Twice a week, on half-holidays, Acton and Bourne ran over to the farm, to find the Coon waiting for them in the stable, smoking an enormous cigar as usual, and reading sporting papers on the corn-chest. Young Hill, the farmer's son, generally put in an appearance when the boxing was about over, and to Jack's utter disgust, plainly showed that he would rather that Jack was anywhere else than with Acton when the gloves had been laid aside. He seemed to have some business with Acton concerning which he evidently did not want Jack to hear a single syllable.
Jack did not quite see at first that he was one too many after the boxing was over, and that Hill, at any rate, did not mean there should be a fourth to the deliberations of himself, Acton, and the Coon. Jack, however, soon tumbled that he was de trop, and the minute young Hill came in Jack would stalk solemnly and formally out of the stable and kick up his heels in the farmyard until such time as Acton should be ready for the run to school.
Jack certainly did not like this cavalier treatment, but found it rather a bore pottering about the yard, "looking at the beastly ducks;" but Acton was so profusely apologetic when he did come out that Jack generally smoothed his ruffled plumes and pedalled home at peace with himself and all the world.
"The fact is, Jack," said Acton, "young Hill has arranged for me to have the stable for our practice, for old Hill himself was rather against it, and as he has a prejudice against St. Amory fellows generally, but especially when they're of the Junior School—some of your tribe scuttled his punt for him on the moat, didn't you?—I thought you would not mind humouring the man's amiabilities. The Coon and he talk rot—sporting rot—and it would only bore you to listen to it."
Jack said, "It does not matter in the least. I'd as soon look at the ducks as listen to Hill. It's a bit infra dig., though, that he should object."
As a matter of fact, young Hill received letters for Acton which dealt with many things, the burden of most of them being "betting," and the other sweet things of the sporting shop. Acton was, as you will have seen, not the very green innocent who would come to much harm in this lovely form of diversion.
A Little Yellow, Ear-torn Dog Bustled Out Of Some Shed.
About a fortnight after the visits to the Lodestone had commenced, the Coon brought down with him a long-legged, thin-faced, horsey-looking individual, who introduced himself to Bourne as Raffles of Rotherhithe, and who laid himself out to be excessively friendly to Jack. He took, evidently, quite a professional interest in the sparring, and told Acton that "his left was quite a colourable imitation of the Coon's."
"Not colourable, anyhow," said Acton, with a wink at Jack.
"What do you think, sir, of Alabama's 'blind hook'?"
Jack, who had not the remotest idea what a "blind hook" was, said it "was simply stunning."
"Exactly my idea, sir. I see you know above a bit about the noble art."
Raffles, as he would have said in his own special slang, worked the "friendly lay" so well upon Jack, that that young gentleman was captured to the last gun; you can do an awful lot of execution by deferring to the opinion of a young man of sixteen, or thereabouts, as to the merit of relying exclusively on the left.
When the sparring was over, Raffles shuffled out with Jack into the yard and whistled. A little yellow, ear-torn dog bustled out of some shed and trotted demurely by Mr. Raffles' right boot.
"See that dog, Mr. Bourne?"
"By the way, Raffles, how did you know my name was Bourne?" asked Jack.
"Mr. Acting mentioned that it was so. No offence, I hope, sir?"
"Oh no!" said Jack.
"Mr. Acting mentioned to me as how Warmint might amuse you."
"Warmint! What the deuce is that?"
"Why, the dawg."
"Well, it's a pretty ugly brute anyhow, Raffles."
"It is so; it's the colour—yellow is a mean colour. But he's a terror to go."
"Where?" said Jack, uncivilly; for the man's manner, a mixture of familiarity and servility, had begun to pall on Jack's taste.
"Why, there ain't a better, quicker, neater dawg in all London after the rats than Warmint. He holds the record south the Thames."
"Is there a record then for rat killing? How is it done?"
"Turn a sack o' long tails on to the floor and let the dawg among them. He works against time, of course."
"Have the rats any chance of getting away?"
"No fear."
"Ugh!" said Jack, looking at the mongrel with intense disgust.
