CHAPTER V
UNRAVELLING A CLUE
Mr. Salmon, who was the house-master over that section of Deepwater College in which the chums led a more or less care-free existence, was the best of good sorts, but hopeless as a disciplinarian. To begin with, he was partly deaf, and disrespectful juniors took advantage of the weakness in season and out of season. His own form, the sixth, to which all four of the Study 9 boys belonged, also contrived to have an easy time of it while he was in charge. So that if he observed a certain uneasiness on the part of the sharers of the Black Star secret, he might have ascribed it to post-holiday skittishness—at any rate, he said nothing about it, and the four of them hastened into conference immediately studies were over, and lent ear to the wise sayings of the eccentric genius, Septimus Patch.
"To begin with," said Patch, in his best Dear-Watson manner, "there's precious little beyond these footprints, in the shape of clues, but to a trained eye like mine those slight, almost meaningless marks have a story to tell. They are to me as an open book, and—"
"Cut out the cackle," said Jack Symonds brusquely, "and return to the washing. Get on with it."
"Examine this footprint closely," invited Patch, "and tell me what you see."
"A footprint, of course," said Jack. "In other words, a depression in the earth, caused by the yielding of the soil under a boot, which causes it to assume the shape—"
"Ass!" said Septimus cuttingly. "I mean, do you observe anything peculiar about it?"
"No. Why?"
"You see that snake-like mark across the place where the sole has rested?"
"We're not blind, professor. What of it?"
"Well, that's where the bootlace was stamped into the earth under the foot. You see that! Now, that means that the fellow had his boot unlaced."
"Marvellous!" exclaimed Jack. "How do you do it?" he added, peering anxiously at Patch. "Are you quite sure that you have come to no harm? The severe mental effort—"
"Cut the joking a moment. The man's boots were unlaced. What was the reason for that? Is it likely that a man who was planning a burglary would come in with unlaced boots? The thing is absurd. There are no houses within miles of this place, and if the fellow had been hiding in the bush, he would scarcely have had his boots unlaced. No; the deduction from that lace is that the chap belonged to the school."
"Yes, that sounds pretty right. You mean, he put on his boots to give the impression that he'd come from outside, but as he'd just slipped them on, he didn't lace them up, meaning to take them off again shortly afterwards."
"That's just it, comrade. Also, he was probably carrying them in his hand and getting around the corridors in stockinged feet. I think we've just about narrowed the search down to the school."
"Yes;" broke in Billy Faraday, who had been listening to the discussion with deep interest, "that's all right, but it's absurd to imagine that anyone from the Coll. had a hand in this affair. Fane says that the chap was a big fellow—"
"There wasn't much light," said Fane, "and I didn't see him for more than half a minute. All the same, he looked big. There was a scarf over the bottom of his face, of course, so I couldn't tell him that way."
"We've got no chance of finding out who he is, then," said Billy. "Even if it was one of the chaps, which is hard to believe. I had an idea that it was the bag-snatcher in the train, but he was quite short."
"Wait just a minute," interrupted Patch. "You want to hear all the detective's got to say, and then you can back-chat each other all day if you want to. I say we can find out who that chap was, and merely by this footprint again."
"Spit it out," invited Jack.
"Well, you can see the mark of the metal tag of that lace, can't you? And you will observe that it's broken in half. The jagged edge has left an unmistakable impression—see it? Just a minute."
He bent down, took a knife from his pocket, and detached a tiny square of the mud with the impression of the broken tag in it. This he held in the palm of his hand, and continued. "All we've got to do now is to find who owns the pair of boots that'd make an impression like this. There can't be any mistake, and it shouldn't take us long to run through all the boots in the school."
"When?"
"To-night, when they're downstairs for cleaning. They are brought back by the boy about half-past five—if we get down to-night we'd be able to examine them safely."
"Good on you," said Jack, slapping Septimus on the back with heartiness. "I didn't think you could do it, but it's a good notion all the same. By George, we ought to be able to find out who it is!"
"But—who could it be?" asked Billy, a furrow of puzzlement showing itself on his forehead. "That's what gets me! I can't imagine—"
"The bootlace will show—don't worry," said Septimus. "We can't do anything until we find that."
The four of them were wondering, as they sat in class that afternoon, who the intruder could be, and they looked at their class-mates with suspicious eyes. Big Martin, on account of his size, came in for furtive glances, but it was manifestly absurd that he could have been the culprit.
At this early stage of the term, nobody felt much like work, particularly Septimus Patch, who always contrived to be doing as much of his own private business as possible, and never paid much attention to the lesson in hand. Just at this moment he had arranged a big barrier of books all along the front of his desk, and, concealed behind the screen, he was tinkering with a weir-looking model of many springs, screws, and cogwheels.
Consequently he did not notice that the boy in front of him had been surreptitiously unlacing his boots. His first intimation that something was amiss was when he felt a sharp tug at his feet, and both his boots came off. He gasped with horror, and, peering over his barricade, observed that his two boots were travelling the round of the class, in different directions. His loud socks, of purplish and yellow colour-scheme, brought a snigger from the class. He wriggled, protesting.
"Patch!" It was the voice of Mr. Salmon, who was all unconscious of the diversion, but who saw Patch's movement. "Are you paying attention?"
"Yes, sir," mumbled Patch, reddening, and glaring, through his great horn-rimmed glasses, at his companions. "Back here with the giddy old boots, you asses!" he whispered, in a furious aside.
"Well, then," said Mr. Salmon, arranging his spectacles so that he could get a good view of the boy, "we were talking about Charles XII. Patch, tell me why he was unsuccessful against Peter in this campaign."
"You said, sir?" replied Patch.
"Why was he unsuccessful?"
"Ah, why?" said Patch, innocently.
"I don't believe you've been paying any attention whatever." The master ran round the class with a rapid cross-fire of questions, but the answers were unsatisfactory. He frowned, and coughed. "Here, Patch, you come out and read the account aloud," he commanded.
"Here, back with those boots," said Patch, frantically. But the boots had arrived at the other end of the room, and seemed likely to remain there.
"Do you hear me, boy?" demanded Mr. Salmon. "Come out at once. I never saw such indolence!"
