in one another's studies. On the last occasion, it had been an
old quarry away out on the downs. This had been proved by the not-to-be-sha=
ken testimony
of three school-house fags, who had wandered out one half-holiday with the
unconcealed intention of finding the League's place of meeting. Unfortunate=
ly
for them, they had found it. They were going down the path that led to the
quarry before-mentioned, when they were unexpectedly seized, blindfolded, a=
nd
carried off. An impromptu court-martial was held--in whispers--and the three
explorers forthwith received the most spirited "touching-up" they=
had
ever experienced. Afterwards they were released, and returned to their hous=
e with
their zeal for detection quite quenched. The episode had created a good dea=
l of
excitement in the school at the time.
On
three successive afternoons, O'Hara and Moriarty scoured the downs, and on =
each
occasion they drew blank. On the fourth day, just before lock-up, O'Hara, w=
ho
had been to tea with Gregson, of Day's, was going over to the gymnasium to =
keep
a pugilistic appointment with Moriarty, when somebody ran swiftly past him =
in
the direction of the boarding-houses. It was almost dark, for the days were
still short, and he did not recognise the runner. But it puzzled him a litt=
le
to think where he had sprung from. O'Hara was walking quite close to the wa=
ll
of the College buildings, and the runner had passed between it and him. And=
he
had not heard his footsteps. Then he understood, and his pulse quickened as=
he
felt that he was on the track. Beneath the block was a large sort of
cellar-basement. It was used as a store-room for chairs, and was never open=
ed
except when prize-day or some similar event occurred, when the chairs were
needed. It was supposed to be locked at other times, but never was. The door
was just by the spot where he was standing. As he stood there, half-a-dozen
other vague forms dashed past him in a knot. One of them almost brushed aga=
inst
him. For a moment he thought of stopping him, but decided not to. He could
wait.
On
the following afternoon he slipped down into the basement soon after school=
. It
was as black as pitch in the cellar. He took up a position near the door.
It
seemed hours before anything happened. He was, indeed, almost giving up the
thing as a bad job, when a ray of light cut through the blackness in front =
of
him, and somebody slipped through the door. The next moment, a second form
appeared dimly, and then the light was shut off again.
O'Hara
could hear them groping their way past him. He waited no longer. It is
difficult to tell where sound comes from in the dark. He plunged forward at=
a
venture. His hand, swinging round in a semicircle, met something which felt
like a shoulder. He slipped his grasp down to the arm, and clutched it with=
all
the force at his disposal.
CHAPTER IX - MAINLY ABOUT
FERRETS
"Ow!" exclaimed the capti=
ve,
with no uncertain voice. "Let go, you ass, you're hurting."
The
voice was a treble voice. This surprised O'Hara. It looked very much as if =
he
had put up the wrong bird. From the dimensions of the arm which he was hold=
ing,
his prisoner seemed to be of tender years.
"Let
go, Harvey, you idiot. I shall kick."
Before
the threat could be put into execution, O'Hara, who had been fumbling all t=
his
while in his pocket for a match, found one loose, and struck a light. The
features of the owner of the arm--he was still holding it--were lit up for a
moment.
"Why,
it's young Renford!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing down here?=
"
Renford,
however, continued to pursue the topic of his arm, and the effect that the =
vice-like
grip of the Irishman had had upon it.
"You've
nearly broken it," he said, complainingly.
"I'm
sorry. I mistook you for somebody else. Who's that with you?"
"It's
me," said an ungrammatical voice.
"Who's
me?"
"Harvey."
At
this point a soft yellow light lit up the more immediate neighbourhood. Har=
vey
had brought a bicycle lamp into action.
"That's
more like it," said Renford. "Look here, O'Hara, you won't split,
will you?"
"I'm
not an informer by profession, thanks," said O'Hara.
"Oh,
I know it's all right, really, but you can't be too careful, because one is=
n't
allowed down here, and there'd be a beastly row if it got out about our bei=
ng
down here."
"And
they would be cobbed," put in Harvey.
"Who
are they?" asked O'Hara.
"Ferrets.
Like to have a look at them?"
"Ferrets!"
"Yes.
Harvey brought back a couple at the beginning of term. Ripping little beast=
s.
We couldn't keep them in the house, as they'd have got dropped on in a seco=
nd,
so we had to think of somewhere else, and thought why not keep them down
here?"
"Why,
indeed?" said O'Hara. "Do ye find they like it?"
"Oh,
they don't mind," said Harvey. "We feed 'em twice a day. Once bef=
ore
breakfast--we take it in turns to get up early--and once directly after sch=
ool.
And on half-holidays and Sundays we take them out on to the downs."
"What
for?"
"Why,
rabbits, of course. Renford brought back a saloon-pistol with him. We keep =
it
locked up in a box--don't tell any one."
"And
what do ye do with the rabbits?"
"We
pot at them as they come out of the holes."
"Yes,
but when ye hit 'em?"
"Oh,"
said Renford, with some reluctance, "we haven't exactly hit any yet.&q=
uot;
"We've
got jolly near, though, lots of times," said Harvey. "Last Saturd=
ay I
swear I wasn't more than a quarter of an inch off one of them. If it had be=
en a
decent-sized rabbit, I should have plugged it middle stump; only it was a s=
mall
one, so I missed. But come and see them. We keep 'em right at the other end=
of
the place, in case anybody comes in."
"Have
you ever seen anybody down here?" asked O'Hara.
"Once,"
said Renford. "Half-a-dozen chaps came down here once while we were
feeding the ferrets. We waited till they'd got well in, then we nipped out
quietly. They didn't see us."
"Did
you see who they were?"
"No.
It was too dark. Here they are. Rummy old crib this, isn't it? Look out for
your shins on the chairs. Switch on the light, Harvey. There, aren't they
rippers? Quite tame, too. They know us quite well. They know they're going =
to
be fed, too. Hullo, Sir Nigel! This is Sir Nigel. Out of the 'White Company=
',
you know. Don't let him nip your fingers. This other one's Sherlock
Holmes."
"Cats-s-s--s!!"
said O'Hara. He had a sort of idea that that was the right thing to say to =
any
animal that could chase and bite.
Renford
was delighted to be able to show his ferrets off to so distinguished a visi=
tor.
"What
were you down here about?" inquired Harvey, when the little animals had
had their meal, and had retired once more into private life.
O'Hara
had expected this question, but he did not quite know what answer to give.
Perhaps, on the whole, he thought, it would be best to tell them the real
reason. If he refused to explain, their curiosity would be roused, which wo=
uld
be fatal. And to give any reason except the true one called for a display of
impromptu invention of which he was not capable. Besides, they would not be
likely to give away his secret while he held this one of theirs connected w=
ith
the ferrets. He explained the situation briefly, and swore them to silence =
on
the subject.
Renford's
comment was brief.
"By
Jove!" he observed.
Harvey
went more deeply into the question.
"What
makes you think they meet down here?" he asked.
"I
saw some fellows cutting out of here last night. And you say ye've seen them
here, too. I don't see what object they could have down here if they weren't
the League holding a meeting. I don't see what else a chap would be
after."
"He
might be keeping ferrets," hazarded Renford.
"The
whole school doesn't keep ferrets," said O'Hara. "You're unique i=
n that
way. No, it must be the League, an' I mean to wait here till they come.&quo=
t;
"Not
all night?" asked Harvey. He had a great respect for O'Hara, whose rep=
utation
in the school for out-of-the-way doings was considerable. In the bright lex=
icon
of O'Hara he believed there to be no such word as "impossible."
"No,"
said O'Hara, "but till lock-up. You two had better cut now."
"Yes,
I think we'd better," said Harvey.
"And
don't ye breathe a word about this to a soul"--a warning which extract=
ed
fervent promises of silence from both youths.
"This,"
said Harvey, as they emerged on to the gravel, "is something like. I'm
jolly glad we're in it."
"Rather.
Do you think O'Hara will catch them?"
"He
must if he waits down there long enough. They're certain to come again. Don=
't
you wish you'd been here when the League was on before?"
"I
should think I did. Race you over to the shop. I want to get something befo=
re
it shuts."
"Right
ho!" And they disappeared.
O'Hara
waited where he was till six struck from the clock-tower, followed by the s=
ound
of the bell as it rang for lock-up. Then he picked his way carefully through
the groves of chairs, barking his shins now and then on their out-turned le=
gs,
and, pushing open the door, went out into the open air. It felt very fresh =
and
pleasant after the brand of atmosphere supplied in the vault. He then ran o=
ver
to the gymnasium to meet Moriarty, feeling a little disgusted at the lack o=
f success
that had attended his detective efforts up to the present. So far he had
nothing to show for his trouble except a good deal of dust on his clothes, =
and
a dirty collar, but he was full of determination. He could play a waiting g=
ame.
It
was a pity, as it happened, that O'Hara left the vault when he did. Five
minutes after he had gone, six shadowy forms made their way silently and in
single file through the doorway of the vault, which they closed carefully
behind them. The fact that it was after lock-up was of small consequence. A
good deal of latitude in that way was allowed at Wrykyn. It was the custom =
to
go out, after the bell had sounded, to visit the gymnasium. In the winter a=
nd
Easter terms, the gymnasium became a sort of social club. People went there
with a very small intention of doing gymnastics. They went to lounge about,
talking to cronies, in front of the two huge stoves which warmed the place.=
Occasionally,
as a concession to the look of the thing, they would do an easy exercise or=
two
on the horse or parallels, but, for the most part, they preferred the role =
of
spectator. There was plenty to see. In one corner O'Hara and Moriarty would=
be
sparring their nightly six rounds (in two batches of three rounds each). In
another, Drummond, who was going up to Aldershot as a feather-weight, would=
be
putting in a little practice with the instructor. On the apparatus, the mem=
bers
of the gymnastic six, including the two experts who were to carry the school
colours to Aldershot in the spring, would be performing their usual marvels=
. It
was worth dropping into the gymnasium of an evening. In no other place in t=
he
school were so many sights to be seen.
When
you were surfeited with sightseeing, you went off to your house. And this w=
as
where the peculiar beauty of the gymnasium system came in. You went up to a=
ny
master who happened to be there--there was always one at least--and observe=
d in
suave accents, "Please, sir, can I have a paper?" Whereupon, he,
taking a scrap of paper, would write upon it, "J. O. Jones (or A. B. S=
mith
or C. D. Robinson) left gymnasium at such-and-such a time". And, by pr=
esenting
this to the menial who opened the door to you at your house, you went in
rejoicing, and all was peace.
Now,
there was no mention on the paper of the hour at which you came to the
gymnasium--only of the hour at which you left. Consequently, certain lawless
spirits would range the neighbourhood after lock-up, and, by putting in a
quarter of an hour at the gymnasium before returning to their houses, escape
comment. To this class belonged the shadowy forms previously mentioned.
O'Hara
had forgotten this custom, with the result that he was not at the vault when
they arrived. Moriarty, to whom he confided between the rounds the substanc=
e of
his evening's discoveries, reminded him of it. "It's no good watching
before lock-up," he said. "After six is the time they'll come, if
they come at all."
"Bedad,
ye're right," said O'Hara. "One of these nights we'll take a night
off from boxing, and go and watch."
"Right,"
said Moriarty. "Are ye ready to go on?"
"Yes.
I'm going to practise that left swing at the body this round. The one
Fitzsimmons does." And they "put 'em up" once more.
CHAPTER X - BEING A CHAPT=
ER
OF ACCIDENTS
On the evening following O'Hara's
adventure in the vaults, Barry and M'Todd were in their study, getting out =
the
tea-things. Most Wrykinians brewed in the winter and Easter terms, when the
days were short and lock-up early. In the summer term there were other thin=
gs
to do--nets, which lasted till a quarter to seven (when lock-up was), and t=
he baths--and
brewing practically ceased. But just now it was at its height, and every
evening, at a quarter past five, there might be heard in the houses the
sizzling of the succulent sausage and other rare delicacies. As a rule, one=
or
two studies would club together to brew, instead of preparing solitary
banquets. This was found both more convivial and more economical. At Seymou=
r's,
studies numbers five, six, and seven had always combined from time immemori=
al,
and Barry, on obtaining study six, had carried on the tradition. In study f=
ive
were Drummond and his friend De Bertini. In study seven, which was a smaller
room and only capable of holding one person with any comfort, one James Rup=
ert Leather-Twigg
(that was his singular name, as Mr Gilbert has it) had taken up his abode. =
The
name of Leather-Twigg having proved, at an early date in his career, too gr=
eat
a mouthful for Wrykyn, he was known to his friends and acquaintances by the
euphonious title of Shoeblossom. The charm about the genial Shoeblossom was
that you could never tell what he was going to do next. All that you could =
rely
on with any certainty was that it would be something which would have been =
better
left undone.
It
was just five o'clock when Barry and M'Todd started to get things ready. Th=
ey
were not high enough up in the school to have fags, so that they had to do =
this
for themselves.
Barry
was still in football clothes. He had been out running and passing with the
first fifteen. M'Todd, whose idea of exercise was winding up a watch, had b=
een
spending his time since school ceased in the study with a book. He was in h=
is
ordinary clothes. It was therefore fortunate that, when he upset the kettle=
(he
nearly always did at some period of the evening's business), the contents
spread themselves over Barry, and not over himself. Football clothes will s=
tand
any amount of water, whereas M'Todd's "Youth's winter suiting at forty=
-two
shillings and sixpence" might have been injured. Barry, however, did n=
ot
look upon the episode in this philosophical light. He spoke to him eloquent=
ly
for a while, and then sent him downstairs to fetch more water. While he was
away, Drummond and De Bertini came in.
"Hullo,"
said Drummond, "tea ready?"
"Not
much," replied Barry, bitterly, "not likely to be, either, at thi=
s rate.
We'd just got the kettle going when that ass M'Todd plunged against the tab=
le
and upset the lot over my bags. Lucky the beastly stuff wasn't boiling. I'm
soaked."
"While
we wait--the sausages--Yes?--a good idea--M'Todd, he is downstairs--but to
wait? No, no. Let us. Shall we? Is it not so? Yes?" observed Bertie,
lucidly.
"Now
construe," said Barry, looking at the linguist with a bewildered expre=
ssion.
It was a source of no little inconvenience to his friends that De Bertini w=
as
so very fixed in his determination to speak English. He was a trier all the
way, was De Bertini. You rarely caught him helping out his remarks with the
language of his native land. It was English or nothing with him. To most of=
his
circle it might as well have been Zulu.
Drummond,
either through natural genius or because he spent more time with him, was
generally able to act as interpreter. Occasionally there would come a
linguistic effort by which even he freely confessed himself baffled, and th=
en
they would pass on unsatisfied. But, as a rule, he was equal to the emergen=
cy.
He was so now.
"What
Bertie means," he explained, "is that it's no good us waiting for=
M'Todd
to come back. He never could fill a kettle in less than ten minutes, and ev=
en
then he's certain to spill it coming upstairs and have to go back again. Le=
t's
get on with the sausages."
The
pan had just been placed on the fire when M'Todd returned with the water. He
tripped over the mat as he entered, and spilt about half a pint into one of=
his
football boots, which stood inside the door, but the accident was comparati=
vely
trivial, and excited no remark.
"I
wonder where that slacker Shoeblossom has got to," said Barry. "H=
e never
turns up in time to do any work. He seems to regard himself as a beastly gu=
est.
I wish we could finish the sausages before he comes. It would be a sell for
him."
"Not
much chance of that," said Drummond, who was kneeling before the fire =
and
keeping an excited eye on the spluttering pan, "you see. He'll come ju=
st
as we've finished cooking them. I believe the man waits outside with his ea=
r to
the keyhole. Hullo! Stand by with the plate. They'll be done in half a
jiffy."
Just
as the last sausage was deposited in safety on the plate, the door opened, =
and
Shoeblossom, looking as if he had not brushed his hair since early childhoo=
d,
sidled in with an attempt at an easy nonchalance which was rendered quite
impossible by the hopeless state of his conscience.
"Ah,"
he said, "brewing, I see. Can I be of any use?"
"We've
finished years ago," said Barry.
"Ages
ago," said M'Todd.
A
look of intense alarm appeared on Shoeblossom's classical features.
"You've
not finished, really?"
"We've
finished cooking everything," said Drummond. "We haven't begun tea
yet. Now, are you happy?"
Shoeblossom
was. So happy that he felt he must do something to celebrate the occasion. =
He
felt like a successful general. There must be something he could do to show
that he regarded the situation with approval. He looked round the study. Ha!
Happy thought--the frying-pan. That useful culinary instrument was lying in=
the
fender, still bearing its cargo of fat, and beside it--a sight to stir the =
blood
and make the heart beat faster--were the sausages, piled up on their plate.=
Shoeblossom
stooped. He seized the frying-pan. He gave it one twirl in the air. Then,
before any one could stop him, he had turned it upside down over the fire. =
As
has been already remarked, you could never predict exactly what James Rupert
Leather-Twigg would be up to next.
When
anything goes out of the frying-pan into the fire, it is usually productive=
of
interesting by-products. The maxim applies to fat. The fat was in the fire =
with
a vengeance. A great sheet of flame rushed out and up. Shoeblossom leaped b=
ack
with a readiness highly creditable in one who was not a professional acroba=
t.
The covering of the mantelpiece caught fire. The flames went roaring up the
chimney.
Drummond,
cool while everything else was so hot, without a word moved to the mantelpi=
ece
to beat out the fire with a football shirt. Bertie was talking rapidly to
himself in French. Nobody could understand what he was saying, which was
possibly fortunate.
By
the time Drummond had extinguished the mantelpiece, Barry had also done good
work by knocking the fire into the grate with the poker. M'Todd, who had be=
en
standing up till now in the far corner of the room, gaping vaguely at thing=
s in
general, now came into action. Probably it was force of habit that suggeste=
d to
him that the time had come to upset the kettle. At any rate, upset it he
did--most of it over the glowing, blazing mass in the grate, the rest over
Barry. One of the largest and most detestable smells the study had ever had=
to
endure instantly assailed their nostrils. The fire in the study was out now=
, but
in the chimney it still blazed merrily.
"Go
up on to the roof and heave water down," said Drummond, the strategist.
"You can get out from Milton's dormitory window. And take care not to
chuck it down the wrong chimney."
Barry
was starting for the door to carry out these excellent instructions, when it
flew open.
"Pah!