"Is time for twenty—but I say, Mr. Bourne, if you like I'll bring a bag o' rats down, and you can see for yourself. While the other gentleman, Mr. Acting, is with the Coon, we can bring it off in the barn."
"Man alive, no!" said Jack, with another spasm of disgust; "but if you've any other plans, Raffles, of killing an hour or so whilst Hill makes speeches, trot 'em out. I'm sick of pottering round his yard like an idiot. Are you coming with the Coon again?"
"Pretty well every time. What do you say to a little game of billiards?"
"Where?" said Jack.
"Nice little 'ouse near 'ere, I know."
"No fear! That's clean against the rules. Besides, who wants to knock balls about with a sticky cue on a torn billiard cloth, where the whole place reeks of beer and stale tobacco? No, thanks!"
"Young gents used not to set so much store by rules when I was a lad."
"We've changed since then, Raffles," said Jack, drily.
"A little shooting?"
"What?"
"Sparrers?" suggested Raffles, off-hand.
"Rot!"
"Bunnies?"
"That's better, Raffles. If you can get me half an hour with Hill's rabbits, I'd risk that. Of course, there'd be a row if it was known. Acton won't inquire, I fancy, who's shooting?"
"Mr. Acton won't, Mr. Bourne; he's a gentleman."
"He's a monitor, though, Raffles, which is a different sort of animal."
Raffles of Rotherhithe did not appear to think that Acton's being a monitor was a clinching argument barring young Bourne's sport. Perhaps he had private reasons for his opinions. Anyhow, he glibly promised to have a breech-loader and a ferret for young Bourne on the morrow.
"And old Hill? They're his rabbits, you know."
"That will be all right. Take Dan Raffles' word for it."
"Now look here, Raffles; I'll give you sixpence for every rabbit I shoot, and I'll pay you for the cartridges. You'll keep all the rabbits, but you will lend me the gun."
"Very good, sir," said Raffles, smartly.
"And, Raffles," said Jack, eyeing over that individual with a curious mixture of amusement and dislike, "you needn't be too beastly friendly and chummy. I'm going to pay you for what you do, and don't fancy I'm going an inch further than I feel inclined. I'm paying the piper, and I'm going to choose all the tunes."
"Orl right," said Raffles, considerably taken aback by the ultimatum. "I'll not be friendlier than I can 'elp."
"Don't," said Jack.
Aided by Raffles of Rotherhithe, young Bourne went royally through half the rules of the school. He called the tune to that extent. In the first place, one may believe that when he called in the aid of that horsey gentleman he had no further idea in his head than that of passing away those dull half-hours which Hill inflicted upon him.
But, like many a wiser man, young Bourne found it was easier to conjure up a spirit than to lay one, and, having once accepted the aid of Raffles, he found it beyond his power to dispense with it, despite his brave word. So, unheedful of his brother's advice, he not merely put his innocent feet into the stream of forbidden pleasures, but waded in whole-heartedly up to the chin.
Raffles, as promised, turned up on the next occasion provided with a ferret and a gun, and all difficulties were smoothed over with the farmer. Thus Jack Bourne took his post as the noble British sportsman just behind the Lodestone Moat, whilst Raffles, with his ferret, worked the bank, which was honey-combed with rabbit-holes. As the rabbits scurried out before the ferret, Jack blazed away noisily, and occasionally he had the pleasure of seeing a rabbit turning a somersault as it made its last bound. Certainly, Jack was not a dead shot, but when he contemplated the slain lying stark on the flanks of the bank, he felt the throaty joy of the slaughtering British schoolboy. He counted out to his worthy henchman four sixpences for the four slain with all the pride of the elephant-hunter paying his beaters yards of brass wire and calico. Raffles was properly grateful, of course.