With a groan Patch got up, and, amid the chuckles of the class, stepped forward to the dais where Mr. Salmon stood. But he had barely set foot on the stage, when he began a series of extraordinary antics.
"Ouch!" he howled, leaping four feet in the air, and bouncing with a thud. He danced about the dais on one foot, upsetting globes and maps, and tipping over one of the front desks upon its unfortunate occupant. "Take it out—take it out!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" roared the class, both at the wild leaps of Patch and the astounded horror of Mr. Salmon.
"Boy, boy!" cried the latter, "have you gone mad? Stop this at once—stop it, I say! Really I—!"
"Yow! It's sticking into me—quick! My foot—it's sharp!"
"His foot's sharp?" queried Mr. Salmon. "Patch—calm yourself, my poor fellow," he went on, imagining that, if Patch had really gone off his head, it would be safer to keep him calm.
"You are quite all right—you really are. Just keep calm, and the effects will—"
"Ha, ha, ha!" The class was convulsed, and rocked with merriment as Septimus Patch was seen to sit down on the floor and painfully extract a drawing-tack from his stockinged foot. The tack had been lying harmlessly on the dais, and Patch had planted his foot fairly upon it. Mr. Salmon adjusted his spectacles, and took in the amazing sight. The vivid colours of Patch's hose met his eye, and he gasped.
"Boy! What do you mean by this? Where are your boots?"
"Ah, where?" said Patch dreamily.
Mr. Salmon coloured deeply. "You are insolent—you will be punished," he affirmed. "Explain at once. Where have you put your boots?"
Squinting over the tops of his goggles, Patch descried his boots in place underneath his desk, standing demurely side by side as if nothing had ever been amiss with them.
"You will forgive me, comrade," he said, in his most buttery tones, "but I had to take them off. My feet got very hot."
"Your feet got hot?"
"Yes—just a physical weakness of mine. Whenever it occurs I simply have to take my boots off. I can't bear them."
"So you are hot-footed as well as hot-headed!" said Mr. Salmon.
The class simply roared. They kicked their feet, and rattled rulers on the desk. They always made a stupendous row whenever Mr. Salmon cracked one of his very mild jokes, and the genial house-master was so very deaf that the din came to his ears in the form of a loud titter, which had always pleased him greatly. The noise they made now could be heard a couple of corridors away, but Mr. Salmon nodded and smiled, satisfied with the reception of his sally.
"Go back to your seat, boy," he said, restored to good humour once more. "If your feet feel warm, it is doubtless because you wear such very hot socks."
At this remark there was a repetition of the hideous row; and Patch strolled back to his seat and his model-making without the slightest concern.
After "lights-out" that night the four pals got out of their dormitory, and in slippers made their way down to the boot-room, where they tumbled around among boots and blacking and brushes, before Patch applied a light to a fragment of candle that shed a flickering illumination over the rows of neatly cleaned boots.
"Now for it," said Billy Faraday, and without any more ado they set to work to examine the great stack of boots. It was fully half an hour before they had run through the pile, and then they had drawn a blank.
"It's no go," said Jack Symonds. "How now, professor?"
"The other House," said Patch calmly.
"What—Cooper's?"
"Of course," said Septimus. "Forward, comrades all!"
They crossed the quadrangle and the playing-fields to the other house of Deepwater College—Cooper's House.
"You were here last term, of course," said Jack Symonds to Patch. "You know your way about?"
"Rather, comrade; like the palm of my hand. Give us a leg up through this window."
Jack obliged him with a shove that nearly sent the investigator on to his head in the passageway beyond. In a little while the four had gained the boot-room, and there a much more cautious examination took place—more cautious because, if Cooper's masters or boys discovered them by any chance, then things would go hard with the intruders.
Inside of an hour the detectives had satisfied themselves that the boots had not been worn by any of the boys of Deepwater College.
"You've drawn another blank, Patchy," said Billy Faraday. "How do you account for this?"
"Account for it?" asked Patch, in wonderment. "What do you mean? This only brings us closer to our solution, as the great Holmes said—"
"Which Holmes? Oliver Wendell?" inquired Jack, with an air of acute interest.
"Sherlock Holmes, of course," returned Patch, with scorn. "I forgot that you are unfamiliar with the classics. Well, he laid it down as an axiom, once, that when you have disproved all but one of a number of solutions, that solution must be the correct one, no matter how absurd it seems."
"I get you. But how does it apply?"
"Why, if it wasn't one of the boys here, it must have been one of the masters that made the footprint."
"But what master would come at that game?" asked Billy incredulously. "Think it was old Salmon?"
"By the Great Moa!" exclaimed Jack in a loud tone, which called rebukes from his companions.
"Cut the shindy," advised Patch tersely, "or you'll have the whole House down on us. What's stung you?"
"Doctor Daw!" whispered Jack. "What about him?"
"Is he in his right mind?" asked Patch anxiously. "And who may Doctor Daw be? I've heard of his daughter, Marjory, but that was in my nursery-rhyme days. Expound."
In low tones, and as briefly as possible, Jack explained the strange connection which he suspected between Doctor Daw, the new master, and Tiger, the man who had run off with Billy's bag.
"What could be more likely," he said, "but that the two are in league with one another, and associates of old Lazare what's-his-name? Why didn't I think of it before?"
"This is important," said Patch, seriously. "Daw is a big man, and it might well have been him. Now, the only thing to do is to compare his bootlaces with that impression we've got. And how are we to do that?"
"Sneak up into his room and take a look at them," said Jack.
"Who's going, though? Four of us can't do it."
"Draw lots, then. Here, wait a minute till I collect some pieces of grass."
Outside, in the shadow of the school buildings, they drew for the honour of investigating the room of Mr. Daw, and the shortest straw fell to the lot of Jack.
"You can go up now," said Fane, suddenly. "I remember that Daw went out this evening, and he hasn't come back yet, for he'd have to pass the boot-room to do so. If you're slippy you can get up there, examine the boots and get away again in about a minute."
"I'll do it," said Jack, as they came through once more to the corridors of Salmon's House. He rubbed his chin with his forefinger. "Let me see," he asked, "isn't there an electric torch of yours in the study?"
"Of mine?" said Billy doubtfully. "We'll see." They proceeded to the study, and there Billy unearthed an old, but still serviceable, torch. Armed with this, Jack went upstairs to the upper floor, where the masters' rooms were.