What have you boys been doing? What an abominable smell. Pah!" said a
muffled voice. It was Mr Seymour. Most of his face was concealed in a large
handkerchief, but by the look of his eyes, which appeared above, he did not
seem pleased. He took in the situation at a glance. Fires in the house were=
not
rarities. One facetious sportsman had once made a rule of setting the senior
day-room chimney on fire every term. He had since left (by request), but fi=
res
still occurred.
"Is
the chimney on fire?"
"Yes,
sir," said Drummond.
"Go
and find Herbert, and tell him to take some water on to the roof and throw =
it
down." Herbert was the boot and knife cleaner at Seymour's.
Barry
went. Soon afterwards a splash of water in the grate announced that the
intrepid Herbert was hard at it. Another followed, and another. Then there =
was
a pause. Mr Seymour thought he would look up to see if the fire was out. He
stooped and peered into the darkness, and, even as he gazed, splash came the
contents of the fourth pail, together with some soot with which they had fo=
rmed
a travelling acquaintance on the way down. Mr Seymour staggered back, grimy=
and
dripping. There was dead silence in the study. Shoeblossom's face might have
been seen working convulsively.
The
silence was broken by a hollow, sepulchral voice with a strong Cockney acce=
nt.
"Did
yer see any water come down then, sir?" said the voice.
Shoeblossom
collapsed into a chair, and began to sob feebly.
*
"--disgraceful
... scandalous ... get up, Leather-Twigg ... not to be trusted ... babies .=
..
three hundred lines, Leather-Twigg ... abominable ... surprised ... ought t=
o be
ashamed of yourselves ... double, Leather-Twigg ... not fit to have studies=
...
atrocious ...--"
Such
were the main heads of Mr Seymour's speech on the situation as he dabbed
desperately at the soot on his face with his handkerchief. Shoeblossom stood
and gurgled throughout. Not even the thought of six hundred lines could que=
nch
that dauntless spirit.
"Finally,"
perorated Mr Seymour, as he was leaving the room, "as you are evidently
not to be trusted with rooms of your own, I forbid you to enter them till
further notice. It is disgraceful that such a thing should happen. Do you h=
ear,
Barry? And you, Drummond? You are not to enter your studies again till I gi=
ve
you leave. Move your books down to the senior day-room tonight."
And
Mr Seymour stalked off to clean himself.
"Anyhow,"
said Shoeblossom, as his footsteps died away, "we saved the sausages.&=
quot;
It
is this indomitable gift of looking on the bright side that makes us Englis=
hmen
what we are.
CHAPTER XI - THE
HOUSE-MATCHES
It was something of a consolation to
Barry and his friends--at any rate, to Barry and Drummond--that directly af=
ter
they had been evicted from their study, the house-matches began. Except for=
the
Ripton match, the house-matches were the most important event of the Easter
term. Even the sports at the beginning of April were productive of less exc=
itement.
There were twelve houses at Wrykyn, and they played on the "knocking-o=
ut"
system. To be beaten once meant that a house was no longer eligible for the
competition. It could play "friendlies" as much as it liked, but,
play it never so wisely, it could not lift the cup. Thus it often happened =
that
a weak house, by fluking a victory over a strong rival, found itself, much =
to
its surprise, in the semi-final, or sometimes even in the final. This was r=
arer
at football than at cricket, for at football the better team generally wins=
.
The
favourites this year were Donaldson's, though some fancied Seymour's.
Donaldson's had Trevor, whose leadership was worth almost more than his pla=
y.
In no other house was training so rigid. You could tell a Donaldson's man, =
if
he was in his house-team, at a glance. If you saw a man eating oatmeal bisc=
uits
in the shop, and eyeing wistfully the while the stacks of buns and pastry, =
you
could put him down as a Donaldsonite without further evidence. The captains=
of
the other houses used to prescribe a certain amount of self-abnegation in t=
he
matter of food, but Trevor left his men barely enough to support life--enou=
gh, that
is, of the things that are really worth eating. The consequence was that
Donaldson's would turn out for an important match all muscle and bone, and =
on
such occasions it was bad for those of their opponents who had been taking =
life
more easily. Besides Trevor they had Clowes, and had had bad luck in not ha=
ving
Paget. Had Paget stopped, no other house could have looked at them. But by =
his
departure, the strength of the team had become more nearly on a level with =
that
of Seymour's.
Some
even thought that Seymour's were the stronger. Milton was as good a forward=
as
the school possessed. Besides him there were Barry and Rand-Brown on the wi=
ngs.
Drummond was a useful half, and five of the pack had either first or second
fifteen colours. It was a team that would take some beating.
Trevor
came to that conclusion early. "If we can beat Seymour's, we'll lift t=
he
cup," he said to Clowes.
"We'll
have to do all we know," was Clowes' reply.
They
were watching Seymour's pile up an immense score against a scratch team got=
up
by one of the masters. The first round of the competition was over. Donalds=
on's
had beaten Templar's, Seymour's the School House. Templar's were rather str=
onger
than the School House, and Donaldson's had beaten them by a rather larger s=
core
than that which Seymour's had run up in their match. But neither Trevor nor
Clowes was inclined to draw any augury from this. Seymour's had taken things
easily after half-time; Donaldson's had kept going hard all through.
"That
makes Rand-Brown's fourth try," said Clowes, as the wing three-quarter=
of
the second fifteen raced round and scored in the corner.
"Yes.
This is the sort of game he's all right in. The man who's marking him is no
good. Barry's scored twice, and both good tries, too."
"Oh,
there's no doubt which is the best man," said Clowes. "I only men=
tioned
that it was Rand-Brown's fourth as an item of interest."
The
game continued. Barry scored a third try.
"We're
drawn against Appleby's next round," said Trevor. "We can manage =
them
all right."
"When
is it?"
"Next
Thursday. Nomads' match on Saturday. Then Ripton, Saturday week."
"Who've
Seymour's drawn?"
"Day's.
It'll be a good game, too. Seymour's ought to win, but they'll have to play
their best. Day's have got some good men."
"Fine
scrum," said Clowes.
"Yes. Quick in the open, too, which is always good business. I =
wish
they'd beat Seymour's."
"Oh,
we ought to be all right, whichever wins."
Appleby's
did not offer any very serious resistance to the Donaldson attack. They were
outplayed at every point of the game, and, before half-time, Donaldson's had
scored their thirty points. It was a rule in all in-school matches--and a g=
ood
rule, too--that, when one side led by thirty points, the match stopped. This
prevented those massacres which do so much towards crushing all the football
out of the members of the beaten team; and it kept the winning team from
getting slack, by urging them on to score their thirty points before half-t=
ime.
There were some houses--notoriously slack--which would go for a couple of
seasons without ever playing the second half of a match.
Having
polished off the men of Appleby, the Donaldson team trooped off to the other
game to see how Seymour's were getting on with Day's. It was evidently an
exciting match. The first half had been played to the accompaniment of much
shouting from the ropes. Though coming so early in the competition, it was
really the semi-final, for whichever team won would be almost certain to get
into the final. The school had turned up in large numbers to watch.
"Seymour's
looking tired of life," said Clowes. "That would seem as if his
fellows weren't doing well."
"What's
been happening here?" asked Trevor of an enthusiast in a Seymour's hou=
se
cap whose face was crimson with yelling.
"One
goal all," replied the enthusiast huskily. "Did you beat Appleby'=
s?"
"Yes.
Thirty points before half-time. Who's been doing the scoring here?"
"Milton
got in for us. He barged through out of touch. We've been pressing the whole
time. Barry got over once, but he was held up. Hullo, they're beginning aga=
in.
Buck up, Sey-mour's."
His
voice cracking on the high note, he took an immense slab of vanilla chocola=
te
as a remedy for hoarseness.
"Who
scored for Day's?" asked Clowes.
"Strachan.
Rand-Brown let him through from their twenty-five. You never saw anything so
rotten as Rand-Brown. He doesn't take his passes, and Strachan gets past him
every time."
"Is
Strachan playing on the wing?"
Strachan
was the first fifteen full-back.
"Yes.
They've put young Bassett back instead of him. Sey-mour's. Buck up, Seymour=
's.
We-ell played! There, did you ever see anything like it?" he broke off
disgustedly.
The
Seymourite playing centre next to Rand-Brown had run through to the back and
passed out to his wing, as a good centre should. It was a perfect pass, exc=
ept
that it came at his head instead of his chest. Nobody with any pretensions =
to
decent play should have missed it. Rand-Brown, however, achieved that feat.=
The
ball struck his hands and bounded forward. The referee blew his whistle for=
a
scrum, and a certain try was lost.
From
the scrum the Seymour's forwards broke away to the goal-line, where they we=
re
pulled up by Bassett. The next minute the defence had been pierced, and
Drummond was lying on the ball a yard across the line. The enthusiast stand=
ing
by Clowes expended the last relics of his voice in commemorating the fact t=
hat
his side had the lead.
"Drummond'll
be good next year," said Trevor. And he made a mental note to tell
Allardyce, who would succeed him in the command of the school football, to =
keep
an eye on the player in question.
The
triumph of the Seymourites was not long lived. Milton failed to convert
Drummond's try. From the drop-out from the twenty-five line Barry got the b=
all,
and punted into touch. The throw-out was not straight, and a scrum was form=
ed.
The ball came out to the Day's halves, and went across to Strachan. Rand-Br=
own
hesitated, and then made a futile spring at the first fifteen man's neck.
Strachan handed him off easily, and ran. The Seymour's full-back, who was a
poor player, failed to get across in time. Strachan ran round behind the po=
sts,
the kick succeeded, and Day's now led by two points.
After
this the game continued in Day's half. Five minutes before time was up,
Drummond got the ball from a scrum nearly on the line, passed it to Barry on
the wing instead of opening up the game by passing to his centres, and Barry
slipped through in the corner. This put Seymour's just one point ahead, and
there they stayed till the whistle blew for no-side.
Milton
walked over to the boarding-houses with Clowes and Trevor. He was full of t=
he
match, particularly of the iniquity of Rand-Brown. "I slanged him on the field,&=
quot;
he said. "It's a thing I don't often do, but what else can you do when=
a
man plays like that? He lost us three certain tries."
"When
did you administer your rebuke?" inquired Clowes.
"When
he had let Strachan through that second time, in the second half. I asked h=
im
why on earth he tried to play footer at all. I told him a good kiss-in-the-=
ring
club was about his form. It was rather cheap, but I felt so frightfully sick
about it. It's sickening to be let down like that when you've been pressing=
the
whole time, and ought to be scoring every other minute."
"What
had he to say on the subject?" asked Clowes.
"Oh,
he gassed a bit until I told him I'd kick him if he said another word. That
shut him up."
"You
ought to have kicked him. You want all the kicking practice you can get. I
never saw anything feebler than that shot of yours after Drummond's try.&qu=
ot;
"I'd
like to see you take a kick like that. It was nearly on the touch-line. Sti=
ll,
when we play you, we shan't need to convert any of our tries. We'll get our
thirty points without that. Perhaps you'd like to scratch?"
"As
a matter of fact," said Clowes confidentially, "I am going to sco=
re seven
tries against you off my own bat. You'll be sorry you ever turned out when
we've finished with you."
CHAPTER XII - NEWS OF THE
GOLD BAT
Shoeblossom sat disconsolately on t=
he
table in the senior day-room. He was not happy in exile. Brewing in the sen=
ior
day-room was a mere vulgar brawl, lacking all the refining influences of the
study. You had to fight for a place at the fire, and when you had got it 't=
was
not always easy to keep it, and there was no privacy, and the fellows were =
always
bear-fighting, so that it was impossible to read a book quietly for ten
consecutive minutes without some ass heaving a cushion at you or turning out
the gas. Altogether Shoeblossom yearned for the peace of his study, and wis=
hed
earnestly that Mr Seymour would withdraw the order of banishment. It was the
not being able to read that he objected to chiefly. In place of brewing, the
ex-proprietors of studies five, six, and seven now made a practice of going=
to
the school shop. It was more expensive and not nearly so comfortable--there=
is
a romance about a study brew which you can never get anywhere else--but it
served, and it was not on this score that he grumbled most. What he hated w=
as having
to live in a bear-garden. For Shoeblossom was a man of moods. Give him two =
or
three congenial spirits to back him up, and he would lead the revels with t=
he
abandon of a Mr Bultitude (after his return to his original form). But he l=
iked
to choose his accomplices, and the gay sparks of the senior day-room did not
appeal to him. They were not intellectual enough. In his lucid intervals, he
was accustomed to be almost abnormally solemn and respectable. When not
promoting some unholy rag, Shoeblossom resembled an elderly gentleman of
studious habits. He liked to sit in a comfortable chair and read a book. It=
was
the impossibility of doing this in the senior day-room that led him to try =
and
think of some other haven where he might rest. Had it been summer, he would
have taken some literature out on to the cricket-field or the downs, and pu=
t in
a little steady reading there, with the aid of a bag of cherries. But with =
the
thermometer low, that was impossible.
He
felt very lonely and dismal. He was not a man with many friends. In fact, B=
arry
and the other three were almost the only members of the house with whom he =
was
on speaking-terms. And of these four he saw very little. Drummond and Barry
were always out of doors or over at the gymnasium, and as for M'Todd and De
Bertini, it was not worth while talking to the one, and impossible to talk =
to
the other. No wonder Shoeblossom felt dull. Once Barry and Drummond had tak=
en
him over to the gymnasium with them, but this had bored him worse than ever.
They had been hard at it all the time--for, unlike a good many of the schoo=
l,
they went to the gymnasium for business, not to lounge--and he had had to s=
it
about watching them. And watching gymnastics was one of the things he most
loathed. Since then he had refused to go.
That
night matters came to a head. Just as he had settled down to read, somebody=
, in
flinging a cushion across the room, brought down the gas apparatus with a r=
un,
and before light was once more restored it was tea-time. After that there w=
as
preparation, which lasted for two hours, and by the time he had to go to be=
d he
had not been able to read a single page of the enthralling work with which =
he
was at present occupied.
He
had just got into bed when he was struck with a brilliant idea. Why waste t=
he
precious hours in sleep? What was that saying of somebody's, "Five hou=
rs
for a wise man, six for somebody else--he forgot whom--eight for a fool, ni=
ne
for an idiot," or words to that effect? Five hours sleep would mean th=
at
he need not go to bed till half past two. In the meanwhile he could be find=
ing
out exactly what the hero did do when he found out (to his horror) that it =
was
his cousin Jasper who had really killed the old gentleman in the wood. The =
only
question was--how was he to do his reading? Prefects were allowed to work on
after lights out in their dormitories by the aid of a candle, but to the
ordinary mortal this was forbidden.
Then
he was struck with another brilliant idea. It is a curious thing about idea=
s.
You do not get one for over a month, and then there comes a rush of them, a=
ll
brilliant. Why, he thought, should he not go and read in his study with a d=
ark
lantern? He had a dark lantern. It was one of the things he had found lying=
about
at home on the last day of the holidays, and had brought with him to school=
. It
was his custom to go about the house just before the holidays ended, snappi=
ng
up unconsidered trifles, which might or might not come in useful. This term=
he
had brought back a curious metal vase (which looked Indian, but which had
probably been made in Birmingham the year before last), two old coins (of no
mortal use to anybody in the world, including himself), and the dark lanter=
n.
It was reposing now in the cupboard in his study nearest the window.
He
had brought his book up with him on coming to bed, on the chance that he mi=
ght
have time to read a page or two if he woke up early. (He had always been
doubtful about that man Jasper. For one thing, he had been seen pawning the=
old
gentleman's watch on the afternoon of the murder, which was a suspicious
circumstance, and then he was not a nice character at all, and just the sor=
t of
man who would be likely to murder old gentlemen in woods.) He waited till Mr
Seymour had paid his nightly visit--he went the round of the dormitories at
about eleven--and then he chuckled gently. If Mill, the dormitory prefect, =
was
awake, the chuckle would make him speak, for Mill was of a suspicious natur=
e,
and believed that it was only his unintermitted vigilance which prevented t=
he dormitory
ragging all night.
Mill
was awake.
"Be
quiet, there," he growled. "Shut up that noise."
Shoeblossom
felt that the time was not yet ripe for his departure. Half an hour later he
tried again. There was no rebuke. To make certain he emitted a second chuck=
le,
replete with sinister meaning. A slight snore came from the direction of Mi=
ll's
bed. Shoeblossom crept out of the room, and hurried to his study. The door =
was
not locked, for Mr Seymour had relied on his commands being sufficient to k=
eep
the owner out of it. He slipped in, found and lit the dark lantern, and set=
tled
down to read. He read with feverish excitement. The thing was, you see, tha=
t though
Claud Trevelyan (that was the hero) knew jolly well that it was Jasper who =
had
done the murder, the police didn't, and, as he (Claud) was too noble to tell
them, he had himself been arrested on suspicion. Shoeblossom was skimming
through the pages with starting eyes, when suddenly his attention was taken
from his book by a sound. It was a footstep. Somebody was coming down the
passage, and under the door filtered a thin stream of light. To snap the da=
rk
slide over the lantern and dart to the door, so that if it opened he would =
be
behind it, was with him, as Mr Claud Trevelyan might have remarked, the wor=
k of
a moment. He heard the door of study number five flung open, and then the
footsteps passed on, and stopped opposite his own den. The handle turned, a=
nd
the light of a candle flashed into the room, to be extinguished instantly as
the draught of the moving door caught it.
Shoeblossom
heard his visitor utter an exclamation of annoyance, and fumble in his pock=
et
for matches. He recognised the voice. It was Mr Seymour's. The fact was tha=
t Mr
Seymour had had the same experience as General Stanley in The Pirates of
Penzance:
The man who finds his
conscience ache, No pe=
ace at
all enjoys; And,
as I lay in bed awake, I tho=
ught I
heard a noise.
Whether
Mr Seymour's conscience ached or not, cannot, of course, be discovered. But=
he
had certainly thought he heard a noise, and he had come to investigate.
The
search for matches had so far proved fruitless. Shoeblossom stood and quaked
behind the door. The reek of hot tin from the dark lantern grew worse momen=
tarily.
Mr Seymour sniffed several times, until Shoeblossom thought that he must be
discovered. Then, to his immense relief, the master walked away. Shoeblosso=
m's
chance had come. Mr Seymour had probably gone to get some matches to relight
his candle. It was far from likely that the episode was closed. He would be
back again presently. If Shoeblossom was going to escape, he must do it now=
, so
he waited till the footsteps had passed away, and then darted out in the di=
rection
of his dormitory.
