Highway Pirates; or, The Secret Place at Coverthorne

"Begging your pardon, sir," the fellow continued, "I don't think you're likely to find any rabbits in this copse to-night. They're all gone to bed early, or perhaps old Joey may have frightened them."

For another moment Miles and the man stood looking into each other's faces, and once more the meaning smile passed between them; then the former uncocked his gun, and slung it over his shoulder.

"All right!" he answered.—"Come on, Sylvester; it's time we went back to supper."

There was no hedge to the copse. We stepped out from among the trees and underwood, and had not gone far when the man came running after us.

"Master Miles," he said, "if ever you want to go a-fishing, you can come down to Rockymouth and have the boat, sir; and if you'll give me a call, I'll go with you."

I hardly heard what he said, for glancing into the wood, something caught my eye which immediately riveted my attention. Projecting from behind a clump of bushes were a pair of heavy boots, and as I looked one of them moved, which showed conclusively that they were not empty. I waited till we had got some little distance beyond the copse, and then seized my companion's arm.

"Miles," I whispered, "there's another man hiding in the wood."

"Is there?" he answered carelessly. "Some friend of old Lewis, I suppose."

"Is that the old sailor you were talking about?" I asked. "What's he doing in your wood at this time in the evening? Lying down, too, concealed among the bushes. He must be poaching."

Miles only smiled, and shook his head.

"He's all right. The chap wouldn't harm a stick of our property; in fact, he'd just about murder any one who did."

Though more mystified than ever with this explanation, it was the only one I could get, and we walked on talking of other matters until we came within a field of the house. The darkness had almost fallen by this time, though back across the undulating country I could just see the dark ridge where the tree tops rose above the side of the valley.

"I'm going to fire," said Miles; "it saves the bother of drawing the charge."

The report of the piece rang out, and echoed over the quiet country, and as though in answer to the sound there came out of the distance the sharp bark of a dog. It was evident that the man Lewis was still enjoying his evening stroll in the wood.

"Master Joe's getting out of training, I fancy," muttered Miles, as though speaking to himself. "I say," he added aloud, "you needn't mention anything to mother about our meeting those men in the wood. They aren't up to any harm, but it might make her more nervous; she gets frightened at anything now."

"But what are they doing?" I asked. "Surely they can't be loitering out there for fun?"

Miles laughed.

"It's fun of a sort," he answered. "I'll tell you some day. Now come on in to supper."

It was one of those hot, still nights when it seems impossible to sleep, and tired though I was with my long ramble in the open air, I lay tossing from side to side, now and again dozing off into an uneasy slumber, only to once more suddenly find myself broad awake. At length, feeling very thirsty, I got up and groped my way across to the washstand for a drink of water. A delicious cool breeze had just begun to come in at the window. I went over and leaned out. The sky was gray and wan with the first pale light of dawn, and the country over which I gazed looked ghostly and strange in the twilight. With my arms folded on the sill, I remained for some time drawing in the fresh morning air in deep breaths, and fascinated by the solemn silence which still reigned over the sleeping world, when to my ear came suddenly an unexpected sound—the clatter of a closing gate.

Wondering who could be about at that early hour, I gazed across the neighbouring field, and so doing saw the figures of two men emerge from the deep shadow of the farthest hedge. At a peculiar jog-trot they crossed the open till a slope in the ground once more hid them from my view. The light was not strong enough to allow of my making out anything beyond the outline of their figures, but it seemed to me that each carried on his back something which I thought resembled a soldier's knapsack. It was impossible, I say, for me to recognize their faces, but following close at the heels of the first I distinctly saw a dog, and immediately decided in my own mind that the man must be Lewis, whom I had seen a few hours before hiding in the wood. What the men could be doing, or whither they were going, I had not the faintest idea, but it struck me that they were up to no good, and that their errand was one which they would not have performed in broad daylight. No other person crossed the field, and at length, greatly perplexed, I returned to bed.

I began to think there were other mysteries to be solved at Coverthorne besides the whereabouts of the secret chamber.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SINGING GHOST.

Though I longed to tell Miles of what I had seen in the early morning, yet on second thoughts I decided to let the matter drop. The vague replies which he had given to my questions of the previous evening showed clearly that he was not disposed to give me a true explanation of the fisherman's presence in the wood. I must own that this puzzled me not a little, for, certain as I felt of my comrade's uprightness and honour, it was firmly impressed on my mind that there was something very questionable in old Lewis's conduct; and if this were so, it was difficult to understand why Miles should tolerate underhand doings on what was now practically his own estate. It was, however, after all, no business of mine; and I determined to restrain my curiosity till my friend chose to explain, or a good opportunity occurred for me to broach the subject again, and ask him further questions.

At odd times we continued our search for the secret place, but without any further success than before. Miles became inclined to treat the matter as a joke, but I had some reason to believe that, though our search and the various incidents connected with it were often highly amusing, the loss of the papers, which it was possible had been placed in the hidden chamber, might prove more serious than my school friend fully understood.

What suggested this thought to my mind was part of a conversation which I chanced to overhear under circumstances which were briefly as follows. On about the fourth day of my visit Mr. Denny put in an appearance at the house. I did not know of his arrival, but on going into the parlour for something I found him there with Mrs. Coverthorne, turning out the contents of an old bureau which stood against the wall. I merely entered the room and went out again, but that was long enough for me to see that not only were the table and the window-seat littered with the contents of pigeonholes and drawers, but that all the books had been removed from the shelves above, and were undergoing a careful examination, as though it were thought possible that some paper of importance might be found between their leaves.

At dinner I sat opposite the lawyer. He was a thin, dry little man, with very bright eyes and quick, jerky movements which reminded me of a bird. He spoke kindly to us boys, cracked jokes, and spoke about our school life and our holiday amusements; but in spite of this I could not help thinking that his gaiety was rather forced. Mrs. Coverthorne, too, looked more anxious than usual; and though she also made attempts to be cheerful, I felt sure that the lawyer's business with her had not been of a pleasant or reassuring nature.

Almost directly after the meal was finished Miles started off on an errand to Rockymouth—Mr. Denny, who lived there, having arranged to return later in the afternoon. Left to myself, I climbed into the old mulberry tree, and discovering a most comfortable perch among the branches, read a book until I fell asleep.