"Tit for tat," he murmured, turning the handle of Daw's door and opening it quietly. He let himself inside, and closed the door noiselessly. For half a minute he stood still, to assure himself that Doctor Daw had not returned, and then, flashing his torch, made a hurried search for the master's boots. He found a few pairs, all showing signs of recent use, but none with the distinctive tag.
"Ten to one he's wearing them," murmured Jack. At that moment his heart beat furiously. Steps were coming along the corridor, and they stopped outside the door. For a second he was paralysed; then he acted swiftly. He had barely time to roll under the bed before Doctor Daw himself entered the room—and with him his strange friend Tiger!
CHAPTER VI
JACK IS ENLIGHTENED
Jack Symonds had barely time to make certain that his hurried dive under the bed had not been observed, when Doctor Daw and Tiger were well within the room.
"A bit late for a call," said Daw grimly, "but there's no one to notice, luckily. Different last night, though."
"How so?" said Tiger. There came the sound of a match being struck, and Jack could presently smell the distinctive odour of tobacco. "How do you make that out?"
"Why, I had a cut for the Star," said Daw quickly. "And do you know what happened? I'd searched through about half the cupboards down there in the study where he's pretty sure to have it thus early. All at once, the door opened, and in walks one of the kids—"
"Not young Faraday?"
"No; a new chap from New Zealand; and instead of being scared, he jumped at me like a terrier on a rat. I got away, but only just. I tell you, Tiger, I—"
"See here," interrupted the other, "don't call me that name. It—well, you never know who might hear it, and—anyway, my name's Humbolt. Well, how did you get on with this kid? Scared you some, I'll bet!"
"I won't say he didn't," confessed Daw. "The lucky thing was, I had a scarf over my face, and he can't say who did it. Probably thinks it was some outsider. But the Star won't be in that study now, you can gamble on that. I've one of the kids a bit under my thumb, through knowing him down in Victoria, and he's keeping a fairly close watch on what this Faraday does, and where he goes, and all that sort of thing."
Jack, beneath the bed, opened his eyes wide at this piece of news, and wondered who the boy could be. Nobody, he decided, in his immediate circle; but the fact that the youngster came from Victoria was a clue that would perhaps come in handy.
"I'll put Patch on to that," he thought, and gave himself over to listening to what the two plotters were saying.
"Ah, well," Humbolt was heard to murmur, with a sigh of relief, "I'm real glad you didn't give away the box of tricks last night. We'd have been pretty well diddled if they suspected that you—you know."
"That's safe enough," said Doctor Daw confidently; and Jack felt like chuckling at the thought that Daw was quite mistaken.
"You didn't reckon on Patch being a 'tec," he murmured, smiling to himself.
"I guess it's lucky that I met you," said Daw suddenly. "Do you know, I never liked playing a lone hand, and with you close by I feel a lot safer. And Lazare's the man to pay well, believe me, if only we can collar that Star. Hang me, it ought to be simple enough! Don't forget those instructions for Friday night, will you?"
"Trust me, Doc. And now, what about those goods—and the money?"
"They're in my leather handbag, somewhere." Doctor Daw stifled an immense yawn. "I'm feeling like sleep—you wouldn't credit how it knocks you up trying to teach these blockheads here."
"Of course, you always were a good teacher," sneered Humbolt.
"I used to be, once," returned Doctor Daw.
"Until you carelessly stole that money and left clues that a blind man could follow, and, of course, got what you were looking for. Twelve months, wasn't it—or was it two years? I've forgotten."
"You'd better forget the whole lot," answered Daw, with a threatening note in his voice. "You leave my past history alone, and I won't rake up yours. That stands, doesn't it? After this business I'm going straight."
"Straight?" Humbolt laughed. "Never in your life, Doctor. You got in here on forged references, and do you mean to say—"
"That I'm going to stay here? Certainly. Supposing we get the Star—no suspicion attaches to me. I'll just stay on; there'll be no question as to my honesty."
"Oh, won't there?" thought Jack. "Just you wait and see, that's all. There'll be quite a lot of question, if I know anything!"
"Well, don't let me keep you up any longer," said Humbolt in his usual cynical tone. "Where's this handbag?"
"Somewhere about. Have a look, will you? Probably under the bed, or somewhere. Never can remember where I put my things!"
Jack felt his blood run cold at the words. Under the bed! He glanced about him, and saw that the handbag was certainly not there. All the same, if they were to look, the fat would be in the fire with a vengeance! What the two would do to one who had obviously overheard their very compromising conversation, Jack did not dare to imagine. He wriggled back against the wall, praying that he would not be seen; but he realized that the chances of escaping notice were very slender indeed. For what seemed an age he heard the two of them walking about, and heard the noise of furniture moved; and still they did not come near the bed.
What if they knew, and were merely making a mockery of his suspense and dread? The thought was a disconcerting one. Jack felt like scrambling from under the bed, and facing them, consequences or no consequences. He felt certain that they had seen him, had heard him—knew in some way, and were just tormenting him. Just at the moment when the strain seemed too great to be borne, a leg appeared at the side of the bed, and the counterpane was lifted. In another second the person would stoop and peer under the bed. With bulging eyes, Jack Symonds awaited his exposure.
"It's all right—I've got it." It was Doctor Daw's voice, from across the room, and Humbolt let fall the counterpane once more. Jack almost fainted with relief.
Shortly afterwards, to his joy, both left the room, Daw intimating that he would see his companion safely off the premises; and Jack crawled out of his hiding-place, feeling stiff and cramped, but glad indeed that he had been permitted to take a glance at the plot that was preparing itself against his chum.
He hurried through the dark corridors, and slipped into the dormitory without being noticed by the monitor in charge. His pals were all eagerness to be told what had happened to him; but he was in no mood for explanations.
"I'll tell you in the morning," he said. "I'm jolly sleepy."
And that was all that they could get out of him. The next morning, however, he had a lot to say, and especially to Billy Faraday.
"Look here, Billy," he said, "you really must take care of that Star, because Lazare and these others have some scheme going for Friday night. What it was, or what was proposed, I've got no idea; but Daw told the other chap to be ready, or words to that effect. Can't we hide the thing somewhere?"