As
he was passing Milton's study, a white figure glided out of it. All that he=
had
ever read or heard of spectres rushed into Shoeblossom's petrified brain. He
wished he was safely in bed. He wished he had never come out of it. He wish=
ed
he had led a better and nobler life. He wished he had never been born.
The
figure passed quite close to him as he stood glued against the wall, and he=
saw
it disappear into the dormitory opposite his own, of which Rigby was prefec=
t.
He blushed hotly at the thought of the fright he had been in. It was only
somebody playing the same game as himself.
He
jumped into bed and lay down, having first plunged the lantern bodily into =
his
jug to extinguish it. Its indignant hiss had scarcely died away when Mr Sey=
mour
appeared at the door. It had occurred to Mr Seymour that he had smelt somet=
hing
very much out of the ordinary in Shoeblossom's study, a smell uncommonly li=
ke
that of hot tin. And a suspicion dawned on him that Shoeblossom had been in
there with a dark lantern. He had come to the dormitory to confirm his
suspicions. But a glance showed him how unjust they had been. There was
Shoeblossom fast asleep. Mr Seymour therefore followed the excellent exampl=
e of
my Lord Tomnoddy on a celebrated occasion, and went off to bed.
*
It
was the custom for the captain of football at Wrykyn to select and publish =
the
team for the Ripton match a week before the day on which it was to be playe=
d.
On the evening after the Nomads' match, Trevor was sitting in his study wri=
ting
out the names, when there came a knock at the door, and his fag entered wit=
h a
letter.
"This
has just come, Trevor," he said.
"All
right. Put it down."
The
fag left the room. Trevor picked up the letter. The handwriting was strange=
to
him. The words had been printed. Then it flashed upon him that he had recei=
ved
a letter once before addressed in the same way--the letter from the League
about Barry. Was this, too, from that address? He opened it.
It
was.
He
read it, and gasped. The worst had happened. The gold bat was in the hands =
of
the enemy.
CHAPTER XIII - VICTIM NUM=
BER
THREE
"With reference to our last
communication," ran the letter--the writer evidently believed in the
commercial style--"it may interest you to know that the bat you lost by
the statue on the night of the 26th of January has come into our possession=
. We
observe that Barry is still playing for the first fifteen."
"And
will jolly well continue to," muttered Trevor, crumpling the paper vic=
iously
into a ball.
He
went on writing the names for the Ripton match. The last name on the list w=
as
Barry's.
Then
he sat back in his chair, and began to wrestle with this new development. B=
arry
must play. That was certain. All the bluff in the world was not going to ke=
ep
him from playing the best man at his disposal in the Ripton match. He himse=
lf
did not count. It was the school he had to think of. This being so, what was
likely to happen? Though nothing was said on the point, he felt certain tha=
t if
he persisted in ignoring the League, that bat would find its way somehow--by
devious routes, possibly--to the headmaster or some one else in authority. =
And
then there would be questions--awkward questions--and things would begin to
come out. Then a fresh point struck him, which was, that whatever might hap=
pen
would affect, not himself, but O'Hara. This made it rather more of a problem
how to act. Personally, he was one of those dogged characters who can put up
with almost anything themselves. If this had been his affair, he would have
gone on his way without hesitating. Evidently the writer of the letter was
under the impression that he had been the hero (or villain) of the statue
escapade.
If
everything came out it did not require any great effort of prophecy to pred=
ict
what the result would be. O'Hara would go. Promptly. He would receive his
marching orders within ten minutes of the discovery of what he had done. He
would be expelled twice over, so to speak, once for breaking out at night--=
one
of the most heinous offences in the school code--and once for tarring the
statue. Anything that gave the school a bad name in the town was a crime in=
the
eyes of the powers, and this was such a particularly flagrant case. Yes, th=
ere
was no doubt of that. O'Hara would take the first train home without waitin=
g to
pack up. Trevor knew his people well, and he could imagine their feelings w=
hen
the prodigal strolled into their midst--an old Wrykinian malgre lui. As the
philosopher said of falling off a ladder, it is not the falling that matter=
s:
it is the sudden stopping at the other end. It is not the being expelled th=
at
is so peculiarly objectionable: it is the sudden homecoming. With this gloo=
my
vision before him, Trevor almost wavered. But the thought that the selectio=
n of
the team had nothing whatever to do with his personal feelings strengthened
him. He was simply a machine, devised to select the fifteen best men in the
school to meet Ripton. In his official capacity of football captain he was =
not supposed
to have any feelings. However, he yielded in so far that he went to Clowes =
to
ask his opinion.
Clowes,
having heard everything and seen the letter, unhesitatingly voted for the r=
ight
course. If fifty mad Irishmen were to be expelled, Barry must play against
Ripton. He was the best man, and in he must go.
"That's
what I thought," said Trevor. "It's bad for O'Hara, though."=
Clowes
remarked somewhat tritely that business was business.
"Besides,"
he went on, "you're assuming that the thing this letter hints at will
really come off. I don't think it will. A man would have to be such an awful
blackguard to go as low as that. The least grain of decency in him would st=
op
him. I can imagine a man threatening to do it as a piece of bluff--by the w=
ay,
the letter doesn't actually say anything of the sort, though I suppose it h=
ints
at it--but I can't imagine anybody out of a melodrama doing it."
"You
can never tell," said Trevor. He felt that this was but an outside cha=
nce.
The forbearance of one's antagonist is but a poor thing to trust to at the =
best
of times.
"Are
you going to tell O'Hara?" asked Clowes.
"I
don't see the good. Would you?"
"No.
He can't do anything, and it would only give him a bad time. There are
pleasanter things, I should think, than going on from day to day not knowing
whether you're going to be sacked or not within the next twelve hours. Don't
tell him."
"I
won't. And Barry plays against Ripton."
"Certainly.
He's the best man."
"I'm
going over to Seymour's now," said Trevor, after a pause, "to see=
Milton.
We've drawn Seymour's in the next round of the house-matches. I suppose you
knew. I want to get it over before the Ripton match, for several reasons. A=
bout
half the fifteen are playing on one side or the other, and it'll give them a
good chance of getting fit. Running and passing is all right, but a good, h=
ard
game's the thing for putting you into form. And then I was thinking that, as
the side that loses, whichever it is--"
"Seymour's,
of course."
"Hope
so. Well, they're bound to be a bit sick at losing, so they'll play up all =
the
harder on Saturday to console themselves for losing the cup."
"My
word, what strategy!" said Clowes. "You think of everything. When=
do
you think of playing it, then?"
"Wednesday
struck me as a good day. Don't you think so?"
"It
would do splendidly. It'll be a good match. For all practical purposes, of
course, it's the final. If we beat Seymour's, I don't think the others will
trouble us much."
There
was just time to see Milton before lock-up. Trevor ran across to Seymour's,=
and
went up to his study.
"Come
in," said Milton, in answer to his knock.
Trevor
went in, and stood surprised at the difference in the look of the place sin=
ce
the last time he had visited it. The walls, once covered with photographs, =
were
bare. Milton, seated before the fire, was ruefully contemplating what looked
like a heap of waste cardboard.
Trevor
recognised the symptoms. He had had experience.
"You
don't mean to say they've been at you, too!" he cried.
Milton's
normally cheerful face was thunderous and gloomy.
"Yes.
I was thinking what I'd like to do to the man who ragged it."
"It's
the League again, I suppose?"
Milton
looked surprised.
"Again?"
he said, "where did you hear of the League? This is the first time I've
heard of its existence, whatever it is. What is the confounded thing, and w=
hy
on earth have they played the fool here? What's the meaning of this bally
rot?"
He
exhibited one of the variety of cards of which Trevor had already seen two
specimens. Trevor explained briefly the style and nature of the League, and
mentioned that his study also had been wrecked.
"Your
study? Why, what have they got against you?"
"I
don't know," said Trevor. Nothing was to be gained by speaking of the
letters he had received.
"Did
they cut up your photographs?"
"Every
one."
"I
tell you what it is, Trevor, old chap," said Milton, with great solemn=
ity,
"there's a lunatic in the school. That's what I make of it. A lunatic
whose form of madness is wrecking studies."
"But the same chap couldn't have done yours and mine. It must have been a Donald= son's fellow who did mine, and one of your chaps who did yours and Mill's."<= o:p>
"Mill's?
By Jove, of course. I never thought of that. That was the League, too, I
suppose?"
"Yes.
One of those cards was tied to a chair, but Clowes took it away before anyb=
ody
saw it."
Milton
returned to the details of the disaster.
"Was
there any ink spilt in your room?"
"Pints,"
said Trevor, shortly. The subject was painful.
"So
there was here," said Milton, mournfully. "Gallons."
There
was silence for a while, each pondering over his wrongs.
"Gallons,"
said Milton again. "I was ass enough to keep a large pot full of it he=
re,
and they used it all, every drop. You never saw such a sight."
Trevor
said he had seen one similar spectacle.
"And
my photographs! You remember those photographs I showed you? All ruined. Sl=
it
across with a knife. Some torn in half. I wish I knew who did that."
Trevor
said he wished so, too.
"There
was one of Mrs Patrick Campbell," Milton continued in heartrending ton=
es,
"which was torn into sixteen pieces. I counted them. There they are on=
the
mantelpiece. And there was one of Little Tich" (here he almost broke
down), "which was so covered with ink that for half an hour I couldn't
recognise it. Fact."
Trevor
nodded sympathetically.
"Yes,"
said Milton. "Soaked."
There
was another silence. Trevor felt it would be almost an outrage to discuss so
prosaic a topic as the date of a house-match with one so broken up. Yet time
was flying, and lock-up was drawing near.
"Are
you willing to play--" he began.
"I
feel as if I could never play again," interrupted Milton. "You'd =
hardly
believe the amount of blotting-paper I've used today. It must have been a
lunatic, Dick, old man."
When
Milton called Trevor "Dick", it was a sign that he was moved. Whe=
n he
called him "Dick, old man", it gave evidence of an internal uphea=
val without
parallel.
"Why,
who else but a lunatic would get up in the night to wreck another chap's st=
udy?
All this was done between eleven last night and seven this morning. I turne=
d in
at eleven, and when I came down here again at seven the place was a wreck. =
It
must have been a lunatic."
"How
do you account for the printed card from the League?"
Milton
murmured something about madmen's cunning and diverting suspicion, and rela=
psed
into silence. Trevor seized the opportunity to make the proposal he had com=
e to
make, that Donaldson's v. Seymour's should be played on the following
Wednesday.
Milton
agreed listlessly.
"Just
where you're standing," he said, "I found a photograph of Sir Hen=
ry
Irving so slashed about that I thought at first it was Huntley Wright in San
Toy."
"Start
at two-thirty sharp," said Trevor.
"I
had seventeen of Edna May," continued the stricken Seymourite, monoton=
ously.
"In various attitudes. All destroyed."
"On
the first fifteen ground, of course," said Trevor. "I'll get Aldr=
idge
to referee. That'll suit you, I suppose?"
"All
right. Anything you like. Just by the fireplace I found the remains of Arth=
ur
Roberts in H.M.S. Irresponsible. And part of Seymour Hicks. Under the
table--"
Trevor
departed.
CHAPTER XIV - THE WHITE
FIGURE
"Suppose," said Shoebloss=
om to
Barry, as they were walking over to school on the morning following the day=
on
which Milton's study had passed through the hands of the League, "supp=
ose you
thought somebody had done something, but you weren't quite certain who, but=
you
knew it was some one, what would you do?"
"What
on earth do you mean?" inquired Barry.
"I
was trying to make an A.B. case of it," explained Shoeblossom.
"What's
an A.B. case?"
"I
don't know," admitted Shoeblossom, frankly. "But it comes in a bo=
ok of
Stevenson's. I think it must mean a sort of case where you call everyone A.=
and
B. and don't tell their names."
"Well,
go ahead."
"It's
about Milton's study."
"What!
what about it?"
"Well,
you see, the night it was ragged I was sitting in my study with a dark
lantern--"
"What!"
Shoeblossom
proceeded to relate the moving narrative of his night-walking adventure. He
dwelt movingly on his state of mind when standing behind the door, waiting =
for
Mr Seymour to come in and find him. He related with appropriate force the
hair-raising episode of the weird white figure. And then he came to the
conclusions he had since drawn (in calmer moments) from that apparition's
movements.
"You
see," he said, "I saw it coming out of Milton's study, and that m=
ust
have been about the time the study was ragged. And it went into Rigby's dor=
m.
So it must have been a chap in that dorm, who did it."
Shoeblossom
was quite clever at rare intervals. Even Barry, whose belief in his sanity =
was
of the smallest, was compelled to admit that here, at any rate, he was talk=
ing
sense.
"What
would you do?" asked Shoeblossom.
"Tell
Milton, of course," said Barry.
"But
he'd give me beans for being out of the dorm, after lights-out."
This
was a distinct point to be considered. The attitude of Barry towards Milton=
was
different from that of Shoeblossom. Barry regarded him--through having play=
ed
with him in important matches--as a good sort of fellow who had always beha=
ved
decently to him. Leather-Twigg, on the other hand, looked on him with
undisguised apprehension, as one in authority who would give him lines the
first time he came into contact with him, and cane him if he ever did it ag=
ain.
He had a decided disinclination to see Milton on any pretext whatever.
"Suppose
I tell him?" suggested Barry.
"You'll
keep my name dark?" said Shoeblossom, alarmed.
Barry
said he would make an A.B. case of it.
After
school he went to Milton's study, and found him still brooding over its
departed glories.
"I
say, Milton, can I speak to you for a second?"
"Hullo,
Barry. Come in."
Barry
came in.
"I
had forty-three photographs," began Milton, without preamble. "Al=
l destroyed.
And I've no money to buy any more. I had seventeen of Edna May."
Barry,
feeling that he was expected to say something, said, "By Jove! Really?=
"
"In
various positions," continued Milton. "All ruined."
"Not
really?" said Barry.
"There
was one of Little Tich--"
But
Barry felt unequal to playing the part of chorus any longer. It was all very
thrilling, but, if Milton was going to run through the entire list of his
destroyed photographs, life would be too short for conversation on any other
topic.
"I
say, Milton," he said, "it was about that that I came. I'm
sorry--"
Milton
sat up.
"It
wasn't you who did this, was it?"
"No,
no," said Barry, hastily.
"Oh,
I thought from your saying you were sorry--"
"I
was going to say I thought I could put you on the track of the chap who did=
do
it--"
For
the second time since the interview began Milton sat up.
"Go
on," he said.
"--But
I'm sorry I can't give you the name of the fellow who told me about it.&quo=
t;
"That
doesn't matter," said Milton. "Tell me the name of the fellow who=
did
it. That'll satisfy me."
"I'm
afraid I can't do that, either."
"Have
you any idea what you can do?" asked Milton, satirically.
"I
can tell you something which may put you on the right track."
"That'll
do for a start. Well?"
"Well,
the chap who told me--I'll call him A.; I'm going to make an A.B. case of
it--was coming out of his study at about one o'clock in the morning--"=
"What
the deuce was he doing that for?"
"Because
he wanted to go back to bed," said Barry.
"About
time, too. Well?"
"As
he was going past your study, a white figure emerged--"
"I
should strongly advise you, young Barry," said Milton, gravely, "=
not to
try and rot me in any way. You're a jolly good wing three-quarters, but you
shouldn't presume on it. I'd slay the Old Man himself if he rotted me about
this business."
Barry
was quite pained at this sceptical attitude in one whom he was going out of=
his
way to assist.
"I'm
not rotting," he protested. "This is all quite true."
"Well,
go on. You were saying something about white figures emerging."
"Not
white figures. A white figure," corrected Barry. "It came out of =
your
study--"
"--And
vanished through the wall?"
"It
went into Rigby's dorm.," said Barry, sulkily. It was maddening to hav=
e an
exclusive bit of news treated in this way.
"Did it, by Jove!" said M=
ilton,
interested at last. "Are you sure the chap who told you wasn't pulling
your leg? Who was it told you?"
"I
promised him not to say."
"Out
with it, young Barry."
"I
won't," said Barry.
"You
aren't going to tell me?"
"No."
Milton
gave up the point with much cheerfulness. He liked Barry, and he realised t=
hat
he had no right to try and make him break his promise.
"That's
all right," he said. "Thanks very much, Barry. This may be useful=
."
"I'd
tell you his name if I hadn't promised, you know, Milton."
"It
doesn't matter," said Milton. "It's not important."
"Oh,
there was one thing I forgot. It was a biggish chap the fellow saw."
"How
big! My size?"
"Not
quite so tall, I should think. He said he was about Seymour's size."
"Thanks.
That's worth knowing. Thanks very much, Barry."
When
his visitor had gone, Milton proceeded to unearth one of the printed lists =
of
the house which were used for purposes of roll-call. He meant to find out w=
ho
were in Rigby's dormitory. He put a tick against the names. There were eigh=
teen
of them. The next thing was to find out which of them was about the same he=
ight
as Mr Seymour. It was a somewhat vague description, for the house-master st=
ood
about five feet nine or eight, and a good many of the dormitory were that h=
eight,
or near it. At last, after much brain-work, he reduced the number of
"possibles" to seven. These seven were Rigby himself, Linton,
Rand-Brown, Griffith, Hunt, Kershaw, and Chapple. Rigby might be scratched =
off
the list at once. He was one of Milton's greatest friends. Exeunt also
Griffith, Hunt, and Kershaw. They were mild youths, quite incapable of any =
deed
of devilry. There remained, therefore, Chapple, Linton, and Rand-Brown. Cha=
pple
was a boy who was invariably late for breakfast. The inference was that he =
was
not likely to forego his sleep for the purpose of wrecking studies. Chapple
might disappear from the list. Now there were only Linton and Rand-Brown to=
be
considered. His suspicions fell on Rand-Brown. Linton was the last person, =
he
thought, to do such a low thing. He was a cheerful, rollicking individual, =
who
was popular with everyone and seemed to like everyone. He was not an orderly
member of the house, certainly, and on several occasions Milton had found i=
t necessary
to drop on him heavily for creating disturbances. But he was not the sort t=
hat
bears malice. He took it all in the way of business, and came up smiling af=
ter
it was over. No, everything pointed to Rand-Brown. He and Milton had never =
got
on well together, and quite recently they had quarrelled openly over the
former's play in the Day's match. Rand-Brown must be the man. But Milton was
sensible enough to feel that so far he had no real evidence whatever. He mu=
st
wait.