As a combined result of the strong sea air and an unusual amount of outdoor exercise, I must have slept pretty soundly; but I was at length aroused by the sound of voices, and looking down through the leafy branches saw Mrs. Coverthorne and the lawyer walking down the garden path towards the gate. They did not see me, and I could not help overhearing what they said, though the only words which reached my ears were those which they spoke as they were passing close to the tree.

"Don't be too downhearted, ma'am," Mr. Denny was saying in his brisk manner; "there's still that one chance I spoke of. We haven't had an opportunity to compare the dates yet, and that's an important matter."

"I cannot bring myself to think it possible that my dear husband could have done such a thing—at least without telling me of his intentions. There must be some great mistake. We mustn't tell Miles, not just yet, for I had so wished to make these holidays specially happy."

A few moments later, as the speaker was returning alone to the house, I saw that she was weeping. A great longing filled my heart to understand her trouble, and to render her and Miles some assistance. It seemed a vain and hopeless wish, for of what use could I, a mere schoolboy and comparative stranger, possibly be to them? Yet the unexpected often happens, and the queer cross-currents on the sea of life bring about unlooked-for meetings with equally strange results.

Two days later a respectable working-man made his appearance at Coverthorne. We heard that he was a master-builder, and that he had come to give some advice about repairs. He went all over the house, even going so far as to climb more than half-way up two of the big chimneys. It was, I say, given out that he was to ascertain whether certain of the walls and parts of the roof needed repair, but I hazarded a shrewd guess that he had been employed by Mr. Denny in a confidential manner to apply his practical knowledge of building and architecture in a further attempt to find the secret chamber. If this were so, the man was not any more successful than we boys had been. Granted that such a hiding-place really existed, it was constructed in some most unlikely place, or concealed in an unusually skilful manner.

Miles and I sought it again more than once; but gradually, when the novelty of the idea had worn off and the quest appeared hopeless, I must confess that I began to lose interest in the matter, and to devote my attention to more attractive amusements.

There was certainly no lack of these at Coverthorne. We shot rabbits, bathed from the beach of the little sheltered cove, and went out to sea and fished for whiting and pollack. In pursuit of this last-named form of sport we usually made use of a boat which belonged to the man Lewis. He seemed very willing for us to have it, often came out with us himself, teaching us how to row and to use the sail, and refusing to accept any money in return.

In addition to the fact of having seen him under circumstances which naturally excited my curiosity, there was something about the man which roused my interest in a special degree. As a boy he had served in the navy, having been present at the battle of the Nile; and how eagerly we listened to accounts of those great fights with the French on sea and land, the memory of which was still fresh in men's minds when I was a lad! The brown dog almost always accompanied its master. It was a very intelligent animal, and however far from home, if given anything and told to carry it back to its master's cottage, it would do so with the greatest certainty and promptitude.

Though past middle age, and round-shouldered like many old sailors, Lewis was wonderfully active, and sprang from one boat to another in the harbour or climbed the rocks with the agility of a cat. It was really this which, by accident, led to my making some further discoveries with regard to the old salt. We had been out for a sail, and Lewis, after taking leave of us, was running along the village street to overtake some friend whom he saw in the distance.

"The old beggar can cover the ground at a good pace still," remarked Miles.

"I saw him from my bedroom window the other night," I remarked unthinkingly, "cutting across your field with something which looked like a soldier's knapsack on his back. He must have a good wind."

"Soldier's knapsack!" blurted out Miles with a laugh. "More like a keg of French brandy, with another on his chest to keep the balance."

"What?" I exclaimed.

Taken off his guard, Miles had gone a bit too far to refuse a further explanation.

"I don't suppose it matters if I tell you," he remarked, with a glance over his shoulder to make sure that no one else was listening. "Old Lewis goes in a bit for what used to be known as the 'free trade,' but what you now hear of as smuggling."

"I thought smugglers were men who owned ships and sailed across from France with tobacco, and lace, and spirits—" I began.

"So they do," interrupted Miles; "but there are smugglers on land as well as on sea. The men who bring the stuff across from France only do part of the work; when it is put ashore it has to be taken inland and sold, and often it has to be hidden away somewhere till the preventive men are off their guard. Bless you, I know all about it, and you would too if you'd lived as long as I have on the coast."

"And was that what he was up to the night we found him in the little wood by the cliffs?" I asked, a light suddenly breaking in on my mind.

"Yes," answered Miles. "I saw at a glance what was afoot. You noticed another man hiding behind a bush. I daresay there were a dozen more of them in the copse."

"But what were they doing there?"

"Well, it would take a long time to explain it all in detail: but to put it in a few words, what happens is something like this. Somebody—probably old Lewis or another man—arranges with the owner of a lugger to bring some brandy from France, the spirit being sent over in little tubs or ankers. It is, of course, all arranged beforehand just when and where the stuff is to be landed, and preparations are made accordingly. Lewis gets a number of men, farm labourers and others, to act as what are termed 'carriers,' and these meet and lie hidden somewhere close to the place on the coast where the run is to take place. The tubs are all fastened to a long rope, so that, as soon as ever the lugger brings to, the end of this rafting line can be conveyed to the beach, and the whole 'crop' dragged on shore. With the same cords by which the tubs are fastened to the ropes they are then tied together in such a way that the carriers can sling them over their shoulders. Each man takes two ankers, and then they scatter, and dash off inland to some meeting-place already agreed upon. In this way, when the men are up to their work, it takes only a few minutes for the lugger to discharge her cargo, while the carriers get clear of the beach and disappear."

I must own to being rather shocked at the careless and even jocular tone in which my companion described a traffic which I had always heard spoken of as a crime.

"But, Miles," I began, "it's against the law!"

"Oh, of course it is!" he answered, laughing; "but who's going to interfere with a few poor men turning a penny now and then? The only result is that people round about get better brandy than they otherwise would have done, and a good bit cheaper. Of course people like us don't have any share in the business, but when we know anything is happening we just look the other way."

The weak points in my comrade's arguments may be patent enough to the present-day reader of this story; but it is due to him to say that in those times, especially along the coast, defrauding the revenue was hardly looked upon as a crime, and in the still earlier times of "free trade" this idea had an even greater hold on the minds of the common people, who were always ready to regard the smuggler as a hero, and the exciseman as a villain. Old ideas die hard in country places, and Miles had listened to the talk of the fisher folk since childhood, and had been accustomed to regard the matter from their point of view.

