CHAPTER XIII
A MYSTERY UNRAVELLED
Such was the rapid succession of events that Fane and Jack Symonds remained for a few seconds rooted to the spot, by sheer stupefaction and surprise. That Billy should thus be walking in his sleep, and bearing the lost Star in his hands, was strange enough, but that he should be attacked before their very eyes was quite astounding. They might well have been pardoned for a moment of inaction. Then the tension snapped. "Come on!" said Jack quietly. "It's that beast Daw!"
In their stockinged feet the two boys darted along the corridor. Billy Faraday had come back to the waking world with a startled cry, and seemed quite incapable of movement, while Doctor Daw, in his black suit, bent over him like a carrion crow, and struggled to wrest the Star from the boy's grasp.
He succeeded at last, and with a low cry of triumph, turned to escape. At that moment he was tackled madly by a bunched-up body that he might, given the requisite time, have recognized as Fane's. His legs were whisked from beneath him, and he sat down with an agonizing thump, while Jack Symonds collapsed upon him with all his heavy weight. The Black Star escaped from his fingers, and slithered along the tiled floor, where the now awakened Billy secured it eagerly.
"Give it up, give it up," ground out Jack, apparently endeavouring to fracture the tiles with Daw's head. "Come on—you're caught this time!"
"Gr-rr-r!" gurgled Daw. "Clug—gump!"
"All right," panted Billy in Jack's ear. "I've got it!"
Slowly the two boys allowed the infuriated master to regain his feet. He did so, and stood there, panting and scowling at them.
"You brats—you brats!" he gritted, between his teeth. "You infernal brats!"
"I fancy," said Jack quietly, "that we've put a finger in your pie—what?"
Mr. Daw took a step forward, and his eyes blazed with intense anger. It looked very much as if he would strike the cool youngster before him, but his hand fell to his side again.
"Yes," went on Jack, "we've just about spoked your wheel!"
Daw seemed to make an immense effort for self-control. He swallowed several times. Then, "I don't know what you mean, you insolent puppy!" he burst out. "And I'd like to know just what you mean by attacking your master in this disgraceful manner—and also what you are doing out of your dormitory at this time of night!"
"Well, I like that!" exclaimed Jack. "After you jumped on poor Billy here, and—"
"That was my mistake," said Daw, who had recovered a great measure of his composure. "I took him for a burglar, as was quite natural. No boy should be out of his dormitory at this hour. I was bent on capturing what I imagined to be an intruder. But your offence demands explanation—and I must have it, at once."
"What about the Black Star?" asked Jack boldly.
Daw's self-control was excellent. "Black Star?" he repeated. "You are trying to be impudent, I suppose! Well, you'll suffer for it, upon my word. Go back to your dormitory at once—I'll send for you in the morning."
He turned and stalked away, a tall, black figure passing the floods of moonlight that entered the row of windows. The three chums watched him out of sight with mingled feelings.
"Well," said Jack grimly, "that was quick work, with a vengeance! I don't know what really happened now, if you ask me. Billy, old chap, what on earth were you doing with the Star? Where did you find it?"
"That's what beats me," said Billy, scratching his tousled hair. "I was asleep, wasn't I?"
"You were, until that brute Daw bolted at you. Didn't know you were a sleep-walker, all the same."
"Nor did I, old fellow. I thought I was safe in my little bunk, and I woke up to find myself on the floor and Daw falling all over me. I tell you, it shook me up a bit! I didn't know whether I was asleep or awake."
"That's all right," broke in Fane, "but, you mysterious blighter, where did the Star come from? Seems to me this beats Conan Doyle and his spooks into a cocked hat. I suppose a bally spirit guided you to the spot, or something—ten to one it was Daw's room, and the blinking old thief bolted after you and tried to get the Star back. Does that fit?"
"My only aunt!" exclaimed Jack. "My head's fairly spinning with the business. Old Billy must have supernatural powers—any of your ancestors witches, or anything like that, old man? Come on, don't let us worry about the rotten affair any more to-night. I've bitten off more mystery than I can chew! Off to bed, and be jolly thankful that we've got the Star back again. It is the real Star, by the way, and not a fake?"
"Oh, it's the real Star all right," returned Billy. "It's not going out of my pocket until we can find an absolutely safe hiding-place. Twice lost and twice found! Bit of a record, don't you think?"
"Bit of whacking great luck," said Jack.
Billy grinned happily, overjoyed at the recovery of the Star, and the three of them trooped off to their dormitory.
The next morning Septimus Patch listened to a full account of the events of that memorable night, and regretted that he had been absent, "snoring," as he expressed it, "in a manner more worthy of a pig than an investigator."
"What do you make of Billy's find?" Jack asked him, and the inventor wrinkled his brows in perplexity.
"Well, for one thing," he said, "I don't believe that Daw had the Star. It seems incredible that Billy could have walked in his sleep and just collared the thing calmly! Look at it—the idea's piffle, plain piffle. No, the solution is something different, but I'm blessed if I can find—wait a moment!"
He held his head in both hands, and walked rapidly up and down the carpet of the study. Then he turned and looked out on the quadrangle for a few minutes. When he again faced his pals, they observed that his face was alight with what might prove the solution of the mystery.
"I believe I've got it, comrades," he said. "I believe I know what happened. Billy took the Star out of the hollow under the loose board, and hid it elsewhere. Last night he returned in his sleep and got it back again."
"My poor fellow!" exclaimed Jack. "It is so very painful."
"What's painful?"
"That rush of brains to the head! Doesn't your cranium feel tight—almost bursting?"
"Seriously, comrade." Patch's idea rode superior to Jack's frivolity. "Just cast your mind back over what happened. Billy had concealed the Star, but, of course, he didn't know that it was safe, even under the boards. The business preyed on his mind. It worked on him to such an extent that in his sleep one night he came and took the Star away—to put it in some safer place, goodness knows where.
"Then, we find that the Star is missing—how long after Billy shifted it, we don't know. But it was gone, we all know that. Billy here knew nothing about his sleep-walking—didn't even know that he was addicted to sleep-walking. And so he remembered nothing of having moved the Star. Of course, he worried some more about the thing, and did the same thing again—went out, got the Star from where he had hidden it, and was bringing it to another place, when Daw happened to spot him, and, of course, pounced on it."
"By Jingo!" said Fane, regarding Patch with an admiring eye.
"Yes, that's what happened, comrades. And goodness knows where Billy would have put it if he hadn't been pulled up—perhaps in the Head's waistcoat, or else up the fireplace. Lucky things panned out as they did, eh?"
"I keep telling Billy he ought to go on the Stock Exchange," said Jack. "His luck's blown in the bottle, all wool and a yard wide!"