On
the following afternoon Seymour's turned out to play Donaldson's.
The
game, like most house-matches, was played with the utmost keenness. Both te=
ams
had good three-quarters, and they attacked in turn. Seymour's had the best =
of
it forward, where Milton was playing a great game, but Trevor in the centre=
was
the best outside on the field, and pulled up rush after rush. By half-time
neither side had scored.
After
half-time Seymour's, playing downhill, came away with a rush to the
Donaldsonites' half, and Rand-Brown, with one of the few decent runs he had
made in good class football that term, ran in on the left. Milton took the
kick, but failed, and Seymour's led by three points. For the next twenty
minutes nothing more was scored. Then, when five minutes more of play remai=
ned,
Trevor gave Clowes an easy opening, and Clowes sprinted between the posts. =
The
kick was an easy one, and what sporting reporters term "the major
points" were easily added.
When
there are five more minutes to play in an important house-match, and one si=
de
has scored a goal and the other a try, play is apt to become spirited. Both
teams were doing all they knew. The ball came out to Barry on the right.
Barry's abilities as a three-quarter rested chiefly on the fact that he cou=
ld
dodge well. This eel-like attribute compensated for a certain lack of pace.=
He
was past the Donaldson's three-quarters in an instant, and running for the
line, with only the back to pass, and with Clowes in hot pursuit. Another
wriggle took him past the back, but it also gave Clowes time to catch him u=
p.
Clowes was a far faster runner, and he got to him just as he reached the tw=
enty-five
line. They came down together with a crash, Clowes on top, and as they fell=
the
whistle blew.
"No-side,"
said Mr. Aldridge, the master who was refereeing.
Clowes
got up.
"All
over," he said. "Jolly good game. Hullo, what's up?"
For
Barry seemed to be in trouble.
"You
might give us a hand up," said the latter. "I believe I've twiste=
d my
beastly ankle or something."
CHAPTER XV - A SPRAIN AND=
A
VACANT PLACE
"I say," said Clowes, hel=
ping
him up, "I'm awfully sorry. Did I do it? How did it happen?"
Barry
was engaged in making various attempts at standing on the injured leg. The
process seemed to be painful.
"Shall
I get a stretcher or anything? Can you walk?"
"If
you'd help me over to the house, I could manage all right. What a beastly
nuisance! It wasn't your fault a bit. Only you tackled me when I was just
trying to swerve, and my ankle was all twisted."
Drummond
came up, carrying Barry's blazer and sweater.
"Hullo,
Barry," he said, "what's up? You aren't crocked?"
"Something
gone wrong with my ankle. That my blazer? Thanks. Coming over to the house?
Clowes was just going to help me over."
Clowes
asked a Donaldson's junior, who was lurking near at hand, to fetch his blaz=
er
and carry it over to the house, and then made his way with Drummond and the
disabled Barry to Seymour's. Having arrived at the senior day-room, they
deposited the injured three-quarter in a chair, and sent M'Todd, who came i=
n at
the moment, to fetch the doctor.
Dr
Oakes was a big man with a breezy manner, the sort of doctor who hits you w=
ith
the force of a sledge-hammer in the small ribs, and asks you if you felt
anything then. It was on this principle that he acted with regard to Barry's
ankle. He seized it in both hands and gave it a wrench.
"Did
that hurt?" he inquired anxiously.
Barry
turned white, and replied that it did.
Dr
Oakes nodded wisely.
"Ah!
H'm! Just so. 'Myes. Ah."
"Is
it bad?" asked Drummond, awed by these mystic utterances.
"My
dear boy," replied the doctor, breezily, "it is always bad when o=
ne twists
one's ankle."
"How
long will it do me out of footer?" asked Barry.
"How
long? How long? How long? Why, fortnight. Fortnight," said the doctor.=
"Then
I shan't be able to play next Saturday?"
"Next
Saturday? Next Saturday? My dear boy, if you can put your foot to the groun=
d by
next Saturday, you may take it as evidence that the age of miracles is not
past. Next Saturday, indeed! Ha, ha."
It
was not altogether his fault that he treated the matter with such brutal
levity. It was a long time since he had been at school, and he could not qu=
ite
realise what it meant to Barry not to be able to play against Ripton. As for
Barry, he felt that he had never loathed and detested any one so thoroughly=
as
he loathed and detested Dr Oakes at that moment.
"I
don't see where the joke comes in," said Clowes, when he had gone. &qu=
ot;I
bar that man."
"He's
a beast," said Drummond. "I can't understand why they let a tout =
like
that be the school doctor."
Barry
said nothing. He was too sore for words.
What
Dr Oakes said to his wife that evening was: "Over at the school, my de=
ar,
this afternoon. This afternoon. Boy with a twisted ankle. Nice young fellow.
Very much put out when I told him he could not play football for a fortnigh=
t.
But I chaffed him, and cheered him up in no time. I cheered him up in no ti=
me,
my dear."
"I'm
sure you did, dear," said Mrs Oakes. Which shows how differently the s=
ame
thing may strike different people. Barry certainly did not look as if he ha=
d been
cheered up when Clowes left the study and went over to tell Trevor that he
would have to find a substitute for his right wing three-quarter against
Ripton.
Trevor
had left the field without noticing Barry's accident, and he was tremendous=
ly
pleased at the result of the game.
"Good
man," he said, when Clowes came in, "you saved the match."
"And
lost the Ripton match probably," said Clowes, gloomily.
"What
do you mean?"
"That
last time I brought down Barry I crocked him. He's in his study now with a =
sprained
ankle. I've just come from there. Oakes has seen him, and says he mustn't p=
lay
for a fortnight."
"Great
Scott!" said Trevor, blankly. "What on earth shall we do?"
"Why
not move Strachan up to the wing, and put somebody else back instead of him=
? Strachan
is a good wing."
Trevor
shook his head.
"No.
There's nobody good enough to play back for the first. We mustn't risk
it."
"Then
I suppose it must be Rand-Brown?"
"I
suppose so."
"He
may do better than we think. He played quite a decent game today. That try =
he
got wasn't half a bad one."
"He'd
be all right if he didn't funk. But perhaps he wouldn't funk against Ripton=
. In
a match like that anybody would play up. I'll ask Milton and Allardyce about
it."
"I
shouldn't go to Milton today," said Clowes. "I fancy he'll want a=
night's
rest before he's fit to talk to. He must be a bit sick about this match. I =
know
he expected Seymour's to win."
He
went out, but came back almost immediately.
"I
say," he said, "there's one thing that's just occurred to me. Thi=
s'll
please the League. I mean, this ankle business of Barry's."
The
same idea had struck Trevor. It was certainly a respite. But he regretted it
for all that. What he wanted was to beat Ripton, and Barry's absence would
weaken the team. However, it was good in its way, and cleared the atmosphere
for the time. The League would hardly do anything with regard to the carryi=
ng
out of their threat while Barry was on the sick-list.
Next
day, having given him time to get over the bitterness of defeat in accordan=
ce
with Clowes' thoughtful suggestion, Trevor called on Milton, and asked him =
what
his opinion was on the subject of the inclusion of Rand-Brown in the first
fifteen in place of Barry,
"He's
the next best man," he added, in defence of the proposal.
"I
suppose so," said Milton. "He'd better play, I suppose. There's n=
o one
else."
"Clowes
thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to shove Strachan on the wing, and put
somebody else back."
"Who
is there to put?"
"Jervis?"
"Not
good enough. No, it's better to be weakish on the wing than at back. Beside=
s,
Rand-Brown may do all right. He played well against you."
"Yes,"
said Trevor. "Study looks a bit better now," he added, as he was =
going,
having looked round the room. "Still a bit bare, though."
Milton
sighed. "It will never be what it was."
"Forty-three
theatrical photographs want some replacing, of course," said Trevor.
"But it isn't bad, considering."
"How's
yours?"
"Oh,
mine's all right, except for the absence of photographs."
"I
say, Trevor."
"Yes?"
said Trevor, stopping at the door. Milton's voice had taken on the tone of =
one
who is about to disclose dreadful secrets.
"Would
you like to know what I think?"
"What?"
"Why,
I'm pretty nearly sure who it was that ragged my study?"
"By
Jove! What have you done to him?"
"Nothing
as yet. I'm not quite sure of my man."
"Who
is the man?"
"Rand-Brown."
"By
Jove! Clowes once said he thought Rand-Brown must be the President of the
League. But then, I don't see how you can account for my study being wrecke=
d.
He was out on the field when it was done."
"Why,
the League, of course. You don't suppose he's the only man in it? There mus=
t be
a lot of them."
"But
what makes you think it was Rand-Brown?"
Milton
told him the story of Shoeblossom, as Barry had told it to him. The only
difference was that Trevor listened without any of the scepticism which Mil=
ton
had displayed on hearing it. He was getting excited. It all fitted in so
neatly. If ever there was circumstantial evidence against a man, here it was
against Rand-Brown. Take the two cases. Milton had quarrelled with him.
Milton's study was wrecked "with the compliments of the League".
Trevor had turned him out of the first fifteen. Trevor's study was wrecked
"with the compliments of the League". As Clowes had pointed out, =
the
man with the most obvious motive for not wishing Barry to play for the scho=
ol
was Rand-Brown. It seemed a true bill.
"I
shouldn't wonder if you're right," he said, "but of course one ca=
n't do
anything yet. You want a lot more evidence. Anyhow, we must play him against
Ripton, I suppose. Which is his study? I'll go and tell him now."
"Ten."
Trevor
knocked at the door of study Ten. Rand-Brown was sitting over the fire,
reading. He jumped up when he saw that it was Trevor who had come in, and to
his visitor it seemed that his face wore a guilty look.
"What
do you want?" said Rand-Brown.
It
was not the politest way of welcoming a visitor. It increased Trevor's
suspicions. The man was afraid. A great idea darted into his mind. Why not =
go
straight to the point and have it out with him here and now? He had the
League's letter about the bat in his pocket. He would confront him with it =
and
insist on searching the study there and then. If Rand-Brown were really, as=
he
suspected, the writer of the letter, the bat must be in this room somewhere.
Search it now, and he would have no time to hide it. He pulled out the lett=
er.
"I
believe you wrote that," he said.
Trevor
was always direct.
Rand-Brown
seemed to turn a little pale, but his voice when he replied was quite stead=
y.
"That's
a lie," he said.
"Then, perhaps," said Trevor, "you wouldn't object to proving it."<= o:p>
"How?"
"By
letting me search your study?"
"You
don't believe my word?"
"Why
should I? You don't believe mine."
Rand-Brown
made no comment on this remark.
"Was
that what you came here for?" he asked.
"No,"
said Trevor; "as a matter of fact, I came to tell you to turn out for
running and passing with the first tomorrow afternoon. You're playing again=
st
Ripton on Saturday."
Rand-Brown's
attitude underwent a complete transformation at the news. He became
friendliness itself.
"All
right," he said. "I say, I'm sorry I said what I did about lying.=
I
was rather sick that you should think I wrote that rot you showed me. I hope
you don't mind."
"Not
a bit. Do you mind my searching your study?"
For
a moment Rand-Brown looked vicious. Then he sat down with a laugh.
"Go
on," he said; "I see you don't believe me. Here are the keys if y=
ou want
them."
Trevor
thanked him, and took the keys. He opened every drawer and examined the
writing-desk. The bat was in none of these places. He looked in the cupboar=
ds.
No bat there.
"Like
to take up the carpet?" inquired Rand-Brown.
"No,
thanks."
"Search
me if you like. Shall I turn out my pockets?"
"Yes,
please," said Trevor, to his surprise. He had not expected to be taken
literally.
Rand-Brown
emptied them, but the bat was not there. Trevor turned to go.
"You've
not looked inside the legs of the chairs yet," said Rand-Brown. "=
They
may be hollow. There's no knowing."
"It
doesn't matter, thanks," said Trevor. "Sorry for troubling you. D=
on't
forget tomorrow afternoon."
And
he went, with the very unpleasant feeling that he had been badly scored off=
.
CHAPTER XVI - THE RIPTON
MATCH
It was a curious thing in connectio=
n with
the matches between Ripton and Wrykyn, that Ripton always seemed to be the
bigger team. They always had a gigantic pack of forwards, who looked capabl=
e of
shoving a hole through one of the pyramids. Possibly they looked bigger to =
the Wrykinians
than they really were. Strangers always look big on the football field. When
you have grown accustomed to a person's appearance, he does not look nearly=
so
large. Milton, for instance, never struck anybody at Wrykyn as being
particularly big for a school forward, and yet today he was the heaviest ma=
n on
the field by a quarter of a stone. But, taken in the mass, the Ripton pack =
were
far heavier than their rivals. There was a legend current among the lower f=
orms
at Wrykyn that fellows were allowed to stop on at Ripton till they were
twenty-five, simply to play football. This is scarcely likely to have been
based on fact. Few lower form legends are.
Jevons,
the Ripton captain, through having played opposite Trevor for three seasons=
--he
was the Ripton left centre-three-quarter--had come to be quite an intimate =
of
his. Trevor had gone down with Milton and Allardyce to meet the team at the
station, and conduct them up to the school.
"How
have you been getting on since Christmas?" asked Jevons.
"Pretty
well. We've lost Paget, I suppose you know?"
"That
was the fast man on the wing, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well,
we've lost a man, too."
"Oh,
yes, that red-haired forward. I remember him."
"It
ought to make us pretty even. What's the ground like?"
"Bit
greasy, I should think. We had some rain late last night."
The
ground was a bit greasy. So was the ball. When Milton kicked off up the hill
with what wind there was in his favour, the outsides of both teams found it
difficult to hold the ball. Jevons caught it on his twenty-five line, and
promptly handed it forward. The first scrum was formed in the heart of the
enemy's country.
A
deep, swelling roar from either touch-line greeted the school's advantage. A
feature of a big match was always the shouting. It rarely ceased throughout=
the
whole course of the game, the monotonous but impressive sound of five hundr=
ed
voices all shouting the same word. It was worth hearing. Sometimes the even=
ness
of the noise would change to an excited crescendo as a school three-quarter=
got
off, or the school back pulled up the attack with a fine piece of defence. =
Sometimes
the shouting would give place to clapping when the school was being pressed=
and
somebody had found touch with a long kick. But mostly the man on the ropes
roared steadily and without cessation, and with the full force of his lungs,
the word "Wrykyn!"
The
scrum was a long one. For two minutes the forwards heaved and strained, now=
one
side, now the other, gaining a few inches. The Wrykyn pack were doing all t=
hey
knew to heel, but their opponents' superior weight was telling. Ripton had =
got
the ball, and were keeping it. Their game was to break through with it and
rush. Then suddenly one of their forwards kicked it on, and just at that mo=
ment
the opposition of the Wrykyn pack gave way, and the scrum broke up. The ball
came out on the Wrykyn side, and Allardyce whipped it out to Deacon, who was
playing half with him.
"Ball's
out," cried the Ripton half who was taking the scrum. "Break up. =
It's
out."
And
his colleague on the left darted across to stop Trevor, who had taken Deaco=
n's
pass, and was running through on the right.
Trevor
ran splendidly. He was a three-quarter who took a lot of stopping when he o=
nce
got away. Jevons and the Ripton half met him almost simultaneously, and each
slackened his pace for the fraction of a second, to allow the other to tack=
le.
As they hesitated, Trevor passed them. He had long ago learned that to go h=
ard
when you have once started is the thing that pays.
He
could see that Rand-Brown was racing up for the pass, and, as he reached the
back, he sent the ball to him, waist-high. Then the back got to him, and he
came down with a thud, with a vision, seen from the corner of his eye, of t=
he
ball bounding forward out of the wing three-quarter's hands into touch.
Rand-Brown had bungled the pass in the old familiar way, and lost a certain
try.
The
touch-judge ran up with his flag waving in the air, but the referee had oth=
er
views.
"Knocked
on inside," he said; "scrum here."
"Here"
was, Trevor saw with unspeakable disgust, some three yards from the goal-li=
ne.
Rand-Brown had only had to take the pass, and he must have scored.
The
Ripton forwards were beginning to find their feet better now, and they carr=
ied
the scrum. A truculent-looking warrior in one of those ear-guards which are
tied on by strings underneath the chin, and which add fifty per cent to the
ferocity of a forward's appearance, broke away with the ball at his feet, a=
nd
swept down the field with the rest of the pack at his heels. Trevor arrived=
too
late to pull up the rush, which had gone straight down the right touch-line,
and it was not till Strachan fell on the ball on the Wrykyn twenty-five line
that the danger ceased to threaten.
Even
now the school were in a bad way. The enemy were pressing keenly, and a real
piece of combination among their three-quarters would only too probably end=
in
a try. Fortunately for them, Allardyce and Deacon were a better pair of hal=
ves
than the couple they were marking. Also, the Ripton forwards heeled slowly,=
and
Allardyce had generally got his man safely buried in the mud before he could
pass.
He
was just getting round for the tenth time to bottle his opponent as before,
when he slipped. When the ball came out he was on all fours, and the Ripton
exponent, finding to his great satisfaction that he had not been tackled,
whipped the ball out on the left, where a wing three-quarter hovered.
This
was the man Rand-Brown was supposed to be marking, and once again did Barry=
's
substitute prove of what stuff his tackling powers were made. After his
customary moment of hesitation, he had at the Riptonian's neck. The Riptoni=
an
handed him off in a manner that recalled the palmy days of the old Prize
Ring--handing off was always slightly vigorous in the Ripton v. Wrykyn
match--and dashed over the line in the extreme corner.
There
was anguish on the two touch-lines. Trevor looked savage, but made no comme=
nt.
The team lined up in silence.
It
takes a very good kick to convert a try from the touch-line. Jevons' kick w=
as a
long one, but it fell short. Ripton led by a try to nothing.
A
few more scrums near the halfway line, and a fine attempt at a dropped goal=
by
the Ripton back, and it was half-time, with the score unaltered.
During
the interval there were lemons. An excellent thing is your lemon at half-ti=
me.
It cools the mouth, quenches the thirst, stimulates the desire to be at them
again, and improves the play.