I had always imagined the smuggler as a picturesque sort of villain, sailing the seas in a saucy craft, with a belt stuck full of knives and pistols, and I must own to something like a feeling of disappointment when brought face to face with the original.

"Don't they ever have fights with the coast-guards?" I asked.

"Not if they can help it," was the reply. "You see if they resisted and wounded the officers it would be a serious thing, and might mean transportation for some of them. There's been a lively chase once or twice. I'm very much afraid, though, that there'll be an ugly row some day if they are caught; for old Lewis and some of his men are determined fellows, and as likely as not would show fight before allowing their kegs to be taken."

The remainder of the way home was beguiled with further tales of the doings of the smugglers.

"Look here," Miles concluded, as we came in sight of the house. "Of course mother doesn't know all this, or I expect she'd object to our going out so much with Lewis. All I do is what I did the other night: if I know the men are on our ground, I look the other way. It's no business of mine to meddle with their doings, and there isn't one of them who would take a single rabbit or forget to shut a gate behind him. If he did, he'd soon hear of it from the others."

The remainder of my stay at Coverthorne passed pleasantly if uneventfully, nothing of any note happening until the last day of my visit, when an incident occurred which I have good reason always to remember.

The day was wet and stormy. Miles was engaged doing something for his mother, and having nothing particular with which to occupy my attention, I strolled from one part of the house to another, and at length found my way to the empty room which I have already described, and which I discovered by this time was spoken of as the west parlour. This morning the curious earthy smell which I had remarked there before seemed stronger than usual; but in spite of this and its bare and neglected appearance, the room struck me as one which would have been pleasant and cosy if properly furnished.

I strolled over to the window-seat, and sat gazing round at the dark oak panelling, wondering vaguely why the place was never used. If occupied in no other way, it surprised me that Miles did not appropriate it for a sort of private den or workshop. I was lolling back, idly poking a straw into a crevice of the woodwork, when suddenly the same strange sound broke on my ear which I had heard before. I sat up to listen. It was like some one humming without any regard to tune. At one time it seemed to come from a distant part of the house, and then it appeared to be actually in the room.

One glance was sufficient to show that the chamber itself was empty. I listened with awakened curiosity, but with no sensation of uneasiness or fear. What could it be?

Rising to my feet I walked across the room, stepped into the open fireplace, and stared up the wide chimney. Some spots of rain fell on my upturned face, but nothing was to be seen except the gray sky overhead. I stepped back into the room, and still the muffled drone continued, rising and falling, and then ceasing altogether.

"It must be the wind in the chimney," I thought, and moved once more into the open hearth; but now the sound seemed in the room, and was certainly not in the stone shaft above my head. I next opened the window and looked out into the walled garden. No noise, however, was to be heard there but the patter of the raindrops on the leaves of the trees. Perplexed and rather astonished, I now crossed the floor, opened the door, and went out into the passage, only to find it empty. Once more, as I stood undecided what to do next, the crooning notes fell on my ear, and I began to think that some one was playing me a trick. It was just as I had arrived at this conclusion that I heard Miles calling me; and a moment later, in obedience to my answering hail, he joined me in the empty room.

"I keep hearing that funny noise," I said, "and I can't make out where it comes from."

He made no reply, but stood at my side listening till the sound came again, this time a long, mournful wail like that of some one in pain. I turned, and was surprised to find that Miles's face was almost bloodless. He slipped his arm within mine, and drew me towards the door.

"What can it be?" I asked.

"No one will ever know for certain," he answered, speaking almost in a whisper. "The room is haunted!"

"Haunted!" I cried, stopping short as I gained the passage. "You don't believe in ghosts?"

"I believe in that one," he answered. "I've heard it too often to have any doubt. That's the reason we never use the room; only mother doesn't like it talked about, because it only frightens the servants. People have tried to make out it was the wind; but though we've blocked up the chimney, and have stopped every crack and hole we could find, it makes no difference to the sound, and no one can tell from what part of the room it comes. Besides, the story is that my great-grandfather died there. When he was an old man he always went about humming to himself, and making just the same sort of noise that has been heard in the room ever since his death. All the people round know about it, and they call it the Singing Ghost of Coverthorne."

"O Miles," I began, "you don't believe such stuff as that?"

"I know you'll think me a coward," he interrupted. "I'm not afraid of most things, but I own frankly I hate to go near that horrid room. Mother had it furnished, and tried to use it one winter; but at the end of a month she got so frightened of the noise that she declared she'd never sit there again."

"I don't mind your ghost," I exclaimed, laughing. "You wait here, and I'll go back and listen to it again."

I entered the room, closed the door behind me, and stood waiting in a corner of the floor. I tried to persuade myself that I was not in the least frightened, but my heart beat faster than usual, and I strained my ears with almost painful intentness to catch the slightest sound. Within the last few moments the place seemed to have grown more cold, damp, and earthy than before; it felt like standing in a vault. Then, whether from the floor, ceiling, or solid oak panelling on the walls, I could not tell, came once more that mysterious sound, as though a person were humming with closed lips. I cast one hasty glance round the room, and made hurriedly for the door. Miles was still waiting in the passage.

"You didn't stay very long," he remarked with a quiet smile.

CHAPTER V.

NICHOLAS COVERTHORNE SHOWS HIS HAND.

In due course the summer holidays came to an end, and Miles and I met again at school. I had not been in his company five minutes before I noticed that his face wore a different look from when I had seen him last at Coverthorne; indeed, he seemed once more as sad and dejected as he had appeared immediately after his father's funeral.

"What's the matter with you? Have you been ill?" I asked; but he only shook his head and gave evasive replies.

The first day of the half was always one of excitement. The reunion of old friends, the appearance of new boys and masters, the changes of classes and dormitories, all aroused our lively interest; but Miles seemed in no mood to join in our fun. He slipped out of the playground as soon as work was finished, and went off for a walk alone.

Thinking that his return to school had in some way recalled the consciousness of his bereavement, I allowed him for a time to go his own way; but when tea was over I determined to find him, and at least offer him some expression of sympathy. After a little search I discovered him standing with his back against a tree moodily chewing a piece of straw.