"Of course, we'll have to guard against this sort of thing in the future, however good his luck is. Next time coincidences might fail to—to—"
"—to coincide," finished Jack brightly. "Exactly. The best thing for us to do is to let me hide the Star, and then Billy can't get at it without my telling him, sleep-walking or otherwise."
"That's the ticket! You take the thing and hide it in some secure place or other—be sure we don't make a miss of it, this time—and then you can tell Fane and me, but not Billy. I don't think I walk in my sleep, and, as for Fane, he walks often enough when he should be asleep, but that's a different matter."
And so it was arranged. Jack concealed the Star that afternoon, in the most unlikely of places. He got an old rubber-grip from a bat, and inserted the Star in this, while he tied both ends securely with twine. The whole thing he attached to a fine fishing-line. Walking along to the river, he flung the Star into the water, and fixed the end of the line to the root of a tree some six inches under water. The line would never be seen; and unless something very like a miracle occurred, the package could hardly be recovered from the thick mud at the bottom of the river. He breathed a sigh of relief.
"Well, it's safe enough there," he murmured, looking round him. He had been only a few minutes at work, and there was no one in sight. "And nobody's noticed," he added, strolling off in the direction of the school.
Still pondering the matter of the Black Star and all the trouble and excitement it had brought in its train, he was passing a clump of thorn-bushes, called by the College "Willy-Whiskers," when the hum of voices was borne to his ears by the breeze.
"Hullo!" said Jack, and pulled up. The place Willy-Whiskers was used, nowadays, only as a fighting-ground, when some particularly important encounter was mooted. Here the spectators could yell to their hearts' content, without fear of being "dropped on" by a passing master. Jack wondered. Was a fight in progress?
Irresolutely he moved forward; the sounds were totally unlike those usually accompanying schoolboy battles. Instead, it looked much as if there was a meeting of some sort being held in the heart of the thick tangle of thorn, the quaint shape of which had given it its name.
"... Those rotten Crees ... we'll be able ... shock of their lives ..." came the words, with significant gaps; and Jack immediately considered it his business to investigate. He thought that this was a meeting of the Calamitous Cripples, the rival society to the Crees—and he was not mistaken.
Approaching silently in the long grass, Jack Symonds peered curiously through the interstices of the jungle-like mass of thorn. There was Cummles, the renegade Cree, holding the floor, as usual; his fellows were asking him questions, to which he was replying confidently.
"We'll reel off as many copies of the notice as we'll want," he was saying. "The Crees will all fall for the wheeze, and everything should go well, with ordinary luck."
"How about the notice?" asked one of the Cripples.
"I've got a copy of it here," said Cummles; "we've got a jelly thingummy in our study that'll print off as many sheets as you like. I'll read it: 'Dear brother Cree, This is to let you know that a special banquet is being given by the under-signed in honour of Jack Symonds, Chief Cree, in the old Science room on Friday night next, at half-past nine. As it is intended as a surprise to the Chief, the matter must be kept a secret from him and his immediate friends. All Crees to be present. Signed, S. Fane.'"
"That's all right!" agreed the Cripples, readily. "But how does it go on then?"
"Why, it's just like falling off a log—they all crowd into the old Science room, and then one of us will slip out and lock the door. Then the fun starts. We've saved up lots of bottles of that sulphuretted hydrogen stuff—you know, that rotten-egg smell—and we're just going to let them loose on the poor beggars. And other things that I've thought of. When they're just about done, old Simpole here will light a flashlight affair and take their photo—all sneezing and wrinkling up their noses with snuff and the awful smells—and we'll circulate that photo, or copies of it, all over the House. We'll call it, 'A Meeting of the Crees,' or something like that. The Crees will just about buck up when they see it, and it'll be the most spiffing score this term. Think of them—all dancing and prancing there, looking as scared as a lot of boxed-up rabbits!"
"I vote it a bonzer scheme!" came the admiring voice of one of Cummles's friends. "The only thing is, will it work all right?"
"Will it work?" demanded Cummles indignantly. "I should just say it will! How on earth can it go wrong?"
His questioner subsided into silence, and then Jack deemed it prudent to move quietly away.
"Will it work?" repeated the Chief Cree to himself. "Well, rather! Only in a different way from the one these Cripples intend...."
He chuckled to himself as he threw open the door of Study No. 9. Billy Faraday and Patch were there, and they had a queer-looking contraption on the table that Jack did not remember to have seen before. Patch's fingers were liberally stained with black ink, and as Jack entered he scratched his forehead in a worried manner, leaving sundry streaks and blotches on his face.
"Hullo, Patchie!" exclaimed Jack. "What a dandy you are—always titivating yourself up. If it's not rouge or face-powder, then it's ink. A nice thick coating of tar would improve the appearance of your face wonderfully."
"Well, comrade, I do not grudge you your meed of humour. I know it's a bright spot in an otherwise gloomy life. But you might put it to better use—what about writing a funny column for our paper?"
"For your what?"
"Paper, comrade," explained Patch pityingly. "In the big cities they print the news on big sheets of paper, which people buy and often read. Ours will not stop at news, though. Critical comment on curious members of the school—frightful libels on all and sundry—all that sort of thing."
Jack's interest was now thoroughly aroused.
"What," he said, "you're not going to run a rival show to the Gazette?"
The Deepwater Gazette was the somewhat staid official journal of the College, which issued twice a year, and was religiously bought by the collegers, who read nothing of it excepting the sporting records. Patch showed, by a shake of his head, that he did not mean to push the official paper out of business.
"No, comrade," he said; "our paper will be brighter, full of snappy snips, and nifty news, quips and jests. This is a small printing-press"—he indicated the machine on the table—"and we'll turn out any number of copies, and—"
"Hold hard," said Jack suddenly, interrupting him, "I've just remembered...."
He went on to tell the tale of the plot that the Cripples were preparing against them. When he had come to the end of his recital his companions whistled concernedly. But he went on—speaking in a low voice to them as they sat attentively listening to him—to outline a scheme for the reversal of the proposed jape. When he had finished they were both grinning broadly.
"Comrade," said Patch, "you have some of the elements of the practical joker in you."
"It'll be a tremendous thud for Cummles and his bright boys, at any rate," Jack assured him. "And Simpole isn't the only one who can take photographs!"
CHAPTER XIV
DOG-FACE
On the following Thursday afternoon there was a half-holiday, and Jack Symonds found himself suddenly without occupation. He had intended to go for a ramble into the bush behind the college, but at the last moment his proposed companion had been unable to accompany him. He was therefore at a loose end, but it was not in him to remain idle for long.
"What are you going to do with your useless self?" he demanded of Billy jocularly.