Then, as their acquaintance progressed, there were little competitions between Jack and Raffles at artificial pigeon-shooting, Raffles having fixed up the apparatus, and Jack, from the twenty-five yards' mark, occasionally winged his clay pigeon. It was very good sport in Jack's opinion. Further, that little "'ouse" which Raffles knew of also soon made the acquaintance of Jack, and he and Raffles on rainy afternoons snatched the fearful joys of hasty "hundreds up" or "fifties up," just as time allowed, Jack did not find the cue quite so sticky nor the charms of stale tobacco quite so unlovely as he had expected. The landlord, who marked for the two worthies, told our young gentleman that he had "a pretty 'and for the long jenny," and Jack felt he could not do less than order a little of his favourite beverage in return for his good opinion. And thus as ever. Under the expert tuition of Raffles, Jack became a little more of a "man" every day, and a little less of a decent fellow. He smoked, he could call for a "small port" in quite an off-hand fashion, he had played "shell out" with loafers at the little "'ouse," and he began to know a little more of betting, "gee-gees," and other kindred matters, than an average young fellow should know.
"Facilis descensus Averni"—you know the old tag.
By insensible gradations Jack Bourne found himself with a ruin of broken rules behind him, and still tied to the chariot-wheels of Raffles, who dragged him wherever he would. Jack's pockets, too, began to feel the drain, but luckily—or unluckily, if you look at it properly—he was rather flush this term, and as he had more than the usual allowance, he was not so short as he might have been.
One thing bothered Jack, though he did not exactly put the idea that worried him into words. There was not much fun really in this shooting, billiards, etc., since Jack broke all the rules alone. Now, if Poulett, or Wilson, or Rogers, or Grim had been with him, that would have been jolly. Besides that, since he could give his old chums so precious little of his time, and had perforce to head them off when they offered to bear him company on half-holidays, they called him many choice names.
"I hear they sample all the public-houses between here and Westcote," said Rogers. "Look what a dissipated eye Mr. Bourne's got."
"Yours will soon be groggy, Rogers, my pet, though you are cock of your beastly water-lilies." After Sharpe's memorable poem, Biffen's house were always "water-lillies" to the rest of St. Amory's.
"Ah?" said Poulett, "Jack carries Acton's notes to some yellow-haired dolly down at Westcote. She gives him milk whilst he's waiting for the answer."
"Go and poach eggs, Poulett."
"Don't do anything too mean, dear Jack, so that you'll make us blush for you."
"Keep Acton out of mischief, Jack, remember he's only a poor forsaken monitor. Show him the ropes."
"Good-bye, you chaps," said Jack, hopping on his bike, "here's Acton coming." The two would then pedal the well-known road to the Lodestone, and the elevating company of the Coon and Raffles.
"Don't let Raffles bore you, young 'un," said Acton to Bourne one day as the owner of Warmint hove in sight. "Make him useful, but keep out of mischief."
Jack, had he thought about the matter, might have reasonably asked Acton how he could make Raffles useful and yet keep out of mischief, but the Coon appearing at the stable-door in all the glory of a fur-lined coat, with a foot of fur round the collar and half a foot round the sleeves, and a bigger cigar than ever in his mouth, drove Jack's thoughts in another direction.
Acton had really made marvellous progress under the Coon's coaching, and as Jack watched the usual concluding three rounds, he was puzzled in his own mind as to who could hold a candle up to his friend. This particular afternoon was to be the final appearance of the Coon, who was going to figure shortly as principal in some contest at Covent Garden, and Jack determined to miss no opportunity of catching the last wrinkles of the great professor's skill. Therefore, instead of sallying out as usual halfway through the performance in the stable, he sat on the corn-chest until Hill came in.
"Good-bye, Coon! Hope you come off all right in your turn-up."
"Good-bye, sir! Hope I'll train you when you start for the Heavy."
"I'll give you the chance if I do. Come along, Raffles."
When they were outside, Jack said, "By the way, Raffles, this will be your last appearance down here too, eh?"
"I suppose so," said Raffles, "unless you make it worth my while to come down entirely on your account."
"H'm, no," said Jack. "I'm deucedly short now, and when I've paid for the last fifty cartridges, and the last rabbits, I'll be still shorter."
"Let it stand over, sir."
"No," said Jack. "I've had the fun, and I'll pay, of course. Let's have a last dozen pigeons at the twenty-five yards' rise."