Possibly
the Wrykyn team had been happier in their choice of lemons on this occasion,
for no sooner had the game been restarted than Clowes ran the whole length =
of
the field, dodged through the three-quarters, punted over the back's head, =
and
scored a really brilliant try, of the sort that Paget had been fond of scor=
ing
in the previous term. The man on the touch-line brightened up wonderfully, =
and
began to try and calculate the probable score by the end of the game, on the
assumption that, as a try had been scored in the first two minutes, ten wou=
ld
be scored in the first twenty, and so on.
But
the calculations were based on false premises. After Strachan had failed to
convert, and the game had been resumed with the score at one try all, play
settled down in the centre, and neither side could pierce the other's defen=
ce.
Once Jevons got off for Ripton, but Trevor brought him down safely, and once
Rand-Brown let his man through, as before, but Strachan was there to meet h=
im,
and the effort came to nothing. For Wrykyn, no one did much except tackle. =
The
forwards were beaten by the heavier pack, and seldom let the ball out.
Allardyce intercepted a pass when about ten minutes of play remained, and r=
an
through to the back. But the back, who was a capable man and in his third
season in the team, laid him low scientifically before he could reach the l=
ine.
Altogether
it looked as if the match were going to end in a draw. The Wrykyn defence, =
with
the exception of Rand-Brown, was too good to be penetrated, while the Ripton
forwards, by always getting the ball in the scrums, kept them from attackin=
g.
It was about five minutes from the end of the game when the Ripton right
centre-three-quarter, in trying to punt across to the wing, miskicked and s=
ent
the ball straight into the hands of Trevor's colleague in the centre. Before
his man could get round to him he had slipped through, with Trevor backing =
him up.
The back, as a good back should, seeing two men coming at him, went for the=
man
with the ball. But by the time he had brought him down, the ball was no lon=
ger
where it had originally been. Trevor had got it, and was running in between=
the
posts.
This
time Strachan put on the extra two points without difficulty.
Ripton
played their hardest for the remaining minutes, but without result. The game
ended with Wrykyn a goal ahead--a goal and a try to a try. For the second t=
ime
in one season the Ripton match had ended in a victory--a thing it was very
rarely in the habit of doing.
*
The
senior day-room at Seymour's rejoiced considerably that night. The air was =
dark
with flying cushions, and darker still, occasionally, when the usual humori=
st
turned the gas out. Milton was out, for he had gone to the dinner which
followed the Ripton match, and the man in command of the house in his absen=
ce
was Mill. And the senior day-room had no respect whatever for Mill.
Barry
joined in the revels as well as his ankle would let him, but he was not fee=
ling
happy. The disappointment of being out of the first still weighed on him.
At
about eight, when things were beginning to grow really lively, and the noise
seemed likely to crack the window at any moment, the door was flung open and
Milton stalked in.
"What's
all this row?" he inquired. "Stop it at once."
As
a matter of fact, the row had stopped--directly he came in.
"Is
Barry here?" he asked.
"Yes,"
said that youth.
"Congratulate
you on your first, Barry. We've just had a meeting and given you your colou=
rs.
Trevor told me to tell you."
CHAPTER XVII - THE WATCHE=
RS
IN THE VAULT
For the next three seconds you coul=
d have
heard a cannonball drop. And that was equivalent, in the senior day-room at
Seymour's, to a dead silence. Barry stood in the middle of the room leaning=
on
the stick on which he supported life, now that his ankle had been injured, =
and turned
red and white in regular rotation, as the magnificence of the news came hom=
e to
him.
Then
the small voice of Linton was heard.
"That'll
be six d. I'll trouble you for, young Sammy," said Linton. For he had
betted an even sixpence with Master Samuel Menzies that Barry would get his
first fifteen cap this term, and Barry had got it.
A great shout went up from every corner of the room. Barry was one of the most popular members of the house, and every one had been sorry for him when his sprained ankle had apparently put him out of the running for the last cap.<= o:p>
"Good
old Barry," said Drummond, delightedly. Barry thanked him in a dazed w=
ay.
Every
one crowded in to shake his hand. Barry thanked then all in a dazed way.
And
then the senior day-room, in spite of the fact that Milton had returned, ga=
ve
itself up to celebrating the occasion with one of the most deafening uproars
that had ever been heard even in that factory of noise. A babel of voices
discussed the match of the afternoon, each trying to outshout the other. In=
one
corner Linton was beating wildly on a biscuit-tin with part of a broken cha=
ir.
Shoeblossom was busy in the opposite corner executing an intricate step-dan=
ce
on somebody else's box. M'Todd had got hold of the red-hot poker, and was
burning his initials in huge letters on the seat of a chair. Every one, in =
short,
was enjoying himself, and it was not until an advanced hour that comparative
quiet was restored. It was a great evening for Barry, the best he had ever
experienced.
Clowes
did not learn the news till he saw it on the notice-board, on the following
Monday. When he saw it he whistled softly.
"I
see you've given Barry his first," he said to Trevor, when they met. &=
quot;Rather
sensational."
"Milton
and Allardyce both thought he deserved it. If he'd been playing instead of =
Rand-Brown,
they wouldn't have scored at all probably, and we should have got one more
try."
"That's
all right," said Clowes. "He deserves it right enough, and I'm jo=
lly
glad you've given it him. But things will begin to move now, don't you thin=
k?
The League ought to have a word to say about the business. It'll be a facer=
for
them."
"Do
you remember," asked Trevor, "saying that you thought it must be =
Rand-Brown
who wrote those letters?"
"Yes.
Well?"
"Well,
Milton had an idea that it was Rand-Brown who ragged his study."
"What
made him think that?"
Trevor
related the Shoeblossom incident.
Clowes
became quite excited.
"Then
Rand-Brown must be the man," he said. "Why don't you go and tackle
him? Probably he's got the bat in his study."
"It's
not in his study," said Trevor, "because I looked everywhere for =
it,
and got him to turn out his pockets, too. And yet I'll swear he knows somet=
hing
about it. One thing struck me as a bit suspicious. I went straight into his
study and showed him that last letter--about the bat, you know, and accused=
him
of writing it. Now, if he hadn't been in the business somehow, he wouldn't =
have
understood what was meant by their saying 'the bat you lost'. It might have
been an ordinary cricket-bat for all he knew. But he offered to let me sear=
ch
the study. It didn't strike me as rum till afterwards. Then it seemed fishy.
What do you think?"
Clowes
thought so too, but admitted that he did not see of what use the suspicion =
was
going to be. Whether Rand-Brown knew anything about the affair or not, it w=
as
quite certain that the bat was not with him.
O'Hara,
meanwhile, had decided that the time had come for him to resume his detecti=
ve
duties. Moriarty agreed with him, and they resolved that that night they wo=
uld
patronise the vault instead of the gymnasium, and take a holiday as far as
their boxing was concerned. There was plenty of time before the Aldershot
competition.
Lock-up
was still at six, so at a quarter to that hour they slipped down into the
vault, and took up their position.
A
quarter of an hour passed. The lock-up bell sounded faintly. Moriarty began=
to
grow tired.
"Is
it worth it?" he said, "an' wouldn't they have come before, if th=
ey meant
to come?"
"We'll
give them another quarter of an hour," said O'Hara. "After that--=
"
"Sh!"
whispered Moriarty.
The
door had opened. They could see a figure dimly outlined in the semi-darknes=
s.
Footsteps passed down into the vault, and there came a sound as if the unkn=
own
had cannoned into a chair, followed by a sharp intake of breath, expressive=
of
pain. A scraping sound, and a flash of light, and part of the vault was lit=
by
a candle. O'Hara caught a glimpse of the unknown's face as he rose from
lighting the candle, but it was not enough to enable him to recognise him. =
The
candle was standing on a chair, and the light it gave was too feeble to rea=
ch
the face of any one not on a level with it.
The
unknown began to drag chairs out into the neighbourhood of the light. O'Hara
counted six.
The
sixth chair had scarcely been placed in position when the door opened again.
Six other figures appeared in the opening one after the other, and bolted i=
nto
the vault like rabbits into a burrow. The last of them closed the door after
them.
O'Hara
nudged Moriarty, and Moriarty nudged O'Hara; but neither made a sound. They
were not likely to be seen--the blackness of the vault was too Egyptian for
that--but they were so near to the chairs that the least whisper must have =
been
heard. Not a word had proceeded from the occupants of the chairs so far. If=
O'Hara's
suspicion was correct, and this was really the League holding a meeting, th=
eir
methods were more secret than those of any other secret society in existenc=
e.
Even the Nihilists probably exchanged a few remarks from time to time, when
they met together to plot. But these men of mystery never opened their lips=
. It
puzzled O'Hara.
The
light of the candle was obscured for a moment, and a sound of puffing came =
from
the darkness.
O'Hara
nudged Moriarty again.
"Smoking!"
said the nudge.
Moriarty
nudged O'Hara.
"Smoking
it is!" was the meaning of the movement.
A
strong smell of tobacco showed that the diagnosis had been a true one. Each=
of
the figures in turn lit his pipe at the candle, and sat back, still in sile=
nce.
It could not have been very pleasant, smoking in almost pitch darkness, but=
it
was breaking rules, which was probably the main consideration that swayed t=
he
smokers. They puffed away steadily, till the two Irishmen were wrapped abou=
t in
invisible clouds.
Then
a strange thing happened. I know that I am infringing copyright in making t=
hat
statement, but it so exactly suits the occurrence, that perhaps Mr Rider
Haggard will not object. It was a strange thing that happened.
A
rasping voice shattered the silence.
"You
boys down there," said the voice, "come here immediately. Come he=
re,
I say."
It
was the well-known voice of Mr Robert Dexter, O'Hara and Moriarty's beloved
house-master.
The
two Irishmen simultaneously clutched one another, each afraid that the other
would think--from force of long habit--that the house-master was speaking to
him. Both stood where they were. It was the men of mystery and tobacco that
Dexter was after, they thought.
But
they were wrong. What had brought Dexter to the vault was the fact that he =
had
seen two boys, who looked uncommonly like O'Hara and Moriarty, go down the
steps of the vault at a quarter to six. He had been doing his usual
after-lock-up prowl on the junior gravel, to intercept stragglers, and he h=
ad
been a witness--from a distance of fifty yards, in a very bad light--of the
descent into the vault. He had remained on the gravel ever since, in the ho=
pe
of catching them as they came up; but as they had not come up, he had
determined to make the first move himself. He had not seen the six unknowns=
go
down, for, the evening being chilly, he had paced up and down, and they had=
by
a lucky accident chosen a moment when his back was turned.
"Come
up immediately," he repeated.
Here
a blast of tobacco-smoke rushed at him from the darkness. The candle had be=
en
extinguished at the first alarm, and he had not realised--though he had
suspected it--that smoking had been going on.
A
hurried whispering was in progress among the unknowns. Apparently they saw =
that
the game was up, for they picked their way towards the door.
As
each came up the steps and passed him, Mr Dexter observed "Ha!" a=
nd appeared
to make a note of his name. The last of the six was just leaving him after =
this
process had been completed, when Mr Dexter called him back.
"That
is not all," he said, suspiciously.
"Yes,
sir," said the last of the unknowns.
Neither
of the Irishmen recognised the voice. Its owner was a stranger to them.
"I
tell you it is not," snapped Mr Dexter. "You are concealing the t=
ruth
from me. O'Hara and Moriarty are down there--two boys in my own house. I saw
them go down there."
"They
had nothing to do with us, sir. We saw nothing of them."
"I
have no doubt," said the house-master, "that you imagine that you=
are
doing a very chivalrous thing by trying to hide them, but you will gain not=
hing
by it. You may go."
He
came to the top of the steps, and it seemed as if he intended to plunge into
the darkness in search of the suspects. But, probably realising the futilit=
y of
such a course, he changed his mind, and delivered an ultimatum from the top
step.
"O'Hara
and Moriarty."
No
reply.
"O'Hara
and Moriarty, I know perfectly well that you are down there. Come up
immediately."
Dignified
silence from the vault.
"Well,
I shall wait here till you do choose to come up. You would be well advised =
to
do so immediately. I warn you you will not tire me out."
He
turned, and the door slammed behind him.
"What'll
we do?" whispered Moriarty. It was at last safe to whisper.
"Wait,"
said O'Hara, "I'm thinking."
O'Hara
thought. For many minutes he thought in vain. At last there came flooding b=
ack
into his mind a memory of the days of his faghood. It was after that that he
had been groping all the time. He remembered now. Once in those days there =
had
been an unexpected function in the middle of term. There were needed for th=
at
function certain chairs. He could recall even now his furious disgust when =
he
and a select body of fellow fags had been pounced upon by their form-master,
and coerced into forming a line from the junior block to the cloisters, for=
the
purpose of handing chairs. True, his form-master had stood ginger-beer after
the event, with princely liberality, but the labour was of the sort that
gallons of ginger-beer will not make pleasant. But he ceased to regret the
episode now. He had been at the extreme end of the chair-handling chain. He=
had
stood in a passage in the junior block, just by the door that led to the ma=
sters'
garden, and which--he remembered--was never locked till late at night. And
while he stood there, a pair of hands--apparently without a body--had heave=
d up
chair after chair through a black opening in the floor. In other words, a
trap-door connected with the vault in which he now was.
He
imparted these reminiscences of childhood to Moriarty. They set off to sear=
ch
for the missing door, and, after wanderings and barkings of shins too painf=
ul
to relate, they found it. Moriarty lit a match. The light fell on the
trap-door, and their last doubts were at an end. The thing opened inwards. =
The
bolt was on their side, not in the passage above them. To shoot the bolt to=
ok
them one second, to climb into the passage one minute. They stood at the si=
de
of the opening, and dusted their clothes.
"Bedad!"
said Moriarty, suddenly.
"What?"
"Why,
how are we to shut it?"
This
was a problem that wanted some solving. Eventually they managed it, O'Hara
leaning over and fishing for it, while Moriarty held his legs.
As
luck would have it--and luck had stood by them well all through--there was a
bolt on top of the trap-door, as well as beneath it.
"Supposing
that had been shot!" said O'Hara, as they fastened the door in its pla=
ce.
Moriarty
did not care to suppose anything so unpleasant.
Mr
Dexter was still prowling about on the junior gravel, when the two Irishmen=
ran
round and across the senior gravel to the gymnasium. Here they put in a few
minutes' gentle sparring, and then marched boldly up to Mr Day (who happene=
d to
have looked in five minutes after their arrival) and got their paper.
"What
time did O'Hara and Moriarty arrive at the gymnasium?" asked Mr Dexter=
of
Mr Day next morning.
"O'Hara
and Moriarty? Really, I can't remember. I know they left at about a quarter=
to
seven."
That
profound thinker, Mr Tony Weller, was never so correct as in his views
respecting the value of an alibi. There are few better things in an emergen=
cy.
CHAPTER XVIII - O'HARA EX=
CELS
HIMSELF
It was Renford's turn next morning =
to get
up and feed the ferrets. Harvey had done it the day before.
Renford
was not a youth who enjoyed early rising, but in the cause of the ferrets he
would have endured anything, so at six punctually he slid out of bed, dress=
ed
quietly, so as not to disturb the rest of the dormitory, and ran over to the
vault. To his utter amazement he found it locked. Such a thing had never be=
en done
before in the whole course of his experience. He tugged at the handle, but =
not
an inch or a fraction of an inch would the door yield. The policy of the Op=
en
Door had ceased to find favour in the eyes of the authorities.
A
feeling of blank despair seized upon him. He thought of the dismay of the
ferrets when they woke up and realised that there was no chance of breakfast
for them. And then they would gradually waste away, and some day somebody w=
ould
go down to the vault to fetch chairs, and would come upon two mouldering
skeletons, and wonder what they had once been. He almost wept at the vision=
so
conjured up.
There
was nobody about. Perhaps he might break in somehow. But then there was not=
hing
to get to work with. He could not kick the door down. No, he must give it u=
p,
and the ferrets' breakfast-hour must be postponed. Possibly Harvey might be
able to think of something.
"Fed
'em?" inquired Harvey, when they met at breakfast.
"No,
I couldn't."
"Why
on earth not? You didn't oversleep yourself?"
Renford
poured his tale into his friend's shocked ears.
"My
hat!" said Harvey, when he had finished, "what on earth are we to=
do?
They'll starve."
Renford
nodded mournfully.
"Whatever
made them go and lock the door?" he said.
He
seemed to think the authorities should have given him due notice of such an
action.
"You're
sure they have locked it? It isn't only stuck or something?"
"I
lugged at the handle for hours. But you can go and see for yourself if you
like."
Harvey
went, and, waiting till the coast was clear, attached himself to the handle
with a prehensile grasp, and put his back into one strenuous tug. It was ev=
en
as Renford had said. The door was locked beyond possibility of doubt.
Renford
and he went over to school that morning with long faces and a general air of
acute depression. It was perhaps fortunate for their purpose that they did,=
for
had their appearance been normal it might not have attracted O'Hara's
attention. As it was, the Irishman, meeting them on the junior gravel, stop=
ped
and asked them what was wrong. Since the adventure in the vault, he had fel=
t an
interest in Renford and Harvey.
The
two told their story in alternate sentences like the Strophe and Antistroph=
e of
a Greek chorus. ("Steichomuthics," your Greek scholar calls it, I
fancy. Ha, yes! Just so.)
"So
ye can't get in because they've locked the door, an' ye don't know what to =
do
about it?" said O'Hara, at the conclusion of the narrative.
Renford
and Harvey informed him in chorus that that was the state of the game up to=
present
date.
"An'
ye want me to get them out for you?"
Neither
had dared to hope that he would go so far as this. What they had looked for=
had
been at the most a few thoughtful words of advice. That such a
master-strategist as O'Hara should take up their cause was an unexampled pi=
ece
of good luck.
"If
you only would," said Harvey.
"We
should be most awfully obliged," said Renford.
"Very
well," said O'Hara.
They
thanked him profusely.
O'Hara
replied that it would be a privilege.
He
should be sorry, he said, to have anything happen to the ferrets.
Renford
and Harvey went on into school feeling more cheerful. If the ferrets could =
be
extracted from their present tight corner, O'Hara was the man to do it.
O'Hara
had not made his offer of assistance in any spirit of doubt. He was certain
that he could do what he had promised. For it had not escaped his memory th=
at
this was a Tuesday--in other words, a mathematics morning up to the quarter=
to
eleven interval. That meant, as has been explained previously, that, while =
the
rest of the school were in the form-rooms, he would be out in the passage, =
if
he cared to be. There would be no witnesses to what he was going to do.