"Didn't you know? Some of us are going for a sail on the bay."
"Are you? What ripping luck! Any room for a bad sailor who doesn't know a mainbrace from a companion hatchway?"
"I think we can find room," said Billy. "Don't you think so, Patchie?"
"I do, comrade. That is, provided he doesn't get his feet in the scuppers or start dancing a jig on the keel."
"Good-oh!" said Jack. "Are you coming now? Yes? Half a mo', till I run down into the Gym. and change. I'll meet you at the landing stage."
A spanking breeze was blowing as the little party of five put off from the jetty and slid out carefully into the blue expanse of the bay. The steering and management of the little craft, which was merely an undecked skiff, was undertaken by Billy Faraday. The boat was fitted with a single balance lug sail, but it was fairly large, and soon they were running before the wind at a smart clip.
"By Jingo!" said Jack, smacking Patchie upon the back, "this is exhilarating, isn't it?"
"Yes, comrade, it's not bad. When we get a little farther out you may paddle your feet in the water," said Patch, kindly. "This, my lad, is the sea, the abode of the finny tribe—it is mainly composed of water, but there is a proportion of salt added, as you will observe if you drink about a quart of it."
"Get out," laughed Jack. "You're kidding me—aren't you? You're taking advantage of my youth and ignorance. And is it all wet?"
"Every drop," Patch assured him solemnly. "Think of it—all that immense mass, and not a dry spot anywhere throughout it. Doesn't the thought stagger you?"
"Now you put it in that way, it does," agreed Jack. "Beginning to blow a bit, isn't it?"
"Yes, comrade. If it keeps on blowing like this you'll have to hold on to your hat."
The playful wind caught Patch's words and tossed them away.
"You what?" yelled Jack.
"Your hat, comrade. You know what a hat is, don't you?"
"Yes—a thing the chap passes round after the cornet solo. I know. A cousin of mine had one once."
Jack's spirits, in fact, were becoming more and more volatile; this lively fooling only served to render him more buoyant than ever.
He now jumped up, making the boat rock perilously, and drawing a howl of protest from his fellow-mariners. Throwing out an arm he began to issue orders in traditional sea-dog style.
"Now then, my hearties!" he bellowed. "Lay on there, you pack of land-lubbers! Hoist the keel to the capstan-head—throw the main deck overboard! Step lively, now!"
"Oh, my only aunt!" groaned Patch, who felt distinctly unsafe in his position right underneath the straddling, swaying figure of Symonds. "You burbling lunatic—!"
"Belay there!" sang out Jack, unheeding. "Reel in the scuppers—make fast the poop!"
"Sit down, you're rocking the boat!" implored Patch in anguished accents.
"Unship the propeller-shaft—get a head of steam in the bowsprit!" came the amazing orders.
"Sit down!" wailed Patch. "You colossal idiot, sit—ouch! Gerroff!"
Jack had obeyed the order—quite involuntarily, as it happened. The bows of the boat had encountered a short, choppy sea, and Jack was sent flying into Patch's lap as a result.
"Wow!" gasped the inventor. "You're crushing—life out of—gerrup! Help!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" gurgled the three unfeeling spectators.
When the slight disturbance thus occasioned had quietened somewhat, the amateur sailors had leisure to observe that the sea had risen—had, in fact, developed a distinct chop. The breeze, also, had become appreciably harder.
"Jiminy, what do you call this?" asked Jack, as a lash of spray cut inboard, driven by the wind. "A giddy old gale, that's what it is!"
"Gale?" asked Patch superbly. "When you've been to sea as long as I have, my lad, you'll know better than to call a bit of a blow like this a gale."
"Well," sneered Jack, poking him in the ribs, "what's your name for it, then, my good admiral?"
"We sailors call this a stiff calm," said Patch, and the others yelled with laughter. "Yes, that's all it is to the man who knows the sea. You should just see a real gale, my boy! Why, I remember that in the Bay of Biscay I—"
He waved an arm grandly to emphasize the brilliant lie that he was evolving, but, at that moment, to a lurch of the boat, he slipped from his seat into the bottom-boards, where he lay floundering like a landed fish, in two or three inches of dirty water.
"Dear me!" said Jack, bending over him with a look of kindly concern. "Is that what you did in the Bay of Biscay? Poor fellow, what a time you must have gone through! And alive to tell the tale—alive and kicking," he added, as Patch's wildly-waving legs described in the air most of the problems of Euclid, together with some that Euclid never thought of.
"Ump! Ur!" said Patch, regaining his equilibrium with an effort.
"Don't say you've finished!" said Jack, clasping his hands in mock dismay. "You will do it again, won't you? I just loved that part where you stood on one ear—I thought that so clever!"
"It was quite unintentional," said Patch, wringing the water out of his trousers.
"You are too modest!" returned the irrepressible Jack. "Why, do you know how long it'd take me to learn all that? The best part of a year, and even then I'd have to—"
Amid the mocking laughter of Septimus Patch and the others, Jack found himself in the same plight as the unfortunate inventor had just quitted. A lift and twist of the boat upon a wave-crest, a slippery seat canted at an angle, had been the elements of his downfall. He lay upon his back, struggling.
"Well, comrade," grinned Patch, "that's very good for an amateur!" He stood over Jack's prostrate form, and began to recite. "Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling! The darling of his crew! No more he'll hear—"
At this moment the sail indulged in that whimsical operation termed by sailors a "gybe all standing"—it wriggled violently from side to side, and the boom struck Patch on the head as he endeavoured to dodge it.
"Help!" he howled, pitching head-first into Jack's lap as the latter sat at the tiller. "The giddy thing's run amok, or something—it just jumped at me and thumped me on the head. I tell you—"
"Let's hope you haven't hurt it," said Jack anxiously. "You ought to be careful with a head like yours—it's liable to break something! Don't sling it about in that wild way; you'll do some damage with it one of these days, and then you'll be sorry you didn't listen to the wise words of your uncle Jack."
"My boy," said Patch, "I begin to have a horrible suspicion of you. I think you've been trying to be funny! I thought you'd been looking queer all this trip—"
"Beloved One," Jack told him, "I haven't got to try to be funny. It comes sort of natural."
"Quite so, comrade, quite so. It's your face that does it. You happen to have been born with one of those faces that cause horrible merriment. A face that provokes ribald laughter. A face that—"
"I can't help my face," said Jack sorrowfully. "It is cruel of you to mention it, but I must tell the truth. Listen. When I was a child a careless servant let a tree fall on me and—"
"Ha, ha, ha!" roared the others, in chorus, but Billy's voice cut in with:
"Drop fooling, you chaps. We ran into a bit of a squall just then, and I don't think we'll go any farther. A bit of a sea working up. Wind against us. We'd better slip back while our luck's in."