"There is something the matter with you," I said. "Why won't you tell me? Is it private?" My arm seemed naturally to slip through his as I asked the question, and perhaps the action, simple as it was, gave him a fresh assurance of my friendship, and influenced him to unburden himself of what was on his mind.

"There's no harm in my telling you, Sylvester," he replied. "I know you won't let it go any further. I'm upset by what's happened at home."

"Something that has happened since I stayed with you?" I asked.

"Well, yes," he answered—"that is, it's come to a head since your visit. I daresay while you were with us you noticed that there was something wrong, and that my mother often seemed worried and depressed. It was not till after you'd gone that I found out what was really the matter."

He paused as though expecting me to speak, but I made no interruption.

"As I've already told you, my father made a will about two years ago," continued Miles. "He signed it at Mr. Denny's office, and took it away with him; but now it can't be found. My mother always thought that it was in the secret drawer of the bureau; but it proved to be empty when she went to look. Then, as I've mentioned before, the idea occurred to her and Mr. Denny that it had been put away for safety in the secret place. If that's the case, then goodness knows if either the papers or the hidden chamber will ever be discovered. At least so far all attempts have proved a failure. Mr. Denny even goes so far as to suggest that the so-called hiding-place may be nothing but a small cavity in the wall behind some sliding panel; though he admits that, from a remark he once heard my father make, he had always believed it was a place large enough to conceal a man. If it's only a little hole somewhere in the stonework, we might pull the house down before we found it."

"But see here," I interrupted. "I don't understand anything about lawyers' business; but even if your father's will were lost, I suppose the property will come to you all the same, seeing that you are his only son."

"Wait a moment till I have finished the story," continued my companion. "When I talked to you about this once before, I described how my uncle came to Coverthorne soon after my father's funeral, and spoke to my mother about a secret reconciliation between the brothers, and hinted at a matter of business which he would discuss at some future time, when she should have recovered somewhat from the shock of her loss. My mother was surprised, and thought it very strange, as she had heard no word from her husband to lead her to suppose that he had made up the quarrel with his brother. The matter, I say, puzzled her a good bit, but did not cause her any actual uneasiness till Mr. Denny came one day and told her privately of an extraordinary rumour he had heard in Rockymouth, to the effect that Uncle Nicholas had told some one that my father had made a will leaving him half the property, that being the fair share which he ought to have had after my grandfather's death. This rumour, coupled with what my uncle had already said to her, caused my mother to begin to fear that something was wrong. She wanted to write to Uncle Nicholas right away; but Mr. Denny advised her to say nothing till she heard from him. In the meantime they made further attempts to find the will which my father had signed in the lawyer's office, Mr. Denny knowing the terms of this one, and hoping it would bear a more recent date than any other which my father might have made. You see, if a man makes more than one will it's the last that counts, and the others are worth nothing."

I nodded to show that I understood this explanation.

"About a week or ten days after you left," went on Miles, "one afternoon Uncle Nicholas called, and out came the whole affair. He produced the will of which we had already heard the rumour, and said that my father had executed it at the time that they had made up their quarrel. The terms were exactly what Mr. Denny had already hinted—that if my father died first, half the estate was to go to Nicholas; in case, however, Nicholas did not survive his brother, the whole property would come to my mother and myself. Having read the paper, he once more described how my father had been prompted to take this step out of a sense of justice; and then he added that, after all, it would make very little difference to any of us, since he himself had no children, and I should be his heir. He would only enjoy his share during the rest of his life, which at most would not be many years. From the first my mother was amazed and incensed at this disclosure. Though she saw the signature at the foot of the document, and recognized it as my father's handwriting, yet she could not but regard the whole thing as an unfair and wicked attempt on my uncle's part to rob us of our possessions. My father had been so open in his dealings, and she had always shared his confidence; it seemed, therefore, almost impossible that he should have taken such a step without at least telling her of his intentions. The interview soon became a stormy one. Uncle Nicholas, in a cold, half-ironical manner, said he felt sure that my mother would not oppose her dead husband's wishes; and gave as the reason for our not finding another will that my father had no doubt destroyed the first before making the second. He pooh-poohed the idea of any document being deposited in the hidden chamber, saying that the so-called secret place was merely a hole in one of the chimneys, which had been built up in my grandfather's time to prevent the birds building there and making a mess. My mother, however, would not be convinced, though this fresh will was clearly of a later date than the one for which she had been searching. She would not admit the justice of my uncle's claims, reminding him that he had received his portion from his father in money. She accused him of attempting to deprive his brother's widow and only son of their heritage, and at length refused to discuss the subject any further, directing him to communicate in future with our lawyer, Mr. Denny.

"'Very well,' answered my uncle shortly. 'If you are determined not to listen to reason, I can say no more; but I had much rather have settled the matter amicably between ourselves without creating a public scandal.' His face was black as thunder as he left the house, and I could see at once that all his former pleasant manners had been simply put on for the time being to suit his own purpose. Two days later Mr. Denny called to see us, and he and my mother had a long talk in the dining-room. I wasn't present myself, but I learned afterwards that my uncle had gone straight from us to the lawyer. The latter had seen the will, and was obliged to confess that it seemed genuine and in order, and was dated at least eighteen months after the one executed at his office. I think old Denny was as much surprised at my father's conduct as my mother had been, and he questioned her closely to find out whether anything had ever happened which could in any way have brought my father into Nicholas's power, so that he might have been induced by threats of any kind to make such a disposition of his property. Of course my mother knew nothing of the kind; but in calling to mind everything she could remember, she recollected that a few months back she had seen my father address and send a large sealed envelope to his brother, and as this would have been just about the time when Nicholas asserted that the reconciliation had taken place, it seemed possible that this very letter might have contained the will. The document, I should say, was witnessed by a housekeeper of my uncle's who had since died, and by a sea captain who had often stayed at Stonebank, but whose vessel had foundered in a storm, with all hands. The fact that both of the witnesses were dead seemed suspicious, but there was no flaw in the signatures, and Nicholas had a witness who could prove that my father and Rhodes, the master-mariner, had met at Stonebank on the day the will was signed."

"Then what is going to be done?" I asked.