But,
by that curious perversity of fate which is so often noticeable, Mr Banks w=
as
in a peculiarly lamb-like and long-suffering mood this morning. Actions for
which O'Hara would on other days have been expelled from the room without h=
ope
of return, today were greeted with a mild "Don't do that, please,
O'Hara," or even the ridiculously inadequate "O'Hara!" It was
perfectly disheartening. O'Hara began to ask himself bitterly what was the =
use
of ragging at all if this was how it was received. And the moments were fly=
ing,
and his promise to Renford and Harvey still remained unfulfilled.
He
prepared for fresh efforts.
So
desperate was he, that he even resorted to crude methods like the throwing =
of
paper balls and the dropping of books. And when your really scientific ragg=
er
sinks to this, he is nearing the end of his tether. O'Hara hated to be rude,
but there seemed no help for it.
The
striking of a quarter past ten improved his chances. It had been privily ag=
reed
upon beforehand amongst the members of the class that at a quarter past ten
every one was to sneeze simultaneously. The noise startled Mr Banks
considerably. The angelic mood began to wear off. A man may be long-sufferi=
ng,
but he likes to draw the line somewhere.
"Another
exhibition like that," he said, sharply, "and the class stays in
after school, O'Hara!"
"Sir?"
"Silence."
"I
said nothing, sir, really."
"Boy,
you made a cat-like noise with your mouth."
"What
sort of noise, sir?"
The
form waited breathlessly. This peculiarly insidious question had been inven=
ted
for mathematical use by one Sandys, who had left at the end of the previous
summer. It was but rarely that the master increased the gaiety of nations by
answering the question in the manner desired.
Mr
Banks, off his guard, fell into the trap.
"A
noise like this," he said curtly, and to the delighted audience came t=
he
melodious sound of a "Mi-aou", which put O'Hara's effort complete=
ly in
the shade, and would have challenged comparison with the war-cry of the
stoutest mouser that ever trod a tile.
A
storm of imitations arose from all parts of the room. Mr Banks turned pink,=
and,
going straight to the root of the disturbance, forthwith evicted O'Hara.
O'Hara
left with the satisfying feeling that his duty had been done.
Mr
Banks' room was at the top of the middle block. He ran softly down the stai=
rs
at his best pace. It was not likely that the master would come out into the
passage to see if he was still there, but it might happen, and it would be =
best
to run as few risks as possible.
He
sprinted over to the junior block, raised the trap-door, and jumped down. He
knew where the ferrets had been placed, and had no difficulty in finding th=
em.
In another minute he was in the passage again, with the trap-door bolted be=
hind
him.
He
now asked himself--what should he do with them? He must find a safe place, =
or
his labours would have been in vain.
Behind
the fives-court, he thought, would be the spot. Nobody ever went there. It
meant a run of three hundred yards there and the same distance back, and th=
ere
was more than a chance that he might be seen by one of the Powers. In which=
case
he might find it rather hard to explain what he was doing in the middle of =
the
grounds with a couple of ferrets in his possession when the hands of the cl=
ock
pointed to twenty minutes to eleven.
But
the odds were against his being seen. He risked it.
When
the bell rang for the quarter to eleven interval the ferrets were in their =
new
home, happily discussing a piece of meat--Renford's contribution, held over
from the morning's meal,--and O'Hara, looking as if he had never left the
passage for an instant, was making his way through the departing mathematic=
al
class to apologise handsomely to Mr Banks--as was his invariable custom--for
his disgraceful behaviour during the morning's lesson.
CHAPTER XIX - THE MAYOR'S
VISIT
School prefects at Wrykyn did weekly
essays for the headmaster. Those who had got their scholarships at the
'Varsity, or who were going up in the following year, used to take their es=
says
to him after school and read them to him--an unpopular and nerve-destroying
practice, akin to suicide. Trevor had got his scholarship in the previous
November. He was due at the headmaster's private house at six o'clock on the
present Tuesday. He was looking forward to the ordeal not without apprehens=
ion.
The essay subject this week had been "One man's meat is another man's =
poison",
and Clowes, whose idea of English Essay was that it should be a medium for
intempestive frivolity, had insisted on his beginning with, "While I
cannot conscientiously go so far as to say that one man's meat is another m=
an's
poison, yet I am certainly of opinion that what is highly beneficial to one=
man
may, on the other hand, to another man, differently constituted, be extreme=
ly
deleterious, and, indeed, absolutely fatal."
Trevor
was not at all sure how the headmaster would take it. But Clowes had seemed=
so
cut up at his suggestion that it had better be omitted, that he had allowed=
it
to stand.
He
was putting the final polish on this gem of English literature at half-past
five, when Milton came in.
"Busy?"
said Milton.
Trevor
said he would be through in a minute.
Milton
took a chair, and waited.
Trevor
scratched out two words and substituted two others, made a couple of
picturesque blots, and, laying down his pen, announced that he had finished=
.
"What's
up?" he said.
"It's
about the League," said Milton.
"Found
out anything?"
"Not
anything much. But I've been making inquiries. You remember I asked you to =
let
me look at those letters of yours?"
Trevor
nodded. This had happened on the Sunday of that week.
"Well,
I wanted to look at the post-marks."
"By
Jove, I never thought of that."
Milton
continued with the business-like air of the detective who explains in the l=
ast
chapter of the book how he did it.
"I
found, as I thought, that both letters came from the same place."
Trevor
pulled out the letters in question.
"So they do," he said, "Chesterton."
"Do
you know Chesterton?" asked Milton.
"Only
by name."
"It's
a small hamlet about two miles from here across the downs. There's only one
shop in the place, which acts as post-office and tobacconist and everything
else. I thought that if I went there and asked about those letters, they mi=
ght
remember who it was that sent them, if I showed them a photograph."
"By
Jove," said Trevor, "of course! Did you? What happened?"
"I
went there yesterday afternoon. I took about half-a-dozen photographs of
various chaps, including Rand-Brown."
"But
wait a bit. If Chesterton's two miles off, Rand-Brown couldn't have sent the
letters. He wouldn't have the time after school. He was on the grounds both=
the
afternoons before I got the letters."
"I
know," said Milton; "I didn't think of that at the time."
"Well?"
"One
of the points about the Chesterton post-office is that there's no letter-box
outside. You have to go into the shop and hand anything you want to post ac=
ross
the counter. I thought this was a tremendous score for me. I thought they w=
ould
be bound to remember who handed in the letters. There can't be many at a pl=
ace
like that."
"Did
they remember?"
"They
remembered the letters being given in distinctly, but as for knowing anythi=
ng
beyond that, they were simply futile. There was an old woman in the shop, a=
ged
about three hundred and ten, I should think. I shouldn't say she had ever b=
een
very intelligent, but now she simply gibbered. I started off by laying out a
shilling on some poisonous-looking sweets. I gave the lot to a village kid =
when
I got out. I hope they didn't kill him. Then, having scattered ground-bait =
in
that way, I lugged out the photographs, mentioned the letters and the date =
they
had been sent, and asked her to weigh in and identify the sender."
"Did
she?"
"My
dear chap, she identified them all, one after the other. The first was one =
of
Clowes. She was prepared to swear on oath that that was the chap who had se=
nt
the letters. Then I shot a photograph of you across the counter, and doubts
began to creep in. She said she was certain it was one of those two 'la-ads=
',
but couldn't quite say which. To keep her amused I fired in photograph numb=
er
three--Allardyce's. She identified that, too. At the end of ten minutes she=
was
pretty sure that it was one of the six--the other three were Paget, Clephan=
e,
and Rand-Brown--but she was not going to bind herself down to any particular
one. As I had come to the end of my stock of photographs, and was getting a=
bit
sick of the game, I got up to go, when in came another ornament of Chestert=
on
from a room at the back of the shop. He was quite a kid, not more than a
hundred and fifty at the outside, so, as a last chance, I tackled him on the
subject. He looked at the photographs for about half an hour, mumbling
something about it not being 'thiccy 'un' or 'that 'un', or 'that 'ere toth=
er
'un', until I began to feel I'd had enough of it. Then it came out that the
real chap who had sent the letters was a 'la-ad' with light hair, not so bi=
g as
me--"
"That
doesn't help us much," said Trevor.
"--And
a 'prarper little gennlemun'. So all we've got to do is to look for some yo=
ung
duke of polished manners and exterior, with a thatch of light hair."
"There
are three hundred and sixty-seven fellows with light hair in the school,&qu=
ot;
said Trevor, calmly.
"Thought
it was three hundred and sixty-eight myself," said Milton, "but I=
may
be wrong. Anyhow, there you have the results of my investigations. If you c=
an
make anything out of them, you're welcome to it. Good-bye."
"Half
a second," said Trevor, as he got up; "had the fellow a cap of any
sort?"
"No.
Bareheaded. You wouldn't expect him to give himself away by wearing a
house-cap?"
Trevor
went over to the headmaster's revolving this discovery in his mind. It was =
not
much of a clue, but the smallest clue is better than nothing. To find out t=
hat
the sender of the League letters had fair hair narrowed the search down a
little. It cleared the more raven-locked members of the school, at any rate.
Besides, by combining his information with Milton's, the search might be st=
ill
further narrowed down. He knew that the polite letter-writer must be either=
in
Seymour's or in Donaldson's. The number of fair-haired youths in the two ho=
uses
was not excessive. Indeed, at the moment he could not recall any; which rat=
her
complicated matters.
He
arrived at the headmaster's door, and knocked. He was shown into a room at =
the
side of the hall, near the door. The butler informed him that the headmaster
was engaged at present. Trevor, who knew the butler slightly through having
constantly been to see the headmaster on business via the front door, asked=
who
was there.
"Sir
Eustace Briggs," said the butler, and disappeared in the direction of =
his
lair beyond the green baize partition at the end of the hall.
Trevor
went into the room, which was a sort of spare study, and sat down, wondering
what had brought the mayor of Wrykyn to see the headmaster at this advanced
hour.
A
quarter of an hour later the sound of voices broke in upon his peace. The
headmaster was coming down the hall with the intention of showing his visit=
or
out. The door of Trevor's room was ajar, and he could hear distinctly what =
was
being said. He had no particular desire to play the eavesdropper, but the p=
art
was forced upon him.
Sir
Eustace seemed excited.
"It
is far from being my habit," he was saying, "to make unnecessary =
complaints
respecting the conduct of the lads under your care." (Sir Eustace Brig=
gs
had a distaste for the shorter and more colloquial forms of speech. He would
have perished sooner than have substituted "complain of your boys"
for the majestic formula he had used. He spoke as if he enjoyed choosing his
words. He seemed to pause and think before each word. Unkind people--who we=
re
jealous of his distinguished career--used to say that he did this because he
was afraid of dropping an aitch if he relaxed his vigilance.)
"But,"
continued he, "I am reluctantly forced to the unpleasant conclusion th=
at
the dastardly outrage to which both I and the Press of the town have called
your attention is to be attributed to one of the lads to whom I 'ave--have
(this with a jerk) referred."
"I
will make a thorough inquiry, Sir Eustace," said the bass voice of the
headmaster.
"I
thank you," said the mayor. "It would, under the circumstances, b=
e nothing
more, I think, than what is distinctly advisable. The man Samuel Wapshott, =
of
whose narrative I have recently afforded you a brief synopsis, stated in no=
uncertain
terms that he found at the foot of the statue on which the dastardly outrage
was perpetrated a diminutive ornament, in shape like the bats that are used=
in
the game of cricket. This ornament, he avers (with what truth I know not), =
was handed
by him to a youth of an age coeval with that of the lads in the upper divis=
ion
of this school. The youth claimed it as his property, I was given to
understand."
"A
thorough inquiry shall be made, Sir Eustace."
"I
thank you."
And
then the door shut, and the conversation ceased.
CHAPTER XX - THE FINDING =
OF
THE BAT
Trevor waited till the headmaster h=
ad
gone back to his library, gave him five minutes to settle down, and then we=
nt
in.
The
headmaster looked up inquiringly.
"My
essay, sir," said Trevor.
"Ah,
yes. I had forgotten."
Trevor
opened the notebook and began to read what he had written. He finished the
paragraph which owed its insertion to Clowes, and raced hurriedly on to the
next. To his surprise the flippancy passed unnoticed, at any rate, verbally=
. As
a rule the headmaster preferred that quotations from back numbers of Punch
should be kept out of the prefects' English Essays. And he generally said as
much. But today he seemed strangely preoccupied. A split infinitive in
paragraph five, which at other times would have made him sit up in his chair
stiff with horror, elicited no remark. The same immunity was accorded to th=
e insertion
(inspired by Clowes, as usual) of a popular catch phrase in the last few li=
nes.
Trevor finished with the feeling that luck had favoured him nobly.
"Yes,"
said the headmaster, seemingly roused by the silence following on the
conclusion of the essay. "Yes." Then, after a long pause,
"Yes," again.
Trevor
said nothing, but waited for further comment.
"Yes,"
said the headmaster once more, "I think that is a very fair essay. Very
fair. It wants a little more--er--not quite so much--um--yes."
Trevor
made a note in his mind to effect these improvements in future essays, and =
was
getting up, when the headmaster stopped him.
"Don't
go, Trevor. I wish to speak to you."
Trevor's
first thought was, perhaps naturally, that the bat was going to be brought =
into
discussion. He was wondering helplessly how he was going to keep O'Hara and=
his
midnight exploit out of the conversation, when the headmaster resumed. &quo=
t;An
unpleasant thing has happened, Trevor--"
"Now
we're coming to it," thought Trevor.
"It
appears, Trevor, that a considerable amount of smoking has been going on in=
the
school."
Trevor
breathed freely once more. It was only going to be a mere conventional smok=
ing
row after all. He listened with more enjoyment as the headmaster, having
stopped to turn down the wick of the reading-lamp which stood on the table =
at
his side, and which had begun, appropriately enough, to smoke, resumed his
discourse.
"Mr
Dexter--"
Of
course, thought Trevor. If there ever was a row in the school, Dexter was b=
ound
to be at the bottom of it.
"Mr
Dexter has just been in to see me. He reported six boys. He discovered them=
in
the vault beneath the junior block. Two of them were boys in your house.&qu=
ot;
Trevor
murmured something wordless, to show that the story interested him.
"You
knew nothing of this, of course--"
"No,
sir."
"No.
Of course not. It is difficult for the head of a house to know all that goe=
s on
in that house."
Was
this his beastly sarcasm? Trevor asked himself. But he came to the conclusi=
on
that it was not. After all, the head of a house is only human. He cannot be
expected to keep an eye on the private life of every member of his house.
"This
must be stopped, Trevor. There is no saying how widespread the practice has
become or may become. What I want you to do is to go straight back to your
house and begin a complete search of the studies."
"Tonight,
sir?" It seemed too late for such amusement.
"Tonight.
But before you go to your house, call at Mr Seymour's, and tell Milton I sh=
ould
like to see him. And, Trevor."
"Yes,
sir?"
"You
will understand that I am leaving this matter to you to be dealt with by yo=
u. I
shall not require you to make any report to me. But if you should find toba=
cco
in any boy's room, you must punish him well, Trevor. Punish him well."=
This
meant that the culprit must be "touched up" before the house asse=
mbled
in the dining-room. Such an event did not often occur. The last occasion had
been in Paget's first term as head of Donaldson's, when two of the senior
day-room had been discovered attempting to revive the ancient and dishonour=
able
custom of bullying. This time, Trevor foresaw, would set up a record in all
probability. There might be any number of devotees of the weed, and he mean=
t to
carry out his instructions to the full, and make the criminals more unhappy
than they had been since the day of their first cigar. Trevor hated the hab=
it
of smoking at school. He was so intensely keen on the success of the house =
and
the school at games, that anything which tended to damage the wind and eye
filled him with loathing. That anybody should dare to smoke in a house which
was going to play in the final for the House Football Cup made him rage
internally, and he proposed to make things bad and unrestful for such.
To
smoke at school is to insult the divine weed. When you are obliged to smoke=
in
odd corners, fearing every moment that you will be discovered, the whole
meaning, poetry, romance of a pipe vanishes, and you become like those lost
beings who smoke when they are running to catch trains. The boy who smokes =
at
school is bound to come to a bad end. He will degenerate gradually into a
person that plays dominoes in the smoking-rooms of A.B.C. shops with friends
who wear bowler hats and frock coats.
Much
of this philosophy Trevor expounded to Clowes in energetic language when he
returned to Donaldson's after calling at Seymour's to deliver the message f=
or
Milton.
Clowes
became quite animated at the prospect of a real row.
"We
shall be able to see the skeletons in their cupboards," he observed.
"Every man has a skeleton in his cupboard, which follows him about
wherever he goes. Which study shall we go to first?"
"We?"
said Trevor.
"We,"
repeated Clowes firmly. "I am not going to be left out of this jaunt. I
need bracing up--I'm not strong, you know--and this is just the thing to do=
it.
Besides, you'll want a bodyguard of some sort, in case the infuriated occup=
ant
turns and rends you."
"I
don't see what there is to enjoy in the business," said Trevor, gloomi=
ly.
"Personally, I bar this kind of thing. By the time we've finished, the=
re
won't be a chap in the house I'm on speaking terms with."
"Except
me, dearest," said Clowes. "I will never desert you. It's of no u=
se
asking me, for I will never do it. Mr Micawber has his faults, but I will n=
ever
desert Mr Micawber."
"You
can come if you like," said Trevor; "we'll take the studies in or=
der.
I suppose we needn't look up the prefects?"
"A
prefect is above suspicion. Scratch the prefects."
"That
brings us to Dixon."
Dixon
was a stout youth with spectacles, who was popularly supposed to do twenty-=
two
hours' work a day. It was believed that he put in two hours sleep from elev=
en to
one, and then got up and worked in his study till breakfast.
He
was working when Clowes and Trevor came in. He dived head foremost into a h=
uge
Liddell and Scott as the door opened. On hearing Trevor's voice he slowly
emerged, and a pair of round and spectacled eyes gazed blankly at the visit=
ors.