Accordingly the boat was worked around, and plugged into the choppy sea that stretched between the vessel and the college jetty.
A good four miles of water had to be traversed before they would arrive at their destination, and Billy, although he did not mention his qualms to his companions, felt more than a trifle nervous about the return journey.
The aspect of the sea had changed wonderfully since they had set out on their trip. Banks of cloud piled angrily up in the south, grey and threatening; and the wind was now undeniably vigorous. Moreover, the sea had risen; the waves were swift and vicious, jumping at the boat in just that manner that the expert boatman dislikes. Added to that was the fact that the boat was small and heavily-laden.
"Jiminy," said Jack, "we're in for a blow on the way back." As he spoke the wind whipped the crest off a wave ahead of them and sheeted it over the occupants of the boat. The sail jumped and the mast groaned, and as Billy tacked expertly the boat heeled over dangerously, and unquestionably, without the drop-keel, the whole concern would have capsized.
Gust after gust now smote the vessel, and it required all of Billy's admirable coolness and splendid skill to keep them on their course.
"I don't like the look of the sky," said Jack suddenly to his friend.
"Neither do I, old man," returned Billy seriously. "It's getting very dark, and there's rain in those clouds, or I'm no judge."
Presently the hands were at work bailing out the water, for, despite all of Billy's management, some seas were shipped, and the boat was hardly of the kind to afford to become much flooded. And, most dismaying sign of all, the going became worse as time went on. Beyond question, the gale was growing.
The minatory rumbling of thunder now became audible, and the sky was rapidly overcast. In the consequent gloom, the boys lost sight of the far shore, which had previously been visible as a dark mass.
Crash! A tremendous peal of thunder seemed to split the heavens; it was directly overhead, which made it appear that the fury of the coming storm was directed particularly against the temeritous yachtsmen. Instantly down came the rain, sweeping over the sea in an enormous, sustained shower. The boys were wet through in an instant; and when, in a furious gust, the sail flapped against the mast, it was in wet folds.
Blinding as a close veil, the rain effectually sheeted out any sign of land whatever, and Billy Faraday felt a momentary qualm. He thought that it was now impossible to steer for shore, and he knew full well that there were only one or two places in the bay where a decent landing was possible.
"Look here," he shouted, above the roaring of the rain and the continuous smashing of waves on the bows. "Look here, you chaps—I think we'd better cut before the wind, and miss call-over. I'm not in love with our chances of pulling through this welter."
"But where will you make for?"
"Dog-face," replied Billy. Dog-face was the name of a small island in Deepwater Bay, and its name was the result of a fanciful resemblance of the place, on certain days, to the face of a bulldog. It was out of bounds, and rarely visited by the boys, who had to get special permits to do so. However, there were no attractions on Dog-face, and the permits were seldom called for.
"Dog-face," repeated Billy Faraday, "that's our chance! We're not going to barge into the rocks on the other side of the bay, by jingo! But Dog-face sports a bit of a beach, and I think I can make it...."
His companions nodded in silent agreement. After all, Billy knew best, and the boat was shipping more and more water as she went forward. The captain of the little craft, therefore, put her about with the skill of a veteran, and they were instantly running before the wind with the utmost speed and momentum.
"Gee!" gasped Jack. "If we miss Dog-face and slam into the rocks at this rate, then we'll just about go up in smoke!"
"Keep your eyes skinned, then!" said Billy between his teeth. "Hop down the stern, you chaps—we don't want to run our nose under water."
They tore through the boiling sea at a tremendous pace. Huge waves pursued them, but never seemed to catch up. The sail was as tight as a drum; a wave of foam curled away from the bows of the boat.
"If this goes on," said Billy, all at once, casting a glance behind him, "we'll have to lower sail. Wonder it doesn't pull the stick out of the boat!"
In a few minutes he cast an anxious look ahead of him and called on his companions to say whether they discerned any signs of the tiny island. It was a small place, and in the rain and the gloom they might easily run past it. But then Patch gave a yell, and pointed.
"There it is, right ahead!" he cried.
"Good business!" said Billy Faraday. "We're safe!"
As if in mockery of his words, a colossal gust pounced on the boat and shook it as a terrier shakes a rat—and the thing Billy had feared came to pass. With a crack like a pistol-shot the mast snapped off short, and the sail and cords, in a tangled mass, collapsed over the bows.
Jack Symonds, impulsive as ever, leaped up to secure the wreckage; but the obstruction had brought the boat side on to the waves. That and his sudden movement were too much for the stability of the frail craft. As a following gust shrieked overhead the whole thing canted terribly over—and in a moment turned turtle.
CHAPTER XV
A JAPE GOES WRONG
Sudden as had been the accident, unexpectedly as it had swooped upon them, Billy Faraday had time to yell, at the top of his voice, a direction to the four others with him.
"Get ashore!" he cried; and had no time for more. He soused under the chilling flood; he went down and down, and finally, struggling, fighting for the surface, his head emerged, and he saw four other dark spots bobbing on the white, wind-whipped seas.
His advice had been sound. The island was comparatively close, and although the boat might be still afloat, if upside down, the shore offered the better chance of security. He struck out, and had the satisfaction of seeing the others do the same.
In point of fact, Patch could not swim more than a few strokes, and Jack was well aware of it. The two pals, who were always quarrelling in friendly fashion, were thrown out together, and Jack saw Septimus, after one or two wild strokes, vanish beneath the seas. He turned, and, rolling over on the surface, dived as cleanly as any Arab boy who plunges for pennies. He had been so quick that his hand caught at Patch's clothing, and in a moment he was hauling his chum to the surface. Arrived there, he made ready to swim ashore.
It was heavy going, for they were both in their clothes, and Jack was intensely grateful when a dark form slid over the waters and he recognized the overturned boat. With great difficulty he hauled Patch across the keel, where the young inventor hung on limply.
Shortly afterwards they felt the crunch of sand beneath the substance of the boat, and Jack knew that they were safe at last. Three drenched forms darted up and dragged the boat and its occupants ashore.
"I'd forgotten Patch was no swimmer," said Billy; "but we're safe enough now, thank goodness—this is Dog-face."
"Look here—there's an oar in the boat," said Jack. "We'll be able to scull back, at any rate, when the sea goes down."
"Better—one washed ashore before you came," said Billy. "We'll be able to row! But I'm thinking of how they'll be worrying about us back at Coll."
"Can't be helped, old fellow. Jingo, this wind's cutting!" He shivered. "I'm wet through—isn't there a place where we can shelter a bit?"
"We can look," returned Billy; and presently they set off to explore the island. All at once Jack stooped and picked up a jam-tin.