"What can be done?" returned Miles, with a shrug of his shoulders. "My uncle poses as a model of forbearance, and says he will allow us to remain in possession of the whole estate till the beginning of the New Year, at which date the property will be duly divided."

"At least you'll have the old house," I remarked, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes; but look here, Sylvester," my friend exclaimed. "We shall never be able to live on at Coverthorne as we're doing now if half the property is taken away from us. I believe Uncle Nicholas knows that," continued the speaker excitedly. "He wants to force us to leave, and then he'll raise or borrow money from somewhere, and so come to be owner of the whole place. He's a bad man—you can see it in his face—and how ever he induced my father to make the will I can't imagine."

"I can't either," I replied. "I disliked your uncle the first time I saw him. I believe he's a villain."

A sudden rush of boys towards the spot where we stood talking put an end to our conversation, but the substance of it was constantly recurring to my mind. I had quite made up my mind that Nicholas Coverthorne was an unscrupulous rascal, and a few days later an incident happened which not only tended to increase my dislike of the man, but to invest him and his doings with a certain sinister air of mystery.

Dr. Bagley had been expecting a parcel to be left by the coach at Round Green, and knowing that Miles was accustomed to horses, he asked him to drive over with the pony and trap and bring home the package—Sparrow, who usually performed these errands, having injured his hand. At my friend's request I was allowed to accompany him, and we set off in high spirits, a number of envious "Foxes" and "Eagles" shouting after us as we passed the playground wall.

Nothing of any importance happened till we reached the Sportsman, where, having fastened up the pony, we went inside to inquire about the parcel. It being the middle of the afternoon the little inn seemed deserted. The only occupant of the taproom was a young country lad, who sat on a big settle, just inside the door, munching a crust of bread and cheese. He turned his head as we entered, and Miles immediately accosted him with,—

"Hullo, Tom Lance! what brings you here?"

The lad was evidently confused at the meeting. His sunburnt face flushed a deeper red, and he mumbled something which we did not hear.

"What brings you in this part of the world?" asked Miles. "Are you tramping it all the way back to Stonebank?"

It had dawned on me by this time who the boy was and where I had seen him before. I remembered now that he was an orphan, and in the employ of Mr. Nicholas Coverthorne. He lived in the house, and made himself generally useful about the farm. Miles had to repeat his question a second time before he got any answer; then the boy, seeming to realize that he could not avoid an explanation sooner or later, blurted out,—

"I'm on the way to Welmington, sir, to go for a soldier."

"To go for a soldier!" cried Miles. "You aren't old enough to enlist."

"I'm big enough, though," replied the boy with a grin; and this seemed likely to prove true, for he was well grown, and might easily have persuaded a recruiting sergeant that he was two years beyond his real age.

"But what are you doing that for?" asked my friend. "Why are you leaving Stonebank?"

Lance hesitated, toying with his huge clasp-knife, and moving uneasily on his seat.

"Well, sir," he said at length, "I've run away. And it's no use your telling Mr. Nicholas or the rest where I'm gone, for I ain't going back, not if they send a wagon and horses to fetch me."

"I'm not going to tell my uncle," was the reply. "All I asked was what made you leave."

"Well, sir," continued the lad, "the master's been so queer of late, I believe he bears ill-will towards me for something, and that some day he'll do me an injury."

By dint of many questions we at length got out of Tom something like a connected account of his troubles. The story as he told it was so disjointed, and at times so incoherent, that I shall make no attempt to repeat it in his own words, but rather give the sum and substance of the narrative which was laid before us when we at length came to the end of our inquiry.

Soon after his brother's death the servants had noticed some change in Mr. Nicholas's manner and behaviour, which they regarded as the effect of his sudden bereavement. He became preoccupied and silent, and of an evening would lock the door of his sitting-room and stay there far into the night, though hitherto he had been very regular in his habits, and had almost invariably retired to bed soon after ten. One afternoon Tom had gone on an errand to Tod's Corner, and being delayed did not return till late. It was nearly eleven when he reached the farm. He saw a light in the parlour as he approached the house, and on entering went at once to inform his master of the result of his mission.

Proceeding to the sitting-room, he found the door standing ajar, and the room unoccupied. The lamp was burning on the table, beside it was a large brass-bound box, and a spirit decanter and glass stood hard by. Tom lingered, note in hand, then determined to leave the message where his master would be sure to see it on his return. To do this he approached the table, but had hardly done so when Mr. Coverthorne burst into the room in a towering rage.

"Who told you to come here?" he shouted, seizing Tom by the throat, as though with the intention of strangling him. "I'll teach you to come prying and meddling about my house when you ought to be in bed, you rascal!"

Nicholas Coverthorne, as any one could have told at a glance, was a powerful man, and the wonder was that in his blind rage he did not do the lad some injury before the latter had time to explain that he had merely stepped inside the room a moment before to deliver his message.

"You've been prying into the drawers and cupboards after tobacco, or anything you could find, that's my opinion," cried his master. "If so, you'd better speak the truth before I find it out for myself."

Tom, equally astonished at this unreasonable outburst, and at the fact of his honesty being called in question—a thing which had never occurred before—was for the time at a loss to find words in which to excuse himself, a fact which seemed to increase all the more his master's suspicions. At length, after a long wrangle and many threats, he was dismissed to bed, whither he gladly betook himself, having by this time arrived at the conclusion that his master had either drunk too much brandy or was losing his reason.

A few days later Mr. Coverthorne sent for the lad, and told him to go to the cottage of the hind and bring back an answer to some inquiry about the sheep.

"If I'm not in the parlour when you return," Mr. Coverthorne had said, "step inside, and wait there till I come back."

In obedience to his orders Tom went to the hind, and returning entered the parlour, only to find that his master was not there. The room presented an exactly similar appearance to what it had done on the occasion of his previous visit: the lamp was lit, and beside it was the brass-bound box, while a little further along was the tray with glass and decanter. Cap in hand, the boy remained standing just inside the door, wondering how long he would have to wait. It was while thus employed that his attention became attracted towards a curtain which covered the bay window at the end of the room. Almost in the centre of the drapery, which was old and faded, was a hole, and behind this something sparkled in the ray of the lamp. It did not take Tom long to discover that this something was an eye peering at him from behind the screen. Startled at the knowledge that he was being watched, the lad was about to run from the room and raise an alarm of robbers, when the curtain was flung aside, and with a laugh Mr. Coverthorne stepped out into the room, and asked the boy in a jocular manner what he was staring at. Nicholas was not given to joking with any man, least of all with his servants, and this erratic behaviour served to strengthen in Tom's mind the impression that his master was certainly going mad.