Trevor briefly explained his errand, but the interview lost in solemnity ow=
ing
to the fact that the bare notion of Dixon storing tobacco in his room made
Clowes roar with laughter. Also, Dixon stolidly refused to understand what
Trevor was talking about, and at the end of ten minutes, finding it hopeles=
s to
try and explain, the two went. Dixon, with a hazy impression that he had be=
en
asked to join in some sort of round game, and had refused the offer, return=
ed
again to his Liddell and Scott, and continued to wrestle with the somewhat =
obscure
utterances of the chorus in AEschylus' Agamemnon. The results of this fiasc=
o on
Trevor and Clowes were widely different. Trevor it depressed horribly. It m=
ade
him feel savage. Clowes, on the other hand, regarded the whole affair in a
spirit of rollicking farce, and refused to see that this was a serious matt=
er,
in which the honour of the house was involved.
The
next study was Ruthven's. This fact somewhat toned down the exuberances of
Clowes's demeanour. When one particularly dislikes a person, one has a curi=
ous
objection to seeming in good spirits in his presence. One feels that he may
take it as a sort of compliment to himself, or, at any rate, contribute gri=
ns
of his own, which would be hateful. Clowes was as grave as Trevor when they
entered the study.
Ruthven's
study was like himself, overdressed and rather futile. It ran to little chi=
na
ornaments in a good deal of profusion. It was more like a drawing-room than=
a
school study.
"Sorry
to disturb you, Ruthven," said Trevor.
"Oh,
come in," said Ruthven, in a tired voice. "Please shut the door; =
there
is a draught. Do you want anything?"
"We've
got to have a look round," said Clowes.
"Can't
you see everything there is?"
Ruthven
hated Clowes as much as Clowes hated him.
Trevor
cut into the conversation again.
"It's
like this, Ruthven," he said. "I'm awfully sorry, but the Old Man=
's
just told me to search the studies in case any of the fellows have got
baccy."
Ruthven
jumped up, pale with consternation.
"You
can't. I won't have you disturbing my study."
"This
is rot," said Trevor, shortly, "I've got to. It's no good making =
it
more unpleasant for me than it is."
"But
I've no tobacco. I swear I haven't."
"Then
why mind us searching?" said Clowes affably.
"Come
on, Ruthven," said Trevor, "chuck us over the keys. You might as =
well."
"I
won't."
"Don't
be an ass, man."
"We
have here," observed Clowes, in his sad, solemn way, "a stout and=
serviceable
poker." He stooped, as he spoke, to pick it up.
"Leave
that poker alone," cried Ruthven.
Clowes
straightened himself.
"I'll
swop it for your keys," he said.
"Don't
be a fool."
"Very
well, then. We will now crack our first crib."
Ruthven
sprang forward, but Clowes, handing him off in football fashion with his le=
ft
hand, with his right dashed the poker against the lock of the drawer of the
table by which he stood.
The
lock broke with a sharp crack. It was not built with an eye to such onslaug=
ht.
"Neat
for a first shot," said Clowes, complacently. "Now for the Umusta=
phas
and shag."
But
as he looked into the drawer he uttered a sudden cry of excitement. He drew
something out, and tossed it over to Trevor.
"Catch, Trevor," he said quietly. "Something that'll interest you."<= o:p>
Trevor
caught it neatly in one hand, and stood staring at it as if he had never se=
en
anything like it before. And yet he had--often. For what he had caught was a
little golden bat, about an inch long by an eighth of an inch wide.
CHAPTER XXI - THE LEAGUE =
REVEALED
"What do you think of that?&qu=
ot;
said Clowes.
Trevor
said nothing. He could not quite grasp the situation. It was not only that =
he
had got the idea so firmly into his head that it was Rand-Brown who had sent
the letters and appropriated the bat. Even supposing he had not suspected
Rand-Brown, he would never have dreamed of suspecting Ruthven. They had been
friends. Not very close friends--Trevor's keenness for games and Ruthven's
dislike of them prevented that--but a good deal more than acquaintances. He=
was
so constituted that he could not grasp the frame of mind required for such =
an
action as Ruthven's. It was something absolutely abnormal.
Clowes
was equally surprised, but for a different reason. It was not so much the
enormity of Ruthven's proceedings that took him aback. He believed him, with
that cheerful intolerance which a certain type of mind affects, capable of
anything. What surprised him was the fact that Ruthven had had the ingenuity
and even the daring to conduct a campaign of this description. Cribbing in
examinations he would have thought the limit of his crimes. Something
backboneless and underhand of that kind would not have surprised him in the
least. He would have said that it was just about what he had expected all
along. But that Ruthven should blossom out suddenly as quite an ingenious a=
nd
capable criminal in this way, was a complete surprise.
"Well,
perhaps you'll make a remark?" he said, turning to Ruthven.
Ruthven,
looking very much like a passenger on a Channel steamer who has just discov=
ered
that the motion of the vessel is affecting him unpleasantly, had fallen int=
o a
chair when Clowes handed him off. He sat there with a look on his pasty face
which was not good to see, as silent as Trevor. It seemed that whatever
conversation there was going to be would have to take the form of a soliloq=
uy
from Clowes.
Clowes
took a seat on the corner of the table.
"It
seems to me, Ruthven," he said, "that you'd better say something.=
At
present there's a lot that wants explaining. As this bat has been found lyi=
ng
in your drawer, I suppose we may take it that you're the impolite
letter-writer?"
Ruthven
found his voice at last.
"I'm
not," he cried; "I never wrote a line."
"Now
we're getting at it," said Clowes. "I thought you couldn't have h=
ad
it in you to carry this business through on your own. Apparently you've only
been the sleeping partner in this show, though I suppose it was you who rag=
ged
Trevor's study? Not much sleeping about that. You took over the acting bran=
ch
of the concern for that day only, I expect. Was it you who ragged the
study?"
Ruthven
stared into the fire, but said nothing.
"Must
be polite, you know, Ruthven, and answer when you're spoken to. Was it you =
who
ragged Trevor's study?"
"Yes,"
said Ruthven.
"Thought
so."
"Why,
of course, I met you just outside," said Trevor, speaking for the first
time. "You were the chap who told me what had happened."
Ruthven
said nothing.
"The
ragging of the study seems to have been all the active work he did,"
remarked Clowes.
"No,"
said Trevor, "he posted the letters, whether he wrote them or not. Mil=
ton
was telling me--you remember? I told you. No, I didn't. Milton found out th=
at
the letters were posted by a small, light-haired fellow."
"That's
him," said Clowes, as regardless of grammar as the monks of Rheims,
pointing with the poker at Ruthven's immaculate locks. "Well, you ragg=
ed
the study and posted the letters. That was all your share. Am I right in
thinking Rand-Brown was the other partner?"
Silence
from Ruthven.
"Am
I?" persisted Clowes.
"You
may think what you like. I don't care."
"Now
we're getting rude again," complained Clowes. "Was Rand-Brown in
this?"
"Yes,"
said Ruthven.
"Thought
so. And who else?"
"No
one."
"Try
again."
"I
tell you there was no one else. Can't you believe a word a chap says?"=
"A
word here and there, perhaps," said Clowes, as one making a concession,
"but not many, and this isn't one of them. Have another shot."
Ruthven
relapsed into silence.
"All
right, then," said Clowes, "we'll accept that statement. There's =
just
a chance that it may be true. And that's about all, I think. This isn't my
affair at all, really. It's yours, Trevor. I'm only a spectator and
camp-follower. It's your business. You'll find me in my study." And
putting the poker carefully in its place, Clowes left the room. He went into
his study, and tried to begin some work. But the beauties of the second boo=
k of
Thucydides failed to appeal to him. His mind was elsewhere. He felt too exc=
ited
with what had just happened to translate Greek. He pulled up a chair in fro=
nt
of the fire, and gave himself up to speculating how Trevor was getting on in
the neighbouring study. He was glad he had left him to finish the business.=
If
he had been in Trevor's place, there was nothing he would so greatly have d=
isliked
as to have some one--however familiar a friend--interfering in his wars and
settling them for him. Left to himself, Clowes would probably have ended the
interview by kicking Ruthven into the nearest approach to pulp compatible w=
ith
the laws relating to manslaughter. He had an uneasy suspicion that Trevor w=
ould
let him down far too easily.
The
handle turned. Trevor came in, and pulled up another chair in silence. His =
face
wore a look of disgust. But there were no signs of combat upon him. The toe=
of
his boot was not worn and battered, as Clowes would have liked to have seen=
it.
Evidently he had not chosen to adopt active and physical measures for the
improvement of Ruthven's moral well-being.
"Well?"
said Clowes.
"My
word, what a hound!" breathed Trevor, half to himself.
"My
sentiments to a hair," said Clowes, approvingly. "But what have y=
ou done?"
"I
didn't do anything."
"I
was afraid you wouldn't. Did he give any explanation? What made him go in f=
or
the thing at all? What earthly motive could he have for not wanting Barry to
get his colours, bar the fact that Rand-Brown didn't want him to? And why
should he do what Rand-Brown told him? I never even knew they were pals, be=
fore
today."
"He
told me a good deal," said Trevor. "It's one of the beastliest th=
ings
I ever heard. They neither of them come particularly well out of the busine=
ss,
but Rand-Brown comes worse out of it even than Ruthven. My word, that man w=
ants
killing."
"That'll
keep," said Clowes, nodding. "What's the yarn?"
"Do you remember about a year ago a chap named Patterson getting sacked?"<= o:p>
Clowes
nodded again. He remembered the case well. Patterson had had gambling
transactions with a Wrykyn tradesman, had been found out, and had gone.
"You
remember what a surprise it was to everybody. It wasn't one of those cases
where half the school suspects what's going on. Those cases always come out
sooner or later. But Patterson nobody knew about."
"Yes.
Well?"
"Nobody,"
said Trevor, "except Ruthven, that is. Ruthven got to know somehow. I
believe he was a bit of a pal of Patterson's at the time. Anyhow,--they had=
a
row, and Ruthven went to Dexter--Patterson was in Dexter's--and sneaked. De=
xter
promised to keep his name out of the business, and went straight to the Old=
Man,
and Patterson got turfed out on the spot. Then somehow or other Rand-Brown =
got
to know about it--I believe Ruthven must have told him by accident some tim=
e or
other. After that he simply had to do everything Rand-Brown wanted him to. =
Otherwise
he said that he would tell the chaps about the Patterson affair. That put
Ruthven in a dead funk."
"Of
course," said Clowes; "I should imagine friend Ruthven would have=
got
rather a bad time of it. But what made them think of starting the League? It
was a jolly smart idea. Rand-Brown's, of course?"
"Yes.
I suppose he'd heard about it, and thought something might be made out of i=
t if
it were revived."
"And
were Ruthven and he the only two in it?"
"Ruthven
swears they were, and I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't telling the truth, for
once in his life. You see, everything the League's done so far could have b=
een
done by him and Rand-Brown, without anybody else's help. The only other stu=
dies
that were ragged were Mill's and Milton's--both in Seymour's.
"Yes,"
said Clowes.
There
was a pause. Clowes put another shovelful of coal on the fire.
"What
are you going to do to Ruthven?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?
Hang it, he doesn't deserve to get off like that. He isn't as bad as
Rand-Brown--quite--but he's pretty nearly as finished a little beast as you
could find."
"Finished
is just the word," said Trevor. "He's going at the end of the wee=
k."
"Going?
What! sacked?"
"Yes.
The Old Man's been finding out things about him, apparently, and this smoki=
ng
row has just added the finishing-touch to his discoveries. He's particularly
keen against smoking just now for some reason."
"But
was Ruthven in it?"
"Yes.
Didn't I tell you? He was one of the fellows Dexter caught in the vault. Th=
ere
were two in this house, you remember?"
"Who
was the other?"
"That
man Dashwood. Has the study next to Paget's old one. He's going, too."=
"Scarcely
knew him. What sort of a chap was he?"
"Outsider.
No good to the house in any way. He won't be missed."
"And
what are you going to do about Rand-Brown?"
"Fight
him, of course. What else could I do?"
"But
you're no match for him."
"We'll
see."
"But
you aren't," persisted Clowes. "He can give you a stone easily, a=
nd
he's not a bad boxer either. Moriarty didn't beat him so very cheaply in the
middle-weight this year. You wouldn't have a chance."
Trevor
flared up.
"Heavens,
man," he cried, "do you think I don't know all that myself? But w=
hat
on earth would you have me do? Besides, he may be a good boxer, but he's go=
t no
pluck at all. I might outstay him."
"Hope
so," said Clowes.
But
his tone was not hopeful.
CHAPTER XXII - A DRESS
REHEARSAL
Some people in Trevor's place might=
have
taken the earliest opportunity of confronting Rand-Brown, so as to settle t=
he
matter in hand without delay. Trevor thought of doing this, but finally dec=
ided
to let the matter rest for a day, until he should have found out with some =
accuracy
what chance he stood.
After
four o'clock, therefore, on the next day, having had tea in his study, he w=
ent
across to the baths, in search of O'Hara. He intended that before the eveni=
ng
was over the Irishman should have imparted to him some of his skill with the
hands. He did not know that for a man absolutely unscientific with his fists
there is nothing so fatal as to take a boxing lesson on the eve of battle. A
little knowledge is a dangerous thing. He is apt to lose his
recklessness--which might have stood by him well--in exchange for a little
quite useless science. He is neither one thing nor the other, neither a nat=
ural
fighter nor a skilful boxer.
This
point O'Hara endeavoured to press upon him as soon as he had explained why =
it
was that he wanted coaching on this particular afternoon.
The
Irishman was in the gymnasium, punching the ball, when Trevor found him. He
generally put in a quarter of an hour with the punching-ball every evening,
before Moriarty turned up for the customary six rounds.
"Want
me to teach ye a few tricks?" he said. "What's that for?"
"I've
got a mill coming on soon," explained Trevor, trying to make the state=
ment
as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for a school prefect, who
was also captain of football, head of a house, and in the cricket eleven, t=
o be
engaged for a fight in the near future.
"Mill!"
exclaimed O'Hara. "You! An' why?"
"Never
mind why," said Trevor. "I'll tell you afterwards, perhaps. Shall=
I
put on the gloves now?"
"Wait,"
said O'Hara, "I must do my quarter of an hour with the ball before I b=
egin
teaching other people how to box. Have ye a watch?"
"Yes."
"Then
time me. I'll do four rounds of three minutes each, with a minute's rest in
between. That's more than I'll do at Aldershot, but it'll get me fit.
Ready?"
"Time,"
said Trevor.
He
watched O'Hara assailing the swinging ball with considerable envy. Why, he
wondered, had he not gone in for boxing? Everybody ought to learn to box. It
was bound to come in useful some time or other. Take his own case. He was v=
ery
much afraid--no, afraid was not the right word, for he was not that. He was
very much of opinion that Rand-Brown was going to have a most enjoyable time
when they met. And the final house-match was to be played next Monday. If
events turned out as he could not help feeling they were likely to turn out=
, he
would be too battered to play in that match. Donaldson's would probably win
whether he played or not, but it would be bitter to be laid up on such an o=
ccasion.
On the other hand, he must go through with it. He did not believe in letting
other people take a hand in settling his private quarrels.
But
he wished he had learned to box. If only he could hit that dancing, jumping
ball with a fifth of the skill that O'Hara was displaying, his wiriness and
pluck might see him through. O'Hara finished his fourth round with his leat=
hern
opponent, and sat down, panting.
"Pretty
useful, that," commented Trevor, admiringly.
"Ye
should see Moriarty," gasped O'Hara.
"Now,
will ye tell me why it is you're going to fight, and with whom you're going=
to
fight?"
"Very
well. It's with Rand-Brown."
"Rand-Brown!"
exclaimed O'Hara. "But, me dearr man, he'll ate you."
Trevor
gave a rather annoyed laugh. "I must say I've got a nice, cheery,
comforting lot of friends," he said. "That's just what Clowes has
been trying to explain to me."
"Clowes
is quite right," said O'Hara, seriously. "Has the thing gone too =
far
for ye to back out? Without climbing down, of course," he added.
"Yes,"
said Trevor, "there's no question of my getting out of it. I daresay I
could. In fact, I know I could. But I'm not going to."
"But,
me dearr man, ye haven't an earthly chance. I assure ye ye haven't. I've se=
en
Rand-Brown with the gloves on. That was last term. He's not put them on sin=
ce
Moriarty bate him in the middles, so he may be out of practice. But even th=
en
he'd be a bad man to tackle. He's big an' he's strong, an' if he'd only had=
the
heart in him he'd have been going up to Aldershot instead of Moriarty. That=
's
what he'd be doing. An' you can't box at all. Never even had the gloves
on."
"Never.
I used to scrap when I was a kid, though."
"That's
no use," said O'Hara, decidedly. "But you haven't said what it is
that ye've got against Rand-Brown. What is it?"
"I
don't see why I shouldn't tell you. You're in it as well. In fact, if it ha=
dn't
been for the bat turning up, you'd have been considerably more in it than I
am."
"What!"
cried O'Hara. "Where did you find it? Was it in the grounds? When was =
it
you found it?"
Whereupon
Trevor gave him a very full and exact account of what had happened. He show=
ed
him the two letters from the League, touched on Milton's connection with the
affair, traced the gradual development of his suspicions, and described with
some approach to excitement the scene in Ruthven's study, and the explanati=
ons
that had followed it.
"Now
do you wonder," he concluded, "that I feel as if a few rounds wit=
h Rand-Brown
would do me good."
O'Hara
breathed hard.
"My
word!" he said, "I'd like to see ye kill him."
"But,"
said Trevor, "as you and Clowes have been pointing out to me, if there=
's
going to be a corpse, it'll be me. However, I mean to try. Now perhaps you
wouldn't mind showing me a few tricks."
"Take
my advice," said O'Hara, "and don't try any of that foolery."=
;
"Why,
I thought you were such a believer in science," said Trevor in surpris=
e.
"So
I am, if you've enough of it. But it's the worst thing ye can do to learn a
trick or two just before a fight, if you don't know anything about the game
already. A tough, rushing fighter is ten times as good as a man who's just
begun to learn what he oughtn't to do."
"Well,
what do you advise me to do, then?" asked Trevor, impressed by the
unwonted earnestness with which the Irishman delivered this pugilistic homi=
ly,
which was a paraphrase of the views dinned into the ears of every novice by=
the
school instructor.
"I
must do something."
"The
best thing ye can do," said O'Hara, thinking for a moment, "is to=
put
on the gloves and have a round or two with me. Here's Moriarty at last. We'=
ll
get him to time us."