"Hullo!" he said. "Here's a jam-tin—wonder who was the tripper? Fairly recent, too—the jam's still fresh in the bottom."
"Show me, comrade," said Patch, taking the tin and peering into it, his detective instincts aroused. He glanced round him. "It's a funny thing," he went on, "but I can smell something burning—the smell of smoke. Any of you notice it?"
"No," answered Billy slowly. "Where's it coming from, then? Surely not from shore."
"Unless the old Coll's on fire," suggested Jack with a grin.
"No—I thought ... I say, comrade, look at this—there's a giddy old cave here!"
"Where?" asked Jack, pushing forward.
"There—underneath that clump of bush. I can see the opening quite plainly, and if the smoke's not coming out of there I'll eat my hat."
Leaping up, the schoolboy detective pushed aside the screen of bushes, and the opening to a cave lay disclosed. Patch ducked his head and made as if to enter, but Jack's voice arrested him in the cave's mouth.
"Hold hard, Patchie!"
"What's the matter?"
"If the smoke's coming out of there, then it's odds on that somebody's living in there. And they mightn't like you to butt in."
"Well, comrade, I'm cold and wet—surely they wouldn't refuse to let me come in and dry myself a bit?" He bent forward and yelled down into the opening. "Hullo, there! Anyone at home?"
There was no answer; he repeated the call.
"You see," he said to Jack, "there's nobody there. I'm going in, anyway. Coming?"
The five of them made their way through the narrow orifice which gave access to a cave of larger dimensions than they had expected. It was so dark that very little of the interior could be distinguished; the place smelt of tobacco, and there was a dying, smoky fire, which they could not fan into a blaze. Jack stumbled over a pile of bracken and a blanket.
"It seems to me that somebody's been here recently," he said. "In fact, they may get back at any moment."
"Not in this sea," returned Billy Faraday.
"All the same, it's probably a dirty old tramp, who'll hit the roof if he finds us here. I vote we get out—it's not very salubrious."
They returned to the beach, and sat down to watch the gradual subsidence of the storm. When Billy judged that the sea had gone down sufficiently, they put off and rowed for the College, which they reached about ten o'clock, under the fitful light of a moon that the clouds obscured from time to time. There was, they found, a good deal of high excitement at the school. During the storm, which had been quite exceptionally severe, the boys in the boat had been lost sight of, as it was impossible to see where they had gone; one moment, the telescope held them in plain view from the College—then, briefly afterwards, the blinding rain had sheeted down to conceal them entirely.
And, as their absence grew more and more protracted, the anxiety of boys and masters both had been very considerable.
Great was their satisfaction and relief when the storm-tossed boat came up to the jetty; Silver and a number of other seniors, who had been scouring the troubled waters in a launch, gave a cheer and helped them ashore.
Even old Salmon showed that there was a human being behind the dry pedagogic mask that he wore. "I'm glad you're safe, boys," he said, shaking them by the hand.
"Thank you, sir," answered Billy Faraday. "The storm came down very suddenly—we'd simply no chance of getting back. We were swamped, as it was. I'm afraid we broke bounds for once—we landed on Dog-face. Luckily, the boat and a couple of oars came ashore with us."
They were hurried up to the school, where they changed and imbibed generously of hot coffee, while a few privileged seniors and masters listened to the tale of their perilous trip. After which they went to their dormitory and to bed.
Jack Symonds lay awake long after the regular breathing of his companions indicated sleep. He was staring intently at an invisible ceiling, and remained so for quite a long time. He was ruminating over the various excitements of the day, and his mind seemed to dwell, for no apparent reason, on one detached incident—the discovery of that dark, smelly cave on Dog-face.
Somehow, his fancy was intrigued by the thought of that cave. He could not help feeling that there was some significance attached to it; he was aware that there was something—
"Jiminy!" The exclamation came so loudly, so sharply, that he feared he might have roused some of his pals. But they slumbered on. Two fellows were snoring on different notes, and their snores quarrelled comically; somebody groaned and turned over in his sleep; no other sounds could be heard.
Jack resumed his thoughts; that exclamation had betokened a discovery—light, in fact, was dawning on his mind. Now he could see what he had been thinking of. Ah! Of course ... Humbolt.
Was it a fact, he wondered, that "Tiger" was the occupant of the cave? The man, he knew, was lurking in the vicinity somewhere—what was more natural than that he should have selected the unknown hole, hidden away on deserted Dog-face, as his place of concealment?
"I wonder!" said Jack to himself. The idea seemed to hold water. Humbolt hiding on Dog-face! A little startling, but quite likely. Jack smiled grimly at the thought that, if his suspicions were correct, it was fortunate that Tiger had not found the intruders in possession of the lair. "Might have turned nasty," he murmured.
"Or, perhaps, it is only an old tramp ..." reflected the boy, turning over, and yielding himself to sleep.
In the morning Jack awoke, conscious of having forgotten something. Not the Humbolt suspicion—that could wait. Then he remembered. To-day was Friday—the great day fixed by the Cripples for the downfall of the Crees.
"Jingo," said Jack, "I'd nearly forgotten. Patchie, you old impostor, what about the bean-feast to-night?"
"Bean-feast, comrade?"
"Certainly. Aren't you going to the great banquet, spread or luncheon, that the Crees are giving in the old Science room?"
"Comrade, it had escaped my mind for the moment. However, I believe I am right in saying that all is in readiness for knocking the stuffing out of the despicable Cripples?"
"That's so, my genial old lunatic! And how progresses the Busy Bee—that organ of wit and learning?"
Patch smiled, and indicated a pile of printed sheets that lay on the study table. "Those," he said, "are the inside pages—we're having eight pages in all. The remaining four pages will not go to press until—"
"Exactly," chimed in Jack. "Until—what?" And, winking at his pal, he laughed heartily.
"It occurs to me, comrade, that we could make a bit of capital out of the adventure of yesterday—what? Written up in terse, vivid style by our friend Billy, it should form a regular scoop for the Busy Bee."
"Of course—write it up as much as you like, but don't get too personal. I refer to our youthful pranks in the boat. Won't do to have Lower School getting a false notion of their seniors!"
And Jack, who cared nothing at all for his dignity as a member of the Fifth, grinned widely.
Nothing of particular importance happened during the day. Perhaps that was because all minds, Cripples and Crees alike, were looking forward to the night. The Cripples were looking forward to the downfall and abasement of the Crees. But the Crees, curiously enough, were expecting the same thing about the Cripples. And with more reason.
Cummles and his gang concealed themselves in the shadow of an ivy-clad wall in close proximity to the old Science classroom, which, for some reason or other, was at the present time quite unused.