Secretly, Jack was rather glad that Raffles' rôle of entertainer was finished; for his stolen pleasures had lost a considerable part of their original sweetness, and their cost was heavy. It would be quite a change, too, to get back to Grim and the others, and be the ordinary common sort of fellow again.
Raffles went and wound up the throwing apparatus, and set the clay pigeon on the rest. Jack took his breech-loader, raised it to the shoulder, and said, "Ready!" Raffles pulled the string, the dummy bird rocketed up, and Jack pressed the trigger.
For one second afterwards Jack did not rightly know what had happened. There was a blinding flash before his eyes, a something tore off his cap, and something stung his cheeks like spirts of scalding water. His left hand felt numb and dead. This all happened in the fraction of a moment.
Jack looked at the gun in stupid wonder. The breech was clean blown out! With a groan of horror, he dropped the gun. He realized that he had escaped death by a miracle. He put up his right hand to his face, which felt on fire, and stared blankly at Raffles.
That worthy was scared out of his wits; but when he saw Jack was more or less alive, he managed to jerk out—
"That was a squeak, young shaver! Hurt any?"
"Don't know," said Jack, blankly.
Raffles anxiously examined him, and it was with no end of relief he said—
"Clean bill, sir—bar those flecks of powder on your cheek. Considering—well you're—we're—lucky."
"Rather," said Jack, dizzily. "That's my cap isn't it?"
Yards away was Jack's cap, and Raffles brought it. His face was white—white above a bit. There was a clean cut through the brim, and a neat, straightforward tear-out of an inch or so of the front just above the crest.
"Well," said Raffles, looking narrowly at that business-like damage. "All I can say is you're lucky."
"Lucky! Yes," said Jack. "I suppose I'd better go. Let's have the thing. An inch lower down, and I'd have had that piece of barrel in my head—or through it. It wants thinking over."
"I suppose, sir, you're going to——"
"Oh, the cash you mean! Eh?"
"Yes, that was my meaning."
"Your cash will be all right, man. Come down for it on Friday—can't you?"
"How if I can't, young shaver?" said Raffles of Rotherhithe.
"Then do without it! Anyhow, I'm going now—I'm too sick."
"All right," said Raffles, sulkily. "On Thursday."
Jack, without another word, stumbled across the fields into the farmyard, and luckily found Acton ready for home. He shakily dropped into his saddle; and, with a mind pretty busy, he tailed wearily after Acton to St. Amory's.
After tea that day Acton went down to the farm solus, not having, as you will presently see, any need of Jack's company, even if Bourne had felt any desire to accompany him, which he didn't.
The monitor tinkled his bell, and in answer to the ringing, Raffles lounged out of a barn, the inseparable Warmint trotting at his master's heels.
"Suppose we'd better go into the stable, Raffles."
The odour of the Coon's afternoon cigar still hung about the place, and the stable was half dark, but as Acton had an idea that his conversation with Raffles would not be a short one, and the night was rather cold, they went in.
"Fire away, Raffles. Start at the beginning."
"Very good, sir," said Raffles, seating himself on the corn-chest. "Agreeable to instructions received from Mr. Acting——"
"Acton," suggested that gentleman.
"Acting—I said so, didn't I? Very well! Agreeable to instructions received from you, sir, I prepared——"
"Don't be so beastly legal, you ass!"
"Let a cove tell 'is tale 'is own way, sir. We'll get on better like that. As I was going to say, following your tip, I prepared to show that young shaver, Bourne, a few things which as you told me he ought not to know of, and to do a few things which you told me he ought not to do—in fact, to put him on the way of breakin' every blessed rule that that beak of your school 'as drawn up for the guidance of the youth and the beauties under 'is 'and. What's the name of the beak, sir?"
"Oh, Moore!" said Acton, impatiently.
"The young shaver spoke of 'im different."
"Corker, perhaps," said Acton.
"That's it," continued Raffles. "Well, Corker 'asn't got a thoroughbred greenhorn in Bourne, Mr. Acting."
"No. Young Bourne's head is on his shoulders, more or less. Get on."