"Yes, but where?"
"And there's another thing, too. Daw mentioned a kid—one of the fellows here—that's under his thumb, and who's going to keep an eye on what we do."
"Jingo!" said Billy. "The dickens he is! Wonder who it is?"
"Here's Patch, and perhaps he can find out for us. How are you, my giddy old sleuth-hound? I may as well tell you that you scored a bull with that bootlace clue."
"Comrades, I'm delighted. You compared the laces?"
"No. You see, Daw had the boots on. But I heard all about it, and I don't doubt that your clue would have worked out to the last bend in the tag on the lace. There's something else, though—" And Jack told him the strange conversation that he had overheard, particularly with reference to the spy that Daw controlled among the ranks of the college boys.
"Interesting, comrade, deeply interesting," said the schoolboy detective, rubbing his chin in the approved Sherlock Holmes manner. "It seems to me that the field is not too large, either. I mean, the boy must be in this house to keep any sort of watch over Faraday here, and as he comes from Victoria, that narrows the field still further. You twig? There are only a limited number of chaps in Salmon's House hailing from Victoria. And we can whittle them down one by one. I'll get a list of them, and we'll eliminate those above suspicion. That will leave under a dozen, I should say, to be watched."
"Patch, you old genius!" Jack Symonds smote him heartily between the shoulders, and the old genius was projected into the fireplace, whence he recovered himself with injured dignity.
"It's only attention to detail, that's all," murmured Septimus deprecatingly. "I picked that up from Dupin—"
"From whom?" demanded Jack.
"Dupin—that's Edgar Allan Poe's detective, and a real snorting detective at that. Ever read any of it?"
"Dunno. Didn't old Edgar write somethin' about the Bells—Bells—Bells, yells, shells, or some rot like that? My giddy sister recites some yards of rubbish to that effect."
"That's the fellow. Any rate, he wrote 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue.'"
"Gur-r-r!" said Jack, frowning heavily. "Sort of sequel to 'The Bloodstained Putty-knife, or the Bricklayer's Revenge.'"
Septimus smiled as one who indulges the caprices of a child. "Comrade, you will never make a detective," he said. "I've got the book here, with the yarns in it, if you'd care to read them. Meanwhile—"
"Look here," interrupted Billy Faraday, a shade impatiently. "There's not much time before morning-school, and I'd like to hide the Star before we go any further. Of course, I might stick it in the pouch of my belt and carry it about with me, but don't you think that's just the scheme that'd strike Lazare and his crowd as being most natural. I might be knocked down and searched; anything might happen."
"One of the boards in this floor is loose," said Jack thoughtfully. "How would it be to prise it up and drop the Star down there? We could replace the carpet, and nobody would be any the wiser."
But Septimus Patch had what he considered a better idea. "We were just now talking," he observed, "of Dupin, the first scientific detective in fiction. There is a story about him, called 'The Purloined Letter.' The strength of it is that a fellow is known to have a letter which he has stolen, but it baffles the detectives to find it. They go all over his room, rip up the boards, sound the cabinets for secret drawers, take accurate measurements of the tables, probe everything, but the merry old letter is still missing, although they know for a fact that it's somewhere about the fellow's house. They call old Dupin in, and he finds it right away."
"How?"
"By using his brains, comrade; by simple reasoning. Here, hand me that book of Poe's, and I'll read some of his reasoning."
A day or two before, Jack and Billy would have laughed at Patch's request, and refused his help; but they had to admit that he had used his brains in regard to the footprint clue, and they were willing to give him a chance to safeguard the Black Star on the strength of that first triumph.
"Here you are," said Billy a little sceptically, throwing over the desired volume. "Show us what you can do."
Patch whipped over the pages with accustomed fingers, and began to read. "Says Dupin, 'There is a game of puzzles which is played upon a map. One party playing requires another to find a given word—the name of a town, river, State, or empire—any word, in short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names; but the adept selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other. These escape observation by dint of being excessively obvious."
"That's all right," agreed Jack. "I've noticed that myself. But what happened?"
"That's the whole point of the yarn," returned Patch. "Dupin came to the conclusion that the thief had not concealed the letter at all. He pratted along to the chap's house, and saw that he had several cards in a letter-rack, and a solitary letter. The appearance of the letter was quite different to the missing one. But Dupin says, 'In scrutinizing the edges of the paper I observed them to be more chafed than necessary. They presented the broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as a glove, inside out, re-directed and re-sealed.' Well, after that," pursued Patch, shutting the book, "he came next day with another letter done up in the same way. He got a fellow to fire off a pistol and raise a shindy in the street below, and while the thief was looking to see what was up he got the stolen letter and put his own in its place. In the letter he'd put a stinging quotation to the effect that there was no copyright on that particular trick."
"I'll bet the thief got a surprise when he came to open it up," chuckled Jack, who had been following the story with interest. "But I see what you are driving at—you don't want to conceal the Star at all?"
"Not as open as all that," said Patch. "But let us get hold of some place that's so obvious that nobody would ever dream of looking there."
"Billy can wear it as a tie-pin," suggested Jack, with a laugh. "Or we could put it up over the mantelpiece."
"No, comrade; a little subtlety is necessary. What about that old jacket of yours, Billy? That one hanging up in the corner? We could sew the Star up in the lining, and leave the jacket there. We'd notice in a moment if the jacket were gone. But nobody would think of that as a hiding-place, and that's why it is the safest place in the world. Savvy?"
"Sure thing. Do you think it's the best place?"
"Of course I do, comrade. Now, I've got a needle and cotton somewhere, I think, and if you like I'll do the job now."
Somewhat reluctantly Billy passed over the Black Star, and with deft hands Patch ripped up the lining under the shoulder-padding of the coat. Then, while Jack looked to see that they were not overheard at the door, and while Billy kept watch at the window, Septimus embedded the Star in the padding, and closed the seam again as neatly as a tailor.
"There," he commented, hanging the coat up again in its accustomed position. "The fellow who finds that we've left the Star in such an easy position will be cuter than most people. Now we'll have to cut—it's nearly form-time."
And with their preparation in the most hazy and uncertain state, the three occupants of Study No. 9 hurried down to class. That afternoon the Star was still in place, and Billy breathed freely. "I suppose it's as safe there as anywhere," he thought. "I say, Jack, what's that hideous din?"