They had not long to wait. In twos and threes the Crees came slinking through the darkness, to avoid possible detection at the hand of any master who might happen to be passing. The little parties vanished into the old Science room, whence arose, in the course of a few minutes, the murmur of talk.
"Got them beautifully," whispered Cummles, overjoyed at the success of his plan. "They're waiting for Symonds and the other heads, but they'll wait a long time."
Jack, who with Billy Faraday and Patch, was hidden on the other side of the wall, could not help smiling at the misplaced confidence of the fellow. But the three of them remained quiet, and awaited further developments.
These came, but only after an uneasy quarter of an hour. One of the Cripples had locked the door, and the sulphuretted hydrogen had been duly released, but no wails or lamentations issued from the old Science room.
On the contrary, the place was as still as the grave.
"They're keeping jolly quiet," whispered one of Cummles's lieutenants to his leader.
"Y-e-s," agreed Cummles, inwardly a bit chagrined to think that the Crees were taking their medicine so quietly. Then suspicion smote him. "I say," he murmured, "we'll just open the door and see what's happened. Seems to me that gas might have laid them all out, or something. Be funny if—"
Moving silently forward, the Cripples approached the door, and stood there in perfect silence—a silence matched only by that on the other side of the door.
"Well!" said Cummles, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, and whipping open the door. The disagreeable smell from the bottles came to their noses, and one or two drew back.
It was just at that moment that one of the fellows at the rear sang out, in a loud, yet guarded voice: "Look out, you chaps—here's old Salmon."
A dark figure was certainly approaching from the direction of the school buildings, and it looked as if the Cripples were cornered. But necessity drove them; and, led by Cummles himself, they all bolted into the classroom and closed the door.
It would have caused them a trifle of concern had they known that the figure was merely that of Jack Symonds; and that the supposed Cripple who had given the alarm was none other than Faraday himself. Billy had, as a matter of fact, joined the band in the shadows, and the rest had been easy. In the darkness he had escaped recognition; and the trick played by the Crees worked with smooth certainty.
Now, indeed, the tables were turned with a vengeance. The Crees, forewarned, had merely passed through the room and had made their exit by a window, which they were careful to close and shutter up behind them.
During the time of their supposed tortures, they had been quietly awaiting events elsewhere; and now the Cripples were securely captured. Billy Faraday sprang forward and turned the key that Cummles had carelessly left in the door; and he laughed quietly in the darkness.
"We've got them by their giddy wool, what?" he chuckled. "Ever see anything so neat?"
"We've done them brown," was Jack's opinion. Bending forward, he yelled through the keyhole: "Cripples ahoy! This is our dirty r-revenge!"
Cummles had realized as much when he found the room void of its supposed inmates.
"Let us out, you scugs!" he spluttered, half-choking with the abominable odours of which the room now fairly reeked.
"Nice and comfy in there?" demanded Jack. "Air a little close, perhaps!"
"Wait till next time, you Hottentot!" was the ungentlemanly retort.
The Crees had gathered round, and were enjoying the joke immensely. "Do you like snuff?" inquired Jack pleasantly.
"You—you—" choked Cummles, horrified. He knew that large bags of snuff were fixed in the rafters, and that a twitch cord that led outside would tip them up. He was unaware how Jack had come to know of the existence of the snuff, but it was evident that Jack did know—and, what was more, intended to use it.
"Easy on, Symonds!"
"Snuff said!" joked Jack in reply, and gave a pull to the cord that retained the snuff in position.
"I say, this is—arrh! atchoo! This is—hum-hum-atchoo! atchoo!—a bit thick—at-choo! at-choo!"
"Symonds, you beas—'-choo!"
A volley of sneezes threatened to lift the roof off. The Cripples were ready to die with sneezing and breathing the foul gases that pervaded the place, but Jack had not finished yet.
"I say—want to come out?" he inquired.
"Yes—shoo! Arr-rum! At-choo! Quickly, let us—at-choo!—out!"
"Well, listen," dictated the calm voice. "You must all go down on your knees and humbly beg to be let out—get that?"
"Yeshoo! Yes! Hurry up! Atchoo! Hishoo!"
"If I open the door and find you another way," insisted Jack, "I'll keep you here for another ten minutes!"
"All right! Hishoo! At-choo!"
"Right! All down on your knees?"
"Yes."
"Look up and look pretty," urged Jack, flinging open the door. The Cripples were heartily sick of their confinement in that room of terrors. They were all kneeling, to a man, with running eyes and moist noses and contorted faces, begging for deliverance.
"Now, that flare—sharp!" rapped out Jack; and as he said the words an immense flare of light, blindingly white, threw the whole room and its suffering occupants into being. The Cripples, too surprised to move, remained in their attitudes of meek supplication, and Jack Symonds laughed outright at the mere sight of them.
Patch, though, was directing the lens of a big stand-camera on the scene, while Billy Faraday held aloft the flare.
"Thank you, gentlemen!" said Jack crisply, as the flare faded. The surprise of the Cripples gave place to anger—they were furious, realizing that they had meekly sat—or rather kneeled—for their photographs.
"Get 'em—hishoo!" cried Cummles; but as he dashed forward Jack and the others whipped up the camera and made off. They did not care about standing there and listening to the polite conversation of the Cripples.
As for the latter, they were a sadly disgruntled lot as they sneaked back to their dormitories, muttering threats of murder and sudden death against the victorious Crees.
CHAPTER XVI
BILLY VANISHES
One of the cricket features of the Deepwater College year, although it was no part of the school competitions, was the traditional match against Windsor, which was held in the mining town about the end of the season.
The cricketers of Windsor were keen, and generally managed to make a decent struggle. Last year, in fact, they had beaten Deepwater; and the collegers were burning to avenge that defeat this time. But, as sometimes happens, there was a dearth of good cricketers at the College—their team was lacking the one or two brilliant players that pull a side out of the ruck.
"All mediocrities, every man Jack of 'em," said Martin, the captain of cricket at Deepwater. "If they all played on their top form, we'd scratch up an average score. But the worst of the beggars is, they're so jolly unreliable. Might make a good hatful of runs one day, and a blob the next."
Silver, who was a fair bat when he got really set, nodded in gloomy sympathy. "And this year we want a Trumper so badly," he replied. "Remember the way the townies jeered at us last time? And they didn't beat us by much. This year, it seems to me, matters will be worse. Why, if London, or Scott, or any of our green men get the barracking really warmly, then they'll just crumple up. Almost puts me off my play, and I'm an old bird. Martin, old chap, it looks bad."
"Well, better luck next time," said Martin.
Screw, the third selector of the team, a player from Cooper's House, sighed and cast his eye over the team-list, which, scribbled hastily in pencil lay on the study table before them. "This is an inclusive team—not an exclusive," he remarked, tapping his teeth with his pencil. "What about Faraday—is he worth his place?"