"Well, we opened the ball with a little bunny-shootin', for he couldn't stand Warmint's workin' among the rats. He shoots moderate straight, so I doctored his cartridges, or he'd have cleared out the bank. Not more than two in the half-dozen, sir. And then he couldn't understand it. What might Corker say to the bunnies, sir?"
"Oh, a thrashing, perhaps, and a stringing up for the rest of the term."
"We went to the Blue Cow on wet days. Billiards, beer, and 'baccy, Mr. Acting, was the true bill there. What's the law on those fancy articles?"
"A thrashing for first course, and et ceteras which you wouldn't understand."
"Well, he's earned 'em. We couldn't do any betting on the horses, since the Lincolnshire Handicap is not in sight yet, but he fluttered a little on the Sporting Club matches; and he was lucky—more than ordinary."
"You didn't wing him there, then?"
"Nothing to speak of. He may have dropped half a sov. altogether, but I doubt it."
"Then, Raffles, you're a fool. Do you think I brought you down here to be moral instructor to young Bourne, you grey old badger? Couldn't you bag an innocent of sixteen or so? Besides, what the deuce do you mean by tipping me the wink as Bourne and I used to get on our 'bikes'? You always did it, and I thought you were winding up the youngster hand over hand."
"Them winks," said Raffles, diplomatically, "was meant to show that I was moving—moving slow, but sure. You've observed, Mr. Acting, yourself, as 'ow the young shaver had a head on 'is shoulders."
"Yes, but I didn't bargain for yours being off your shoulders."
"Well, what with bunnies, cartridges, and the Blue Cow, and the other extras, he is about cleaned out now."
"Cleaned out!" said Acton, with intense irritation. "That's not what I wanted. I told you distinctly that I must have him five pounds deep at the least. How can I engineer my schemes if my sharpers can't cut? You'll look blue, Raffles, when I settle your account, take my word for it."
"Not quite so quick off the mark, Mr. Acting. What do you value this piece of ironmongery at?"
Raffles fished up the gun which had burst in Jack's hands that afternoon from behind the corn-chest, and held it up to the light.
"A burst gun!" said Acton. "It's worth throwing away; no more."
"It was worth this morning, say fifteen bob, before Bourne blew its ribs out."
"Jove!" said Acton, "let me handle the thing." He looked at the torn breech, and whistled with involuntary horror. "Much of a squeak, Raffles?"
"Touch and go, sir. He'll never be nearer pegging out than he was this afternoon; for he scraped the gates of his family buryin'-place, in a manner of speakin.' It went clean through his hat—rim and crown."
"Did he know his luck?"
"Nobody better."
"He looked more than average queer as we trotted home. I thought he was digesting your little bill, Raffles."
"No; he only owes me a matter of shillin's. But I could say that I ticketed the gun at £5 or £6, when the old shooter wasn't worth——"
"Fifteen bob," said Acton, looking at the worn barrel.
"See where I have—where you have—the youngster tied neatly up? He owes me—or you—seven, eight, nine pounds, or any fancy figure I—or you— like to mention for that old piece of iron there."
"Raffles, we're in luck! Luck has served me better than all your downy work."
"It has," said that bright specimen of humanity, regretfully. "I can't pretend that I'd any hand in the blowing out of them blessed barrels."
"All right, Raffles; don't weep. You'd have done it, of course, if you'd thought about it," said Acton, with a curious sneer; "but this is my plan—as far as you're concerned. When young Bourne comes, you're to ask for £7 10s. And you're to be an adamantine Jew; you're to have the money instanter, or there'll be a rumpus."
"I twig. Make it seven guineas, though," said Raffles, generously.
"Seven guineas! So be it. You can suggest that, unless you get the cash, you would see Moore."
"Corker, D.D.? I'm on."
"Or Bourne, senior."
"The shaver's brother. I'm tumbling to the dodge."
"Bourne will curl up at this."
"Naturally."
"But you're still the blood-thirsty Jew."
"Moses, and Aaron, and the rest."
"You'll suggest at last that I be tackled for a loan."
"And you'll lend it him!" said Raffles, with an unspeakable leer.