CHAPTER VII
THE CALAMITOUS CRIPPLES
Jack looked out of the window. Then he gurgled.
"By the Brass-eyed bull!" he exclaimed. "Look here, just cast your optic in this direction, old fellow. That's all, old man—just a look!"
From the quadrangle below them came the blare of bugles, and the gaps were filled up by a miscellaneous din emanating from tins, whistles, combs and paper. Billy hurried over, and the two chums leaned from their window in astonishment.
"A giddy procession," murmured Billy.
It was; but a procession of the kind rarely seen outside of a circus. There were about forty boys in the show; and every one of them was attired as a cripple of the most dilapidated kind. They all looked as if they had been rolled upon by a steam-roller, and then passed through a chaff-cutter. Bandages enwrapped their heads, and their arms and legs appeared to be broken in numerous places. Many carried crutches, and an odd effect was given by one humorist who elected to appear on stilts, which were liberally bandaged. Two buglers headed the procession; and most of the others had instruments of some sort or other. At arranged intervals they gave vent to sepulchral groans. In the van was a tattered banner, bearing the words, "The Calamitous Cripples. Break your leg and join."
"What is it?" asked the mystified Jack. "What's the giddy wheeze?"
Billy Faraday was far too absorbed in watching the amazing spectacle to answer him, and Jack's question lapsed. The procession drew nearer and nearer, and the noise was ear-splitting. The Cripples drew themselves up before the window of Study 9, and Jack was moved to call out, "Lovely! Is it the National Anthem or Alexander's Ragtime Band? I never could tell the difference."
His shaft of wit, however, went almost unnoticed in the general uproar, and Billy Faraday grasped a more cutting form of witticism; he got a handful of pennies and half-pennies, and threw them one at a time to the serenading party below.
Cummles, hammering at a tin drum with zest, received one of the coins full on the bridge of the nose, and it broke short his performance. He held up his hand, and with a final crash of sound the Cripples completed their selection.
"Know," roared Cummles at the top of his voice, "that a new Society has been formed, called the Calamitous Cripples! We let everybody join—the more the merrier! And our object is—" He turned to his supporters for the rest.
"—death to the Crees!" roared the crowd, in disconcerting chorus.
So this was the strength of the new society—it was a rival show to the Crees! Jack realized that Cummles was getting his own back for his rejection and disgrace at the last Cree meeting, and he whistled softly. But Cummles was speaking again.
"We therefore begin on the Chief Cree!" he yelled, and as at a given signal all the Cripples raised their hands, and sent a volley of hard, tightly-rolled paper balls at Jack and Billy as they stood open-mouthed at the window.
The fusillade took the two Crees by surprise, and Jack for the moment did not know what to do; but he soon settled that question, and with Billy jumped out of the window, and rushed the banner of the Calamitous Cripples. It was flagrantly against rules to jump out of the window at all, and soon a free fight was taking place around the banner of the Cripples.
"To it, Crees!" yelled Jack, wrestling furiously with one of the banner supporters. Someone had grasped his leg, and he could not keep upright much longer; sooner or later he would have to go down.
"Ouch!" Down he went, and down went half a dozen others in a panting, scrambling, tossing mass.
There was wild disorder for lively minutes, but force of numbers gave victory to the Cripples, who rescued their tattered banner and scampered away with it. Jack stood looking after them with fire in his eye.
"Jingo," he observed to Billy Faraday, "but I can see some immense japes this term, with the Crees and the Cripples. What do you think?"
"We've got to score on them," said Billy emphatically, "and score right away. Watch us notch ahead."
Jack nodded meaningly; then, as someone touched him on the arm, he wheeled round. It was Septimus Patch, and the schoolboy detective's eyes were shining. He was plainly full of some scheme or other.
"Comrades!" he said. "Don't waste your time here—I've got the best idea out for the discovery of the fellow that's giving Daw a hand."
"What are you going to do—advertise?"
Patch smiled tolerantly. "Daw—Doctor Daw, as you call him—said that this chap, whoever he is, is keeping an eye on Billy here?"
"That's so."
"Well, why shouldn't we—" he looked around to make certain that they were not overheard, "—why shouldn't we lead the fellow out on a false scent?"
"Meaning?"
"Sort of red herring business, you know. The three of us could sneak out before call-over and make it appear as if we were going to hide the Star somewhere out in the bush. If there is anyone on the watch, it's the Commonwealth Bank to a peanut that he'll slink out after us."
"Good word—slink," said Jack approvingly. "Yes, Patchie, the idea's not so dusty. We've got time. We could lie in ambush for the beggar and catch him red-handed."
"Better leave him alone—just make certain who he is," warned Septimus, polishing his great horn-rimmed glasses. "You see, if we just lie low and say nuffin, like Brer Rabbit, the spy won't know that we're fly to his little game."
"Good for you, Picklock Holmes," said Jack. "You mean, he'll think that he's working quite safely, unknown to anyone, and all the time we know, and are pulling his leg so much that he'll need a boat-hook to take his boots off."
"Prezactly, comrade," returned Septimus, chaffingly. "Your brain is bucking up lately, isn't it? We never know what we can do till we try, do we? However, to the bright, brisk business! You"—turning to Billy Faraday—"you slip up into the study and pretend to bring something out with you—we'll watch here."
"We're the giddy conspirators, old boy," said Jack. "Get a move on—we haven't any too much time."
In a few minutes the three boys had set out from the school, striking into the thick belt of scrub-lands that lay towards the north. They pressed forward for a good ten minutes, and at the end of that time Billy strode on alone, making as much noise as he could, while Jack and the amateur detective crouched behind the undergrowth, to watch closely for any follower.
Billy's footsteps died away, and there came only the faint sound of his passage through the scrub; then that in turn faded till it was almost inaudible.
"'Fraid we've drawn blank, old boy," said Jack in a low whisper. "Can't hear anything, can you?"
"Wait," was all that Patch had for answer; he had his head cocked to one side in a listening attitude, and all at once he raised a finger for silence.
During a tense ten seconds he listened, Jack scarcely taking breath, and then the detective nodded as one who had satisfied himself.