Silver considered. "Well," he answered, at length, "that fellow's a bit of a puzzle. One match he's a rattling good player, and the next he's a hopeless duffer. I suppose, though, he'd better go in. He's a good sort."
"Not that we want them because they're good sorts," said Screw sharply. "I've more than one decent bat over in Cooper's, and only I happen to have seen Faraday—"
"Oh, there's no question, when he's in top form," said Martin. "Look here, we've got the thing practically settled. What about drafting that notice out and getting it on the board? Turn the blighters out for practice—we've simply got to make some sort of a show."
When the Saturday appointed for the match came round, the show that the Deepwater fellows made was, as Silver said, "rather contemptible."
The Windsor team, electing to go to the wickets, knocked up a breezy 276—then came the great debacle. The School, despite its strenuous efforts, scraped together a mere 95.
"If only we'd topped the century!" groaned Billy Faraday, at the end of the first day's play, as it was a two days' match. "It mightn't have looked so bad, then. But now—!"
"We've got to pull up—that's the only thing," came the answer of Martin, across the luncheon-table. "Slog for all we're worth when we get in next time—and chance it. But, first of all, we'll have to shake up our dreadfully crook bowling. Of all the feeble lobs, those of Screw's were the feeblest and the lobbiest I ever saw."
"Here," protested Screw. "Here, I say—"
"Don't argue, Screwdriver, old boy! You know you were just absolutely off—"
"Well, you needn't—"
"No, but I choose to. I want to wake you up—to rouse you into something remotely resembling form! Mind, you're not the only one. I was worse myself. Only it's never any good relying on me."
"Rats," said Screw politely. He knew very well that when Martin assumed this flippant mood he was liable to do damage to someone or something. When Martin declared that it was no use to rely on him he meant that he was out to perform wonders. But as he led his team out into the field next day and gave the ball to Screw for the opening over of the second innings, his dogged chin was stuck out defiantly.
"Now, Screwdriver! This is a ball—for bowling with, not for serving up to the batsmen in suitable form for boundary hits. See whether you can hit the wicket. The wicket's the three little sticks with bits of wood called bails—"
"Gimme the ball," said Screw sharply; and Martin looked to see how the first ball of the innings would turn out.
Screw, with his mettle roused by Martin's chaff, took a short run and fired down a perfectly horrible delivery, that whizzed off the pitch and went a foot over the batsman's head. The next ball the batsman fumbled, and jerked out to cover. Martin watched for the next ball....
Then he gasped, and uttered a short exclamation of delight. The third ball had flicked the middle stump clean out of the ground!
"That's the stuff, Screwdriver! Up guards, and at 'em."
The next batsman took his stand with respectful attitude. The man who had just been dismissed was one of their star players, and the manner of his downfall was not altogether encouraging. Still—
He played his first couple of strokes very cautiously, then, when the last ball of the over was delivered, jumped out and smashed it to the boundary, four feet over the head of long-on. It was a great drive, and the town supporters yelled with pleasure.
Soon the home team were playing steadily, and had almost forgotten their inauspicious start. Confidence grew; there came out one Swan, a mighty thumper, who treated the bowling with arrogance. He was a big fellow, with the muscles of a giant, and the way he banged the unfortunate leather in the first over he received was horrible to behold.
The comments, audibly hurled from the onlookers, were not calculated to set the School team at their ease. When Screw went on to bowl there were alarming groans, for the luckless Cooper's House fellow, since his initial success, had descended rapidly from good bowling to mediocre, and from mediocre to shocking.
Martin's jaw projected more than ever, and he persisted with his bowling changes, but it was evident that he was getting no good out of them. About the only man in the team who hadn't bowled was Faraday, and when the skipper called him over he accepted the ball with no small qualms.
"I'm no Gregory, you know," said Billy deprecatingly.
"No matter—surely you're as good as any of the other chumps!" said Martin.
"A desperate move," commented Billy, walking back to begin his run.
He sent his first few balls so disgracefully wide as to evoke a storm of jeers from the town supporters, who, it must be confessed, had no scruples of sportsmanship to hold them in check.
With Billy, this sort of treatment meant that he would really wake up and show what he was made of. He raged inwardly, but he seemed perfectly calm as he strolled back from the crease, his leisurely gait drawing more comment from the crowd.
"What price Algernon?"
"Look out—he's going to bowl!"
"Don't hurry—all day yet!"
Billy was one of those fellows who are seldom disconcerted by chaff such as that. But he was stung; and showed it by the deadly intent he put into his next ball, which hissed furiously for the wicket in dismaying fashion. But the leviathan of the Windsor team whirled his bat and smote the ball generously.
Mid-on was in two minds about the ball. It was coming to him very fast, and would probably hurt severely if he stopped it. On the other hand, it was a catch—of a sort. He had not decided whether to try for it or leave it—which is a detestable state of mind for any fieldsman—when it was upon him. He made a belated, miserable attempt—and missed by feet.
Instantly the scorn of the townsmen was poured out upon him.
"Butter-fingers!"
"Get a bag!"
"Mind you don't get hurt, Percy!" piped an impudent treble, and mid-on blushed to the roots of his hair.
"The scugs!" muttered Billy savagely. He was feeling just about fed-up with the whole business, and the total lack of sportsmanship on the part of the crowd annoyed him intensely. At the same time, he showed no signs, but merely put all he knew into his bowling.
He sent along a fine delivery with his very next ball—and almost fainted with astonishment. The slogger, Swan, had almost missed the ball—and it was tipped fairly into the hands of Screw at short-leg. Screw held the ball and remained staring at it as if hypnotized. Swan opened his mouth, shut it abruptly, and stalked off the field.
"Good man!" yelled Martin. The crowd was silent, for they had been enjoying the slogging of Swan, and this fluke catch was not a satisfying way of getting a man out.
As for Billy, his determination was doubled. He got the next man, to his own intense surprise, before he was really set; and the score was beginning to assume a reasonable aspect—four men for thirty-nine runs.
Martin's hopes of victory began to soar, and the amazing Billy, in successive overs, whipped over two wickets for eight runs.
"Where on earth have you been living, all this time," demanded Martin of Billy, during a change-over. "Talk about hiding your giddy light under a bushel! Demon bowler, eh? Why, you'd give Spofforth fits! Keep it up, old chap, and I'll stand you the best feed you ever clapped eyes on."
Billy grinned. "This is my day out," he said in reply. As a matter of fact, he had become worked up by the treatment of the School by the onlookers, and the desperate state of the match. It was his way, in matters of pressing importance, to rise to the occasion; and no one could gain-say that he was doing so now. Martin put him on again.