"Ever since that time I've seen him a-watching, watching me wherever I goes and whatever I does," concluded the boy. "Once he told me what he'd do to any one as couldn't mind their own business, though I'm sure I've not been prying into other folk's affairs. He follows me about; he's got a grudge against me for something—I can see it in his evil eye—and some day he'll pay it off. I won't stay there any longer; I'm going for a soldier."

It was in vain that we tried to dissuade Tom Lance from his purpose, and induce him to return to Stonebank. He stubbornly refused to listen to our arguments. It was evident that he had been some time making up his mind, and was now doggedly determined to carry out his purpose. Finding it impossible to do anything else, we wished him good luck, at the same time giving him a shilling and some loose coppers, which was all the money we had in our pockets.

Having found the doctor's parcel, we returned to the pony carriage, and drove some little distance on our homeward way without speaking. It is probable, however, that the thoughts of both of us were busy with the same subject.

"I wonder if your uncle is going out of his mind," I said at length.

"More likely some deep dodge of his, I fancy," returned Miles. "Don't you see that he arranged that second visit of Tom's to the parlour just to judge what he'd done the time before? If the lad was inquisitive and had pried about once, he'd probably do so again. Still, what's the meaning of it all I've no idea."

CHAPTER VI.

A MAD PRANK.

Time has been called "the great healer;" and as the term ran on Miles gradually regained a measure of his former high spirits, and became more his old bright self again. The thought, however, that at the end of the half he would leave school and we should part, perhaps for ever, hung over us like a cloud, rendered all the heavier and darker by the consciousness on my friend's part that his prospects in life had undergone a great change, and that his future was uncertain.

"It's all very well," he burst out one day, "for Uncle Nicholas to say that he would rather have the matter settled amicably. As I said before, he means to get the whole estate before he's finished."

"Old villain!" I answered; "I hate his very look! I hope, if he does go to Coverthorne, that the ghost will haunt him, and drive him away again. Did it sing any more after I left?"

"I don't know," answered Miles abruptly, as though the subject was one to which he did not care to refer. "I don't think I've been inside the room since we were there together. I suppose I'm a coward, but I don't mind owning that that unearthly row gives me the creeps, and I daresay it would you too if you were to hear it as I have, sometimes, when passing down the passage at night."

We did not pursue the subject any further. Indeed, the thought may have occurred to me that my own courage had ebbed away rather fast the last time I had listened to those strange sounds; and such being the case, I could hardly afford to rally my friend on his superstitious fears.

The days came and went; the trees put on their glorious autumn tints, and then gradually grew bare and lifeless, while we boys went on with our accustomed round of school life, labouring at our desks, and larking with unbounded stock of animal spirits in the playground. I can recollect no event of any particular consequence having happened during this time, except that one day Miles received a letter from home which contained news of interest to us both. In those times, before the introduction of the penny post, letters were less frequent and more highly prized than they are to-day; and I think I can see my friend now as he came down the schoolroom waving above his head the oblong packet sealed with a yellow wafer.

"For me!" he cried. "Hurray! now I shall hear what's been happening in our part of the world."

He flung himself down on the end of a bench, tore open the packet, and for some moments was absorbed in reading its contents. Suddenly I saw the expression of his face change, his mouth opened, and his eye ran more rapidly from line to line.

"Phew! Well, I never!" he exclaimed.

"What is it?" I asked; "anything to do with your uncle Nicholas?"

"No; it's about old Lewis," he answered. Then, after scanning the letter rapidly to the end of the page, he let it fall and raised his head. "I say," he began, "what d'you think's happened? Why, there's been a fight down at Rockymouth between the smugglers and the preventive men; quite a serious affair—two fellows badly injured."

"Was old Lewis one of them—that man whom we saw hiding in your copse, and in whose boat we went fishing?"

"Yes, rather: he seems to have been the leading spirit, and has got into worse trouble than the rest, poor beggar! As far as I can understand from my mother's account, it must have happened in this way. One of the land gang was bribed, and turned informer, so by that means the coastguard knew the exact time and place of the run. It happened in that same little cove where we used to go and bathe. The spirit was landed, and the carriers were just shouldering their tubs to make off inland, when an armed party appeared on the beach and ordered them to surrender. Then there was a pretty how-de-do! Some of the gang threw down their loads and tried to bolt. Most of these got away in the darkness. But the old hands, enraged at the thought of losing the stuff just as it had come into their possession, showed fight. One of the preventive men was knocked down with a bludgeon, the rest drew their cutlasses, and blood was shed on both sides. Lewis, raging like a madman, whipped out a pistol and fired it, though fortunately without doing any harm, and the next moment he was stretched senseless on the shingle with a blow on the head given with the flat of a steel blade. In the end, of course, the coastguard got the best of it. Some of the smugglers made off when they saw the day was going against them, but the rest were overpowered, handcuffed, and dragged off to the watchhouse. Some of them have already been sent to jail, but Lewis has been sent to Welmington to await trial at the assizes. He was recognized as the leader of the party, and as the man who fired the pistol; and to use weapons like that against the king's men is a serious offence. Mother says she thinks he will be transported. It's a crying shame," concluded the speaker, after a moment's pause. "What difference can it make to the king, or to anybody else, if those men buy and sell a few ankers of brandy? They don't injure or rob anybody, and the men who come meddling and interfering with them deserve to be roughly handled. I believe I should have shot at them myself if I'd been in Lewis's place."

Knowing the peculiar views of the coast-bred boy on the subject of defrauding the revenue, and the little likelihood of inducing him to change them, I made no attempt to argue the matter, but stood for a moment recalling to my mind the sight I had witnessed of the two stooping figures crossing the field in the gray twilight of the summer dawn.

"It's dreadful to think of his being transported to the other side of the world," I said. "It must be sad for him to think that he may never see Rockymouth again, where he has lived so long—ever since he was a boy, except the time he spent away as a sailor in the navy."