"Get down," he whispered; "somebody coming."
Sure enough, almost at once came the sound of footsteps; and Jack, peering through the interstices of a wall of greenery, could barely restrain a gasp as he saw a tall, pasty-faced, weedy youth strolling negligently along the faint path that Billy Faraday had followed, and, although he wore the college cap of blue and gold, he was smoking an expensive brand of cigarette.
In dead silence the two watched him pass their field of vision, and then he, too, was swallowed up in the bush.
Jack turned to Patch with a criss-cross mark of puzzlement creasing his eyebrows. "Now, what do you make of that?" he asked softly. "That's Redisham, and the dirty slacker's smoking at that. But is he following Billy or not?"
"Or is it only coincidence that he comes from Victoria?" asked Septimus in the same discreet voice. "Very funny, isn't it?"
"Now, you know what sort of a fellow Redisham is," went on Jack. "He's just the sort that'd have gambling debts, and all that, although his father's got piles of cash, they say. Question is, is he clever enough to be used as a tool?"
"Comrade, I don't know," admitted Septimus, slowly shaking his head. "It's often these foolish-looking fellows that turn out pretty cunning in the long run. All the same, Redisham—the man's an ass, a weak-minded ass with an eye for 'loud' dress, and—"
"—and no eye for catching a cricket ball, or any sort of sport, except betting—if you can call that sport," Jack snorted. "Little Montague Redisham isn't the sneak in this case, I fancy."
"Well, then, what's he doing?" countered the amateur detective, with index finger marking his point. "It looks jolly fishy, doesn't it?"
"Might have come out to smoke that rotten cigarette of his."
"I thought of that, but the coincidence of the time, and the direction of his outing, is hard to get over. Anyhow, we'll find out, we'll find out—don't worry."
They got out of their cramping positions behind the undergrowth and stepped out into the little glade. Barely had they done so when there came a loud cry from some distance ahead—and Jack knew the voice as well as his own.
It was Billy's voice.
"Help—help!"
Jack jumped about a foot in the air, and shot a sharp glance at Septimus Patch. "Jiminy!" he said, quickly, "that's old Billy—wonder what's up? Here—after him."
Symonds and Patch put their heads down and ran. Heedless of the undergrowth that set traps for their feet and that tore at them in the shape of thorn-bushes, they charged madly forward, and all at once Jack stopped and picked something up from the ground.
"Here—look at this!" It was Billy's cap, with the Deepwater College badge in the front of it; and Patch pulled up and glanced keenly at the ground with sharp eyes.
"A struggle—see?" he panted, pointing to the way the bracken had been tossed about and the turf trampled by heavy heels. "A struggle, and then—then—what happened?"
"Don't say he's been knocked on the head and dragged off," groaned Jack, looking about him helplessly. "Here, Patchie, have a look at these marks—what are they?"
"Good—good," observed Patch, scanning them closely. "See, Billy got away and ran for it—the other chap after him. See how the big, heavy print is stamped over that other? They were running, the both of them—and—"
"Come on," said Jack curtly; and the two of them tore off once more, stopping to pick up the trail every now and then until they were startled by a loud, frenzied crashing through the brushes.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Patch, stopping; and into their arms, almost, Billy Faraday staggered, hatless and dishevelled. He was panting heavily, and seemed almost done; a sharp twig had scratched his cheek badly, for it was bleeding.
"Billy—you're all right?" demanded his chum, seizing him by the arm.
Before Billy could pant out an answer, another fellow came up at a run, and halted, half-hidden in the scrub, at the sight of the two who now reinforced the fugitive. His cap, pulled down over his eyes, hid his face pretty well; but Jack knew at once that it was Tiger Humbolt who stood staring at them.
It was Septimus Patch who decided the next move.
"After him—I've got a gun!" he yelled at the top of his voice; and Humbolt started and then, wheeling about, vanished into the thick bush at a run. He knew that Billy had fired a revolver at him during his attempted escape with the handbag, and he was disposed to take Patch's cry at its face value. As Patch had intended, of course; for he did not attempt to give chase. Instead, he glanced at his watch.
"Ten minutes to call-over," he said; "we'd better get back."
On the way back to the college Billy explained that he had been standing in a thicket when Humbolt had jumped on him from behind and carried him to the ground. After a struggle he had broken free and run for his life.
"I doubled on my tracks," he concluded, "and came back again, when I ran into you. That's all—lucky it wasn't worse."
"And did you see Monty Redisham?" asked Patch.
"Redisham—that rich blighter in the Sixth? The prefect?"
"The slacker," said Jack trenchantly. He went on to explain how Redisham had come into the mystery, and Billy said that the plot was now thicker than ever.
"I can't make it out," he said, thoughtfully, dabbing his scratched cheek with his handkerchief. "No, I didn't see the brute at all. He was following me, you say?"
"Looked like it, comrade," said Patch, "but then we can't say for certain. I'll have to give the matter some thought," he went on, with a resumption of his light-hearted manner.
"Another thing requiring some thought," put in Jack, "is, how are we going to score off those Cripple lunatics? We want to shake them up pretty suddenly, you know. I think we'll call a special meeting of the Crees in our study to-night, and we'll think up something really smart."
When the Crees had assembled, managing in some inexplicable manner to cram themselves into Study 9, Jack was delighted to learn that one of the fellows was ready with a plan.
"Chief Black Feather," he said, in the approved style of address, "may I suggest a scheme for the downfall of those scoundrel palefaces—I mean Cripples?"
"Of course," said Jack at once. "In fact, I was going to ask you fellows to come to light with some such idea. Spring the giddy wheeze, mon brave French," he explained grandly, "very hard."
"Well," said the Cree, "the bright idea is this. I happen to have heard that the Cripples are holding a meeting to-morrow afternoon—they've got one of the classrooms on the north wing for the purpose. Now, I happen to know that up in the ceiling over that wing there are several bags of sawdust—been stored there for ages, and I think the Head's forgotten all about them. Now, it's a shame to waste them, and there's a nice big man-hole in the classroom, and—"
"I think we see the rest!" said Jack with a laugh. "Which classroom are they in?"
"The end one—the drawing-room, next to the extra French set."
"Good—nominations for four fellows to carry out the scheme? I'll make one myself."