When Windsor went out, in their second innings, for a mere fifty-two runs, the spectators could hardly credit their eyes. Why, they had expected a rattling fine inning from the first five men, and then a "declaration." This was most unusual! After all, there might be something left in the School side yet—it would all depend upon how they would bat.
It was early evident that the school were out to win the match by dogged run-getting. Martin and Silver played a careful partnership, taking no chances, until Silver obtained the confidence which he had so disastrously lacked in the first innings.
Once there, really "set," Silver looked round and began to play a faster and more open game. The Windsor team were sent scurrying all over the field, chasing the leather; and the score of Deepwater College rose notch by notch.
All the same, there was a considerable discrepancy still between the scores, and both sides were now striving with all their skill for a win. Doggedly as the School batted, sneaking every run that could possibly be sneaked, the Windsor team battered with an equal doggedness at their defences.
No longer, now, did the derisive comments come from the crowd. The finish had the appearance of being exciting—very much so; and flippancy was forgotten. Instead, roars of cheering greeted especially adroit moves from either side; any partisanship previously allowed to show was now lost in the expectation of a hard-fought finish.
Martin went out, with a useful score, and Screw came in. Screw was, generally speaking a rather weak sort of bowler, but as a batsman, the only word that aptly describes him is "furious." There was method in his dashing, wild-seeming attack, though; and his lively innings for thirty runs tickled the crowd immensely. He received an ovation from the town's supporters, and grinned happily.
"They didn't care for my bowling," he remarked to Billy Faraday, "but my innings seemed to please them."
"Rather! I say, isn't old Silver knocking up a score? He's sixty-four now, and once he's set he's liable to stay there for ever."
"That's Silver's way. It wouldn't surprise me to see him rake in a century. Now he's in the mood, and has his eye in, the bowlers can't shift him!"
"And if we've any sort of luck—"
"—we ought to win," completed Screw, with a twinkle of pleasure in his eye. "Jove—there's another boundary; go on, Silver! Silver!"
When Billy's turn came to bat, he felt distinctly nervous. He had had such incredible luck with his bowling that it was far too much to expect that his batting would be of the same fortunate brand.
He was second-last man, and a dozen runs were yet required to win. Martin could hardly contain himself as he watched the bowler's run up to the crease. By luck, or skill, or both, the School had almost pulled the fat out of the fire—and it would be tantalizing if they were to fail now—within sight of victory.
Martin held his breath as the ball was delivered. None knew better than he that Faraday was nervous—he could see it in the batsman's stand, his whole attitude. Martin stood and looked ... and then executed a wild leap of excitement.
"Oh, good man! Good man!"
"Hit like a Trumper, sir!"
It was a splendid carpet-drive to the boundary, and it clicked against the railings with a sound that could be heard all over the field. Martin simply gasped. If only those two men could knock up a dozen between them, then—!
"Then," he yelled, slapping Screw on the back, "then we win—we win!"
Screw was equally excited, and the two of them could scarcely wait for the ball to be bowled. That first drive had done Faraday good—immense good. It had cooled him and steadied him. He set out in earnest to notch those few runs necessary for victory. He played with judgment that sent Martin into ecstasies—played with judgment that baffled the fieldsmen, eager as they were, and ready as they were to make him pay for the slightest mistake.
"Oh, boy! That's done it!" roared the School team, as Billy lifted the ball into the outfield, and the score of Windsor was overtaken. The two scores stood level—dead level. The bowler looked grim, and compressed his lips. Couldn't he somehow flatten this batsman with his next ball: Wasn't it possible to make it a drawn game, even at this stage?
It wasn't. Billy snicked the ball past square-leg, and ran it for two.
"Good-oh, the Billy-boy!"
"Oh, you little pearl!" burbled Screw, almost speechless with joy.
The match was won—and by more than a margin. Billy and the last man knocked up twenty-eight runs between them, and of which Billy made twenty. Windsor found themselves up against a most unlooked-for defeat.
It was almost dark when the youngsters had changed and were ready for the char-à-banc which would carry them back to Deepwater.
"Well, we did it!" said Martin to Silver, as they sat in the vehicle. "We did it, old boy!"
"And young Faraday's come on wonderfully," returned Silver. "Where is he, by the way? Seems to me all the others are here now. What's keeping him?"
But Billy would have found a good deal of trouble in returning to the char-à-banc. After he had dressed, he was met at the door by a grimy-looking youngster, who, however, said that a friend of Billy's wished to see him.
"He's an old bloke," said the youth, and Billy wondered who the dickens it could be. Some obscure acquaintance, he imagined, who would talk rot about how finely he had played....
A motor-car was waiting in the gloom at the back of the pavilion, and after the glare of her headlights Billy found it difficult to recognize the man in the tonneau. He came forward questioningly.
"My dear boy, how are you?" said a strange voice.
"I'm afraid—" began Billy, and then gasped. For the man bent suddenly forward and gripped him fiercely by the throat!
Billy had no time to cry out, no time to call for help, even if the surprise of the moment had permitted. The clutch on his throat was the tightest and the strongest he had ever experienced; he was dragged ruthlessly forward till his chin met the side of the car, and at the same time a rag that smelt of some strange chemical was forced against his nostrils. He tried hard not to breathe, but the breath came, and with it giddiness—and darkness.
It had been chloroform—that was the word that his whole brain shouted, and it accompanied his nightmarish swoop into insensibility.
Back in the char-à-banc his companions were becoming a trifle impatient.
"Did any of you see where Billy got to?" asked Silver.
One of them knew—said that he had seen Billy speaking to the grimy youth at the door, but had thought no more about it.
"It's a funny thing—cut back and see whether he's in the dressing-room," said Silver.
But no; Faraday was not there—nor, indeed, anywhere in the neighbourhood. The team spent a fruitless half-hour in the search, and concluded that Billy must, for some strange reason or other, have gone back to Deepwater alone.
"Perhaps he met a friend who gave him a lift," suggested Martin. "But it's funny he didn't let us know."
"I believe Billy comes from Victoria, though," said Silver thoughtfully. "Would a friend of his be hanging around this place? Perhaps ... anyhow, we'll wait for a bit."
They waited, but as Billy did not show up within another quarter of an hour, they concluded that he had unaccountably gone on his own; and they set out for the College with some misgivings, but hoping that there was nothing wrong....
But before we follow them back to Deepwater it will be well if we turn back the hands of the clock a matter of some twelve hours, and glance at what had been taking place there.
In the first place, there had been a considerable sensation early in the morning, when a notice went up on the Salmon's House board; a notice that attracted a noisy, mystified, questioning crowd of juniors and seniors alike.