As
much explanation as was thought good for him having been given to the newco=
mer,
to account for Trevor's newly-acquired taste for things pugilistic, Moriarty
took the watch, with instructions to give them two minutes for the first ro=
und.
"Go
as hard as you can," said O'Hara to Trevor, as they faced one another,
"and hit as hard as you like. It won't be any practice if you don't. I
sha'n't mind being hit. It'll do me good for Aldershot. See?"
Trevor
said he saw.
"Time,"
said Moriarty.
Trevor
went in with a will. He was a little shy at first of putting all his weight
into his blows. It was hard to forget that he felt friendly towards O'Hara.=
But
he speedily awoke to the fact that the Irishman took his boxing very seriou=
sly,
and was quite a different person when he had the gloves on. When he was so
equipped, the man opposite him ceased to be either friend or foe in a priva=
te
way. He was simply an opponent, and every time he hit him was one point. An=
d,
when he entered the ring, his only object in life for the next three minutes
was to score points. Consequently Trevor, sparring lightly and in rather a =
futile
manner at first, was woken up by a stinging flush hit between the eyes. Aft=
er
that he, too, forgot that he liked the man before him, and rushed him in all
directions. There was no doubt as to who would have won if it had been a
competition. Trevor's guard was of the most rudimentary order, and O'Hara g=
ot
through when and how he liked. But though he took a good deal, he also gave=
a
good deal, and O'Hara confessed himself not altogether sorry when Moriarty
called "Time".
"Man,"
he said regretfully, "why ever did ye not take up boxing before? Ye'd =
have
made a splendid middle-weight."
"Well,
have I a chance, do you think?" inquired Trevor.
"Ye
might do it with luck," said O'Hara, very doubtfully. "But,"=
he added,
"I'm afraid ye've not much chance."
And
with this poor encouragement from his trainer and sparring-partner, Trevor =
was
forced to be content.
CHAPTER XXIII - WHAT RENF=
ORD
SAW
The health of Master Harvey of Seym=
our's
was so delicately constituted that it was an absolute necessity that he sho=
uld
consume one or more hot buns during the quarter of an hour's interval which
split up morning school. He was tearing across the junior gravel towards th=
e shop
on the morning following Trevor's sparring practice with O'Hara, when a
melodious treble voice called his name. It was Renford. He stopped, to allow
his friend to come up with him, and then made as if to resume his way to the
shop. But Renford proposed an amendment. "Don't go to the shop," =
he
said, "I want to talk."
"Well,
can't you talk in the shop?"
"Not
what I want to tell you. It's private. Come for a stroll."
Harvey
hesitated. There were few things he enjoyed so much as exclusive items of
school gossip (scandal preferably), but hot new buns were among those few
things. However, he decided on this occasion to feed the mind at the expens=
e of
the body. He accepted Renford's invitation.
"What is it?" he asked, a=
s they
made for the football field. "What's been happening?"
"It's
frightfully exciting," said Renford.
"What's
up?"
"You
mustn't tell any one."
"All
right. Of course not."
"Well,
then, there's been a big fight, and I'm one of the only chaps who know abou=
t it
so far."
"A
fight?" Harvey became excited. "Who between?"
Renford
paused before delivering his news, to emphasise the importance of it.
"It
was between O'Hara and Rand-Brown," he said at length.
"By
Jove!" said Harvey. Then a suspicion crept into his mind.
"Look
here, Renford," he said, "if you're trying to green me--"
"I'm
not, you ass," replied Renford indignantly. "It's perfectly true.=
I
saw it myself."
"By
Jove, did you really? Where was it? When did it come off? Was it a good one?
Who won?"
"It
was the best one I've ever seen."
"Did
O'Hara beat him? I hope he did. O'Hara's a jolly good sort."
"Yes.
They had six rounds. Rand-Brown got knocked out in the middle of the
sixth."
"What,
do you mean really knocked out, or did he just chuck it?"
"No.
He was really knocked out. He was on the floor for quite a time. By Jove, y=
ou
should have seen it. O'Hara was ripping in the sixth round. He was all over
him."
"Tell
us about it," said Harvey, and Renford told.
"I'd
got up early," he said, "to feed the ferrets, and I was just cutt=
ing
over to the fives-courts with their grub, when, just as I got across the se=
nior
gravel, I saw O'Hara and Moriarty standing waiting near the second court.
O'Hara knows all about the ferrets, so I didn't try and cut or anything. I =
went
up and began talking to him. I noticed he didn't look particularly keen on
seeing me at first. I asked him if he was going to play fives. Then he said=
no,
and told me what he'd really come for. He said he and Rand-Brown had had a =
row,
and they'd agreed to have it out that morning in one of the fives-courts. O=
f course,
when I heard that, I was all on to see it, so I said I'd wait, if he didn't
mind. He said he didn't care, so long as I didn't tell everybody, so I said=
I
wouldn't tell anybody except you, so he said all right, then, I could stop =
if I
wanted to. So that was how I saw it. Well, after we'd been waiting a few
minutes, Rand-Brown came in sight, with that beast Merrett in our house, wh=
o'd
come to second him. It was just like one of those duels you read about, you
know. Then O'Hara said that as I was the only one there with a watch--he and
Rand-Brown were in footer clothes, and Merrett and Moriarty hadn't got their
tickers on them--I'd better act as timekeeper. So I said all right, I would,
and we went to the second fives-court. It's the biggest of them, you know. I
stood outside on the bench, looking through the wire netting over the door,=
so
as not to be in the way when they started scrapping. O'Hara and Rand-Brown =
took
off their blazers and sweaters, and chucked them to Moriarty and Merrett, a=
nd
then Moriarty and Merrett went and stood in two corners, and O'Hara and
Rand-Brown walked into the middle and stood up to one another. Rand-Brown w=
as
miles the heaviest--by a stone, I should think--and he was taller and had a
longer reach. But O'Hara looked much fitter. Rand-Brown looked rather flabb=
y.
"I sang out 'Time' through the wire netting, and they started off at once. O'H= ara offered to shake hands, but Rand-Brown wouldn't. So they began without it.<= o:p>
"The
first round was awfully fast. They kept having long rallies all over the pl=
ace.
O'Hara was a jolly sight quicker, and Rand-Brown didn't seem able to guard =
his
hits at all. But he hit frightfully hard himself, great, heavy slogs, and
O'Hara kept getting them in the face. At last he got one bang in the mouth
which knocked him down flat. He was up again in a second, and was starting =
to
rush, when I looked at the watch, and found that I'd given them nearly half=
a
minute too much already. So I shouted 'Time', and made up my mind I'd keep =
more
of an eye on the watch next round. I'd got so jolly excited, watching them,=
that
I'd forgot I was supposed to be keeping time for them. They had only asked =
for
a minute between the rounds, but as I'd given them half a minute too long in
the first round, I chucked in a bit extra in the rest, so that they were bo=
th
pretty fit by the time I started them again.
"The
second round was just like the first, and so was the third. O'Hara kept get=
ting
the worst of it. He was knocked down three or four times more, and once, wh=
en
he'd rushed Rand-Brown against one of the walls, he hit out and missed, and
barked his knuckles jolly badly against the wall. That was in the middle of=
the
third round, and Rand-Brown had it all his own way for the rest of the
round--for about two minutes, that is to say. He hit O'Hara about all over =
the
shop. I was so jolly keen on O'Hara's winning, that I had half a mind to ca=
ll
time early, so as to give him time to recover. But I thought it would be a =
low
thing to do, so I gave them their full three minutes.
"Directly
they began the fourth round, I noticed that things were going to change a b=
it.
O'Hara had given up his rushing game, and was waiting for his man, and when=
he
came at him he'd put in a hot counter, nearly always at the body. After a b=
it
Rand-Brown began to get cautious, and wouldn't rush, so the fourth round was
the quietest there had been. In the last minute they didn't hit each other =
at
all. They simply sparred for openings. It was in the fifth round that O'Hara
began to forge ahead. About half way through he got in a ripper, right in t=
he
wind, which almost doubled Rand-Brown up, and then he started rushing again=
. Rand-Brown
looked awfully bad at the end of the round. Round six was ripping. I never =
saw
two chaps go for each other so. It was one long rally. Then--how it happene=
d I
couldn't see, they were so quick--just as they had been at it a minute and a
half, there was a crack, and the next thing I saw was Rand-Brown on the gro=
und,
looking beastly. He went down absolutely flat; his heels and head touched t=
he
ground at the same time.
"I counted ten out loud in the
professional way like they do at the National Sporting Club, you know, and =
then
said 'O'Hara wins'. I felt an awful swell. After about another half-minute,
Rand-Brown was all right again, and he got up and went back to the house wi=
th
Merrett, and O'Hara and Moriarty went off to Dexter's, and I gave the ferre=
ts
their grub, and cut back to breakfast."
"Rand-Brown
wasn't at breakfast," said Harvey.
"No.
He went to bed. I wonder what'll happen. Think there'll be a row about
it?"
"Shouldn't
think so," said Harvey. "They never do make rows about fights, and
neither of them is a prefect, so I don't see what it matters if they do fig=
ht.
But, I say--"
"What's
up?"
"I
wish," said Harvey, his voice full of acute regret, "that it had =
been
my turn to feed those ferrets."
"I
don't," said Renford cheerfully. "I wouldn't have missed that mil=
l for
something. Hullo, there's the bell. We'd better run."
When
Trevor called at Seymour's that afternoon to see Rand-Brown, with a view to
challenging him to deadly combat, and found that O'Hara had been before him=
, he
ought to have felt relieved. His actual feeling was one of acute annoyance.=
It
seemed to him that O'Hara had exceeded the limits of friendship. It was all
very well for him to take over the Rand-Brown contract, and settle it himse=
lf,
in order to save Trevor from a very bad quarter of an hour, but Trevor was =
one
of those people who object strongly to the interference of other people in
their private business. He sought out O'Hara and complained. Within two min=
utes
O'Hara's golden eloquence had soothed him and made him view the matter in q=
uite
a different light. What O'Hara pointed out was that it was not Trevor's aff=
air
at all, but his own. Who, he asked, had been likely to be damaged most by
Rand-Brown's manoeuvres in connection with the lost bat? Trevor was bound to
admit that O'Hara was that person. Very well, then, said O'Hara, then who h=
ad a
better right to fight Rand-Brown? And Trevor confessed that no one else had=
a
better.
"Then
I suppose," he said, "that I shall have to do nothing about it?&q=
uot;
"That's
it," said O'Hara.
"It'll
be rather beastly meeting the man after this," said Trevor, presently.
"Do you think he might possibly leave at the end of term?"
"He's
leaving at the end of the week," said O'Hara. "He was one of the =
fellows
Dexter caught in the vault that evening. You won't see much more of
Rand-Brown."
"I'll
try and put up with that," said Trevor.
"And
so will I," replied O'Hara. "And I shouldn't think Milton would b=
e so
very grieved."
"No,"
said Trevor. "I tell you what will make him sick, though, and that is =
your
having milled with Rand-Brown. It's a job he'd have liked to have taken on
himself."
Into the story at this point comes =
the
narrative of Charles Mereweather Cook, aged fourteen, a day-boy.
Cook
arrived at the school on the tenth of March, at precisely nine o'clock, in a
state of excitement.
He
said there was a row on in the town.
Cross-examined,
he said there was no end of a row on in the town.
During
morning school he explained further, whispering his tale into the attentive=
ear
of Knight of the School House, who sat next to him.
What
sort of a row, Knight wanted to know.
Cook
deposed that he had been riding on his bicycle past the entrance to the
Recreation Grounds on his way to school, when his eye was attracted by the
movements of a mass of men just inside the gate. They appeared to be fighti=
ng.
Witness did not stop to watch, much as he would have liked to do so. Why no=
t?
Why, because he was late already, and would have had to scorch anyhow, in o=
rder
to get to school in time. And he had been late the day before, and was afra=
id
that old Appleby (the master of the form) would give him beans if he were l=
ate
again. Wherefore he had no notion of what the men were fighting about, but =
he betted
that more would be heard about it. Why? Because, from what he saw of it, it
seemed a jolly big thing. There must have been quite three hundred men
fighting. (Knight, satirically, "Pile it on!") Well, quite a hund=
red,
anyhow. Fifty a side. And fighting like anything. He betted there would be
something about it in the Wrykyn Patriot tomorrow. He shouldn't wonder if
somebody had been killed. What were they scrapping about? How should he kno=
w!
Here
Mr Appleby, who had been trying for the last five minutes to find out where=
the
whispering noise came from, at length traced it to its source, and forthwith
requested Messrs Cook and Knight to do him two hundred lines, adding that, =
if
he heard them talking again, he would put them into the extra lesson. Silen=
ce
reigned from that moment.
Next
day, while the form was wrestling with the moderately exciting account of
Caesar's doings in Gaul, Master Cook produced from his pocket a newspaper
cutting. This, having previously planted a forcible blow in his friend's ri=
bs
with an elbow to attract the latter's attention, he handed to Knight, and in
dumb show requested him to peruse the same. Which Knight, feeling no intere=
st
whatever in Caesar's doings in Gaul, and having, in consequence, a good dea=
l of
time on his hands, proceeded to do. The cutting was headed "Disgraceful
Fracas", and was written in the elegant style that was always so marke=
d a feature
of the Wrykyn Patriot.
"We
are sorry to have to report," it ran, "another of those deplorabl=
e ebullitions
of local Hooliganism, to which it has before now been our painful duty to
refer. Yesterday the Recreation Grounds were made the scene of as brutal an
exhibition of savagery as has ever marred the fair fame of this town. Our
readers will remember how on a previous occasion, when the fine statue of S=
ir
Eustace Briggs was found covered with tar, we attributed the act to the
malevolence of the Radical section of the community. Events have proved tha=
t we
were right. Yesterday a body of youths, belonging to the rival party, was d=
iscovered
in the very act of repeating the offence. A thick coating of tar had already
been administered, when several members of the rival faction appeared. A fr=
ee
fight of a peculiarly violent nature immediately ensued, with the result th=
at,
before the police could interfere, several of the combatants had received
severe bruises. Fortunately the police then arrived on the scene, and with
great difficulty succeeded in putting a stop to the fracas. Several arrests
were made.
"We
have no desire to discourage legitimate party rivalry, but we feel justifie=
d in
strongly protesting against such dastardly tricks as those to which we have
referred. We can assure our opponents that they can gain nothing by such co=
nduct."
There
was a good deal more to the effect that now was the time for all good men to
come to the aid of the party, and that the constituents of Sir Eustace Brig=
gs
must look to it that they failed not in the hour of need, and so on. That w=
as
what the Wrykyn Patriot had to say on the subject.
O'Hara
managed to get hold of a copy of the paper, and showed it to Clowes and Tre=
vor.
"So
now," he said, "it's all right, ye see. They'll never suspect it =
wasn't
the same people that tarred the statue both times. An' ye've got the bat ba=
ck,
so it's all right, ye see."
"The
only thing that'll trouble you now," said Clowes, "will be your c=
onscience."
O'Hara
intimated that he would try and put up with that.
"But
isn't it a stroke of luck," he said, "that they should have gone =
and
tarred Sir Eustace again so soon after Moriarty and I did it?"
Clowes
said gravely that it only showed the force of good example.
"Yes.
They wouldn't have thought of it, if it hadn't been for us," chortled
O'Hara. "I wonder, now, if there's anything else we could do to that
statue!" he added, meditatively.
"My
good lunatic," said Clowes, "don't you think you've done almost e=
nough
for one term?"
"Well,
'myes," replied O'Hara thoughtfully, "perhaps we have, I suppose.=
"
*
The
term wore on. Donaldson's won the final house-match by a matter of twenty-s=
ix
points. It was, as they had expected, one of the easiest games they had had=
to
play in the competition. Bryant's, who were their opponents, were not stron=
g,
and had only managed to get into the final owing to their luck in drawing w=
eak
opponents for the trial heats. The real final, that had decided the ownersh=
ip
of the cup, had been Donaldson's v. Seymour's.
Aldershot
arrived, and the sports. Drummond and O'Hara covered themselves with glory,=
and
brought home silver medals. But Moriarty, to the disappointment of the scho=
ol,
which had counted on his pulling off the middles, met a strenuous gentleman
from St Paul's in the final, and was prematurely outed in the first minute =
of
the third round. To him, therefore, there fell but a medal of bronze.
It
was on the Sunday after the sports that Trevor's connection with the bat
ceased--as far, that is to say, as concerned its unpleasant character (as a
piece of evidence that might be used to his disadvantage). He had gone to
supper with the headmaster, accompanied by Clowes and Milton. The headmaster
nearly always invited a few of the house prefects to Sunday supper during t=
he
term. Sir Eustace Briggs happened to be there. He had withdrawn his
insinuations concerning the part supposedly played by a member of the schoo=
l in
the matter of the tarred statue, and the headmaster had sealed the entente =
cordiale
by asking him to supper.
An
ordinary man might have considered it best to keep off the delicate subject.
Not so Sir Eustace Briggs. He was on to it like glue. He talked of little e=
lse
throughout the whole course of the meal.
"My
suspicions," he boomed, towards the conclusion of the feast, "whi=
ch have,
I am rejoiced to say, proved so entirely void of foundation and significanc=
e,
were aroused in the first instance, as I mentioned before, by the narrative=
of
the man Samuel Wapshott."
Nobody
present showed the slightest desire to learn what the man Samuel Wapshott h=
ad
had to say for himself, but Sir Eustace, undismayed, continued as if the wh=
ole
table were hanging on his words.
"The
man Samuel Wapshott," he said, "distinctly asserted that a small =
gold
ornament, shaped like a bat, was handed by him to a lad of age coeval with
these lads here."
The
headmaster interposed. He had evidently heard more than enough of the man
Samuel Wapshott.
"He
must have been mistaken," he said briefly. "The bat which Trevor =
is wearing
on his watch-chain at this moment is the only one of its kind that I know o=
f.
You have never lost it, Trevor?"
Trevor
thought for a moment. He had never lost it. He replied diplomatically, &quo=
t;It
has been in a drawer nearly all the term, sir," he said.
"A
drawer, hey?" remarked Sir Eustace Briggs. "Ah! A very sensible p=
lace
to keep it in, my boy. You could have no better place, in my opinion."=
And
Trevor agreed with him, with the mental reservation that it rather depended=
on
whom the drawer belonged to.