"Well, it's fortunate that he didn't shoot straighter, or he would have swung for it," remarked Miles bluntly; "though I believe some of those fellows would as soon be hung as transported. I'm glad none of our Coverthorne men appear to have been in it," he added. "It's a wonder they weren't; but perhaps if any of them did lend a hand, they were among those who escaped."

He laughed as though it were more of a prank than a crime; then picking up the sheets of paper which had fallen from his hand, he went on reading his letter.

Boys may remain always much the same in their tastes and dispositions, but, as I have said before, school life and customs have undergone great changes since my day. In consequence of having no properly organized outdoor sports, we found methods of our own for letting off steam, some of which were about as sensible as the antics of a kitten or the mad gallop of a young colt. Boys who wished to establish and keep up a reputation for hardihood and daring were prone to perform some reckless feat, and then dare others to follow their example. Ben Liddle, the acknowledged chief of the "Eagles," was much given to this sort of thing, and a dozen or more of his escapades occur to my mind as I write.

It so happened that this term Miles and I slept in a dormitory of which Liddle was "cock;" an arrangement which might have been unpleasant for us had it not been for the fact that the majority of the boys were "Foxes," and formed a mutual defensive alliance, so that Liddle stopped short of actual violence, knowing that anything of the kind would raise a hornet's nest about his ears. Nevertheless, he was always passing slighting remarks about us, and hinting that we were lacking in pluck and daring; which taunts on one or two occasions nearly brought about a free fight between the rival parties.

The weeks went by; we were close to the end of the half, and boys had commenced to talk of holidays and home, when one night Liddle came up to bed with something under his coat.

"Look here," he said; "I found this in a field this afternoon."

The article which he held up was an ordinary rope halter. He waved it triumphantly in the air, and then flung it into a box by the side of his bed.

"What on earth d'you want with that old thing?" cried one of his followers, laughing; "it's no use to you. What made you bring it home?"

"You know that horse of old Smiley's that he's turned out to graze in that big field—the second beyond the brook? Well, I'm going to make him give me a ride. I've bet Maggers two to one in half-crowns that I'll ride him bareback twice round the field without being thrown."

Seated on the next bed, winding an old turnip-shaped silver watch, was a fellow named Rigby. Though professedly a stanch "Eagle," he seemed lately to have grown rather jealous of Liddle, and to covet for himself the post of leader. Whenever Liddle attempted to impress us with some fresh act of bravado, Rigby either made light of it or tried to outdo it by the recital of some still more brilliant piece of mischief which he had either been guilty of in the past or was prepared to attempt some time in the future. As might be expected, nothing could have been more calculated to vex and provoke Liddle, who, we could see, often found it difficult to restrain himself from vindicating his outraged vanity by pounding with clenched fists the person of his presumptuous follower.

"Pooh!" said Rigby. "When d'you expect you're going to ride a horse round that field? They can see it from the house, and you'd have some one after you within five minutes. I'll bet you'll never try it."

"What'll you bet?" demanded Liddle, bristling up in a moment.

"I won't bet anything on such a stupid thing. I know you won't do it."

"I'll do it any time you like to mention."

"Well, do it now," answered Rigby, suggesting what he considered to be impossible.

"All right; I will," returned Liddle recklessly. "Wait till the lights have been put out and the coast is clear, and I'll go and ride the nag to-night. But look here, my boy," continued the speaker, with a malicious twinkle in his eyes: "if I go you'll have to come too, as a witness, or Maggers won't believe I've won my wager."

"I never said I'd do anything of the kind," answered the other, rather drawing in his horns.

"Ho, ho!" sneered Liddle, perceiving his advantage, and proceeding to make the most of it; "you're funky. You try to make out that other people haven't the spirit to do a thing when really you're afraid to try it yourself."

"I'm not afraid," was the reply; "I only say it can't be done, so what's the good of gabbing about it any further?"

"It can be done," asserted Liddle. "All you have to do is to wait till there's no one about, then get out of this window on to the roof of the shed, creep along that, and down by the water-butt, then hop over the wall, and there you are. Come; you've as good as dared me to do it, and I say I'll go and ride the horse if you'll come and see me do it. Now, will you go, or will you not?"

"There's no sense in it," grumbled Rigby.

"Pooh! you mean you haven't got the pluck."

There was a general laugh. Rigby found himself in a trap of his own making. If he drew back he stood a good chance of being exposed to ridicule as an empty boaster, besides practically confessing himself Liddle's inferior in daring. His face twitched with excitement and vexation.

"Oh, very well, I'll go!" he answered desperately. "But I don't see any object in it, all the same."

An hour later, when all was quiet, the two boys, who had only partially undressed, rose, put on the rest of their clothes, and prepared to start.

"Shut the window after us, you fellows," said Liddle, "and be ready to haul us in when we return. We'll chuck a bit of mud or gravel against the glass. Don't get talking or making a row to attract attention; and mind, if any one does come into the room you're all dead asleep."

Arranging a bundle of spare clothes and pillows under their counterpanes as a last precaution, lest the notice of a master entering the room should be attracted by the empty beds, the two boys started on their expedition. The roof of the outbuilding was not far below our window, and with the assistance of a rope made of knotted towels it was reached without much difficulty. There was a whispered "All right!" and we heard the adventurers crawl away in the direction of the water-butt.

Broad awake, and in a state of suppressed excitement, we waited for what seemed hours, now and again speculating in whispers as to what had become of our two comrades, wondering if Liddle would really carry out his intention of riding the horse, and whether they would get back safely without being caught. Once the footsteps of a master passing along the corridor caused us a few moments' suspense; but we lay perfectly still, and the door of the room remained unopened. At length there came an unmistakable rap on the window-pane, the rope was lowered, and Rigby, followed by Liddle, was hauled back into the room.

"I've done it," whispered the latter, undoing the halter, which he had wound round his waist, "I caught the old nag, and had a fine scamper round the field.—Didn't I, Rigby?"

The other affirmed that such was the fact. Both boys were out of breath with running, and flushed with the excitement and success of their enterprise.

The result of the ordeal being to enhance the reputation of both, they now seemed on the best of terms, and appeared to have forgotten entirely the outburst of jealousy which had really occasioned the expedition. For some time we lay awake, listening to a detailed account of the adventure, and it must have been early morning before we stopped talking and fell asleep.