Three others were accordingly chosen to deluge the Cripples' meeting with sawdust, and on the following afternoon the conspirators gained access to the space between the ceiling and roof. A busy meeting of the Cripples, with closed doors and windows, was in progress; and there was going to be no mistake whatever about the disorder and surprise that would follow the avalanche of sawdust.
"The jape of the century!" averred Jack Symonds in a low whisper. "What about the cover for the man-hole? Have you got it?"
"Yes, she lifts pretty easily, but I won't pull her right out, or they'll be ready for us. Now, how are we going to open fire?"
"Wait a second." Jack took a swift look round at his assistants, flashing the electric torch that he had brought with him. "I've got it. We'll each take a bag, and as soon as Martin whips the cover off the trap, I'll let fly—then you, and you next, and Martin last. See? That'll give him time to grab his bag after taking the cover off. All ready?"
"Let her go, Gallagher," murmured the Crees, lifting the big, open-mouthed bags; and at a word from Jack, Big Martin whisked the cover off the man-hole. A square of light opened in the dark floor beneath them, and there came the murmur of voices from the aperture.
That was all that the Crees had time to take in, for the next moment Jack had tipped the great bag forward, and the sawdust gushed out in a stream. The two other bags followed, and Martin finished the good work with his contribution, to the dismay obtaining in the room below.
Jack leaned forward, convulsed with laughter, and cast a glance down into the room; then his face lost its smile, and his jaw dropped.
"Hokey!" he said. "Now we've done it!"
"Why? What?" asked the others, pressing forward.
"We lifted the wrong trap," murmured Jack in a voice of horror. "That's Monsieur Anastasie and the extra French set!"
CHAPTER VIII
FANE'S FATAL MISTAKE
Strange as it may seem, the coolest person who looked on the appalling scene in the classroom presided over by the French master was Jack Symonds himself. Recovering from his surprise, he could gaze down and enjoy the havoc even as he knew that, unless something intervened to save them, he and his companions were booked for a severe spasm of trouble—and trouble of the direst order.
But the classroom scene was irresistibly funny—too funny for words. Monsieur Anastasie stood like a sawdust statue, his comical moustache powdered with sawdust, too amazed, too dumbfounded, to utter a word of protest or surprise. Before him the sawdust was spread in an irregular layer, almost knee-deep, and it was piled on tables and chairs, and the boys of the extra French set in generous fashion.
All at once, the French master found his voice—with a vengeance. "What is ze meaning of zis?" he cried, dusting at his coat, and sending the sawdust flying in clouds. "Pah! I am smother—I am choke! Abominable!"
He raved and danced on the platform, scooping the sawdust in handfuls from his person, and then shaking indignant fists at the open man-hole.
"Peste! I will not have ze tomfool antic! Ah, but you shall answer for him before quickly," he choked. "Sacrebleu! It is an outrage—it is vat you call indignation! Ze ear of ze headmaster shall be apprised of zis!"
The extra French set, half-guessing what had happened, commenced to roar with laughter at those who had received the contents of the bags upon their heads, and the furious Anastasie became more wild and incoherent than ever.
"Ah, you laugh?" he cried. "You identify me comical? But you shall not entertain ze ribald laughter for longer! Remember ze proverb—he laughs loudest who gathers no moss!"
There was a perfect yell at this brilliant effort on the part of Monsieur Anastasie, who was always tangling his proverbs in the most ludicrous manner.
But the laughter was cut short when Jack Symonds began to appear in instalments through the open man-hole. His feet showed first; then his legs dangled; in a moment he was hanging by his hands. Then, he let go, and came to the floor as lightly as a feather.
"I must explain—" he commenced.
But Monsieur Anastasie literally overwhelmed him with a torrent of French and English phrases, and he could not get a word in on any account.
"Ah, you are ze misdemeanour!" said the excitable Frenchman bitingly. "You play at Père Santa Claus, hein? Explain yourself without ze hesitate! You shall disport yourself before ze headmaster, quoi!"
"I'm really sorry for what's happened," said Jack, seeking to cool the master's wrath by appearing calm himself. "It was all an accident—"
"Ah, an accident!"
"Yes, that's so—"
"Ze sawdust has tipped himself over?"
"I don't mean that. You see, sir, we were going to play a joke on those cads—I mean those fellows next door. We did not mean to harm you in any way. Only thing was, though, we mistook the giddy—that is, the man-hole up there. The two of them are close together, and in the dark we opened the wrong one."
He stood awaiting the verdict of Monsieur Anastasie, who took the frank confession in silence. Then he dusted a little sawdust off his sleeve.
"I rejoice myself you have owned up, Symonds. Ze business was very foolish, and you are too big to intermeddle yourself with ze foolish tricks of little boys. I was going to inform ze headmaster of your prank, entendez-vous? But no—you are not a bad boy. You must disperse ze sawdust."
And the hot-tempered little French master actually smiled. It was his way. He flew into a furious rage in a second or two; but it never lasted long. And in this case Jack's open confession had somehow subtly pleased him. He turned to his class.
"It is wise, is it not," he observed, "to be certain always? Think what our friend would have saved had he ze forethought to look into ze room. Remember ze proverb: a look before you leap saves nine!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" The class chuckled its appreciation of this portmanteaued proverb, while Jack and others of the Crees who had nothing to do, hastily collected the sawdust and shamefacedly put it into the sacks that they had emptied with such gusto. Monsieur Anastasie, deep in the mysteries of French grammar, permitted himself an occasional broad smile, quite restored to his native good-humour.
Just as Jack was about to leave the room, however, the French master walked over to him and spoke quietly.
"Two hundred lines," he said, "will repair ze mistake. From Corneille—Le Cid. And put in all ze accents."
He smiled and nodded as if he had just handed Jack a five-pound note, and Jack got out into the corridor, feeling that he had made a fool of himself.
"Jingo, though!" he exclaimed, "I was jolly lucky not to be carpeted before the Head. What a dickens of a mess I would have landed myself into! Hullo, Patchie!"
"How fares it, comrade?" asked Patch, in his usual grand manner, saluting Jack with an elaborate salaam. "What is this rumour that comes to my ears that you have met with a set-back in the course of that jape intended for the Cripples? Untrue, of course?"
"No such luck. We made an awful bloomer, and we'll have it in for those Cripple blighters worse than ever now. Instead of letting the Cripples have the sawdust, we made a slight miscalculation, and tipped it all over old 'Annie' and his class."
"'Annie,' I take it, is Monsieur Anastasie? I suppose he was sore?"
"Oh, he cut up a bit at first, but he soon cooled down. In fact, he was rather decent about it. Handed me two hundred lines, that's all."
"Bad luck, comrade. But it might have been worse, mightn't it?"
"Oh, easily! I might have dropped on Annie's head, and killed him, or perhaps the sawdust might have choked one of those grinning beggars in the extra French set. Or there might have been a tribe of death-adders hidden in the sawdust. Oh, yes; I came off pretty well considering." He laughed his usual happy, careless laugh. "Why, I've gone and forgotten that trial swim for this afternoon—down at the baths. Coming along?"
"Er—no thanks. In fact, comrade, I may confide that I—well, I can't swim."
"Oh, get out—you must. On a hot afternoon like this, too. Come along, I'll give you a few pointers about the game. What on earth would you do if you were left on a sinking ship with no lifebelts and unable to swim?"
Patch seemed to ponder the situation. "I expect I should sink," he announced brightly.
"Come, I'll tell you what I'll do," said Jack. "I'll defy an indignant world, and teach you the noble art of supporting yourself in the aqueous elephant—I mean element. That is, after the trial swim."
"What is this trial swim, comrade? For that matter, any sort of a swim would be a trial—for me."
"Joke?" asked Jack, carelessly. "Fact is, old fellow, this is a preliminary canter, so to speak, for a hundred-yards championship of the Coll. Friend Billy is in for the event and he's a hot favourite too. You'll see. It's a pound to a peanut that the Cup goes to Salmon's House this year. I'm just going to give Billy a bit of a sprint over the length."
"I'm sure it will be most exciting, comrade. I never did like baths, though. The sight of all that water—ugh! Tell you what, I've just remembered that I'd made an appointment. Beastly forgetful of me, but—"
"No, you don't," laughed Jack, grabbing the Socialist's arm and dragging him towards the entrance to the baths. "You must learn swimming some time—why not now. Hop into a costume—wait till my swim's over."
In a few minutes Patch stood shivering upon the edge in a costume several sizes too large for him, while Jack took a ten seconds' start on Billy in a hundred-yards sprint. Septimus looked on with an eye of cold disfavour as the two chums swept the length of the baths in a cloud of foam and bubbles. Billy had perfected a very neat trudgeon-crawl, and he beat Jack, who was no mean hand at the game, by a matter of three seconds, despite the start that the latter had had.
Later on when Billy ran off to change, Jack caught sight of the miserable Septimus Patch and recalled his intention of giving the inventor a few lessons.
"Here," said Jack, "come along to the shallow end—look slippy."
Septimus paced gingerly after him along the wet boards, and all at once he executed a most astounding manœuvre. His feet went from under him, and he landed head-first in the water.
"Good gracious. What's the beggar up to?" asked Jack, who had imagined that Patch had dived into the deeper part of the bath. "I say," he went on, as Patch's head appeared, "you can swim—after all?"
"Swim—glug!" said Patch, as a wavelet curved into his conveniently-opened mouth. "No—help! I'm drowning—glug!"
He paddled his way frantically to a ladder near by, and hauled himself out.
"You asked me to look slippy, and I slipped!" he said. "Believe me, it's no joke. How far did the water fall when I swallowed that little lot—ugh! I had a young Niagara trickling down my throat! Comrade, does it all taste like that?"
Jack choked with laughter. "Mind your step," he warned. "Here, this is the shallow end. Hop in—it's only up to your waist."
He prepared to demonstrate the art of kicking while holding to a step on the level of the water, and Septimus appeared to manage that part of the business well enough. Jack then showed his study-mate a few simple arm movements, and invited Septimus to try while being supported in the water by his middle.
After a few minutes of this sport, Patch wriggled out of his mentor's grasp and spluttered indignantly.
"Do you want to drown me?" he asked. "I'll buy a gun and let you shoot me—it'd be quicker."
"Why, what's up?"
"Up, do you say? Down more fits it—at least that's where my head was, under water, while you were watching my feet! I don't want to die a lingering death, thanks. I've had enough for the first lesson—and I'd like to take the others by post."
As he clambered out of the bath, his loose costume hanging about him in ridiculous folds, a roar of laughter went up from the fellows bathing there.
When they got back to the study they met Billy Faraday. He was grinning broadly. "I hear you've been teaching the inventor how to swim!" he laughed. "I believe he found the water quite wet?"
"Yes, comrade," answered Patch genially, "and so would you if only you were more familiar with that unknown quantity."
"Well, you ought—" began Billy; but he broke off with a sharp, "I say!"
"What's the matter?"
"The coat—it's gone! And the Star's in it, too!"
Jack and Septimus looked up in surprise, and were startled to observe that it was even as Billy had said—the coat was gone. They jumped up and made a hurried search.
"Jingo, this is serious!" murmured Jack. "It's gone, right enough. Wonder whether that beast Redisham—?"
"It's got misplaced, perhaps," said Patch, who had put down his book and joined in the hunt. "Mislaid somewhere or other—"
"But I never wear it!" said Billy. "How could it?"
"Fane—Fane's the solution, I think," jerked out the amateur detective, rubbing his chin hard. "We didn't tell him, I remember, that we'd hidden the Star, and perhaps he's—but here he is."
"Yes, here I am," said Fane, closing the door. "You fellows look excited—what's up?"
"Look here—did you move a coat of Billy's? It was hanging up in this corner."
"Billy's coat!" exclaimed Fane, turning a trifle pale. "What's the matter with Billy's coat?"
"Matter enough, comrade," said Patch grimly. "We didn't tell you—we forgot, as a matter of fact—we didn't tell you that we'd sewn the Black Star up in one of the seams of that coat, to hide it. And now the coat's gone."
"My only aunt!" gasped Fane, falling into a chair. "Is that right? Was the Star in that coat?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Why?" echoed Fane. "I sold that coat for five bob to an Indian hawker yesterday afternoon! And I expect he's miles off by this time!"