Almost before breakfast next morning a report of what had happened was whispered through the school, in consequence of which Liddle and Rigby became the heroes of the hour. Though nothing more than a piece of senseless bravado, their prank was considered a very fine and spirited exploit; indeed, when compared with the many raids and hunting expeditions of "Eagles" and "Foxes," it was declared that nothing quite so daring had been attempted for a long while.

Such an amount of notice, combined with open admiration, could not be without its effect on the two persons chiefly concerned, and by the time we retired to rest that evening both Liddle and Rigby were puffed up with conceit, and inclined to indulge in any amount of swagger.

"Now then," cried the former, "who's going to ride the old nag to-night? Come; we've given you a lead, and it's simple enough."

"I'm not going," muttered one boy, while the rest sought to evade the challenge with a laugh.

"See here," continued Liddle, in the same boastful manner, "one of you 'Foxes' have a shot. There doesn't seem to be a ha'porth of go among the lot of you!—Now then, Coverthorne, you can ride, so you're the very man. You used to be ready for a lark, but now, for all this half, you seem to have turned into a regular old woman."

Miles's cheek reddened with an angry flush.

"I'm no more a coward than you are yourself," he answered; "but if you choose to do a senseless thing, that's no reason why every one else in the room should follow suit."

"Oh, that's a fine excuse! Why don't you say at once that you're afraid?"

The dialogue was continued in much the same strain, Liddle flinging taunts with ever-increasing bitterness, till I could see that Miles was rapidly losing his temper. At length, perhaps rather weakly, the latter gave way, and declared himself ready to repeat the previous night's performance.

"I'll do it," he said, "if any one will go with me."

Just at the moment, from a boy's point of view, it seemed to me that friendship demanded that I should volunteer to share the risk.

"All right, Miles," I exclaimed. "I'll go with you; it's simple enough."

The other "Foxes" rewarded me with a subdued "Hear, hear!" For their own sakes they were eager enough for us to make the attempt, but I confess that I would gladly have recalled the promise almost as soon as it was made. From the very start, when I found myself crawling along the top of the wall against which the outhouses were built, I heartily wished myself safely back in the dormitory. Still, there was nothing to be gained by anticipating disaster until the worst actually happened, and we both pretended to make light of the whole matter. What such fellows as Liddle and Rigby had done we could certainly accomplish; and, after all, if we had an ordinary amount of luck, the risk was not great.

Miles especially was country bred, and had no difficulty in finding his way in the dark. Not a sound broke the stillness, and no one seemed to be abroad but ourselves. We pressed forward, conversing only in whispers, until in front of us a row of leafless willow trees loomed up out of the darkness.

"This is the brook," murmured Miles. "There's a plank laid across a little further down. Here we are. Now mind how you step."

Gingerly we crossed the frail bridge, not wishing to add a wetting to the other delights of this midnight raid. Two more hedges had to be scrambled through, and we found ourselves in the field in which the old horse had been turned out to graze. Away on some rising ground a little to the right was the farmhouse, and we noticed a light dimly burning in one of the windows.

"I should have thought they'd have all been in bed by this time," said Miles. "Now then," he continued, unwinding the halter, "let's find the nag. Coop, coo-op, coop!"

Whether Blackbird—as we afterwards found the animal's name was—had grown wiser by experience, and was prepared to show objection to having his night's rest disturbed to gratify the idiotic whim of a couple of schoolboys, I can't say, but the fact remains that as soon as we came within twenty yards of him he gave an indignant snort, and went plunging off in the darkness. The thunder of his hoofs on the turf seemed loud enough to be heard up at the farm. I held my breath till all was quiet again; then off we started towards the opposite end of the meadow, Miles attempting to cajole the animal with soothing words and an imaginary capful of corn. Once more Blackbird allowed us, very nearly, to drive him up in a corner; then, with a loud protestation in the shape of a neigh and a snort, he kicked up his heels and went off at a gallop. How long this sort of thing might have lasted, and whether we or the animal would have got the best of it in the end, can never be said; for before the thudding of the hoofs had ceased, a man's form came crashing through the hedge, and an angry voice yelled out,—

"Hey, you rascals! what are you doing with that horse?"

The newcomer was none other than the farmer himself, returning home from a festive gathering at the house of a friend. Passing along the footpath in the neighbouring field, he had heard our voices and Blackbird's stampede, and had come to the conclusion that he was receiving a visit from a couple of horse-thieves.

All this we learned later, but at the moment no other thought entered our minds than to save ourselves by immediate flight. We turned and ran. How we got over the hedges I don't know; I can only remember plunging through them, regardless of scratches and tumbles, as a bather might through a breaking wave. Old Smiley, who had the advantage of knowing the ground better than we did, followed hard at our heels, breathing out threats and curses. If the man had had a gun in his hand, I believe he would certainly have fired.

Suddenly we found ourselves on the bank of the stream. As luck would have it, we happened to have struck it just at the right spot, and Miles's ready wit came to the rescue.

"Quick!" he panted; "over, and draw away the plank, or the beggar will follow us to the school!"

Recklessly we sprang across the narrow bridge; then seizing the plank, with our united strength dragged it over, flung it down on the bank, and rushed off into the darkness.

The ruse proved entirely successful. Though a good runner, old Smiley was not going to attempt a jump with the risk of a ducking. We heard his shouts growing fainter and fainter in the distance, and a few minutes later we had scrambled along the roof of the outhouses, given the signal, and were being hauled up to the window by our comrades, who were on the qui vive awaiting our return.

In a few breathless sentences Miles explained what had happened.

"It's all right!" said Liddle reassuringly. "You gave the old beggar the slip finely, and he can never tell that it was two fellows from here. In the darkness he didn't get close enough to recognize your faces."

During the time these few words were being spoken I had been sitting on the end of my bed, endeavouring to regain my breath sufficiently to take part in the conversation. Now raising my hand to take off my cap, I found that it was missing. At once the thought flashed through my mind that I must have dropped it during my flight across the fields, and, what was more, I remembered that my name was clearly marked on the lining. If any of my room-mates had been watching me closely, they must have seen my face lengthen; for should old Smiley or one of his men happen to pick up the cap, it was as good as if they had caught the owner, and my share in the horse-chasing adventure would certainly be discovered.