"The business wants careful handling, remember. Young Bourne will think twice about borrowing, and, perhaps, if he could keep me out of it, would stand your racket, or Corker's either. So drive him lightly."
"You'll see him on the borrowing tack to-morrow, Mr. Acting."
"And the rest is my business."
"Where do I come in?"
"You can cleave to the seven guineas—if you earn 'em."
"Seven pounds ten, Mr. Acting."
"Seven pound seven, Mr. Raffles. Your own proposal."
"Orl right," said Raffles, resignedly. "I think I know them ropes."
"Good!" said Acton. "Then you can scuttle now to Rotherhithe, or where the deuce else you like. I'm off."
Acton wheeled out his bicycle and melted into the gathering dark, and his jackal lurched off to the station and reached Rotherhithe to dream of his seven guineas which he was going to get. Raffles felt sure of those seven guineas.
As I said before, Jack Bourne, after the first bloom of his forbidden pleasures had worn off, rather repented of the Raffles' connection, and would gladly have exchanged it for the old, easy, open, and above-board society of his chums. Grim, Rogers, Wilson, Poulett, etc., were, on their side, rather sore at Jack's continual desertion of them and their causes. They had just seen him pedalling easily after Acton, throwing them a rather mirthless joke as he ran past, and they had, naturally, held a council to consider matters.
"Wherever can the beggar get to is what I want to know," said Wilson.
"Can any one tell me what he wants with Acton?" said Grim.
"I think that it's Acton that wants him," said Rogers. "Come to think of it, Grimmy, you're Acton's man. Why doesn't he lag you?"
"Grimmy's not to be trusted. He'd read the billet-doux"
"I don't believe that there's any notes, Wilson," said Grim, impressively, "in this business. It's something deeper than that."
"What's the mystery, Mr. Grimmy Sherlock Combs?"
"Poachin'," said Grim, solemnly.
"What!" exclaimed the other, with breathless interest.
"Dunno, quite," said Grim; "but that young ass dropped a cartridge from his pocket the other day."
"There's nothing to poach here, Grimmy."
"There's Pettigrew's pheasants," said Grim, mysteriously.
"But you don't shoot them in March."
"We don't, Poulett, but poachers do."
"Tisn't likely that Acton——"
"Well, don't know," said Rogers, reflectively. "He's lived so long in France, where they shoot robins and nightingales, that he'll not know."
"But Bourne would."
"That's why he looks so blue. He does know, and it preys on his mind."
W.E. Grim's pathetic picture of young Bourne turned out-of-season poacher against his will by an inexorable Acton didn't seem quite to fill the bill.
"Grimmy, you're an absolute idiot. That poachin' dodge won't do. Perhaps, after all, they only bike round generally."
"What about that cartridge?" said Grim.
The little knot of cronies discussed the matter for a good half-hour, Grim holding tenaciously to a poaching theory—pheasants or rabbits—the others scouting the idea as next door to the absurd.
"Look here," said Wilson, brilliantly, "we'll track the pair to their earth to-morrow. If they're after birds or bunnies I'll stand tea all round at Hooper's."
"All right," said Grim. "I'd like to know about that cartridge."
On the morrow the suspicious band quietly trotted out after dinner from St. Amory's, dressed ostensibly for a run down Westcote way. Once down the hill they lay well out in the fields, keeping a sharp watch through the hedges for their quarry. When they saw two well-known figures, feet on the rest, coasting merrily down and head for Westcote, they all drew a long breath and girded up their loins for the race.
"With luck and the short cuts," said Grim, stepping out, "we may just see 'em sneak into Pettigrew's woods."
"And we've got a mile in hand too," said Wilson.
The cronies ran tightly together, nursing their wind and keeping well screened from eyeshot from the road, not that either Acton, or Bourne dreamed that their afternoon's run was being dogged by anyone. From their numerous short cuts the scouts were necessarily out of view from the road, but they marked the two cyclists from point to point and themselves headed up hill and down dale straight for Westcote. They felt pretty well winded by now, as they stood panting in a breezy spinney, watching for the appearance of their quarry on the brown road beneath them.
"There they are," gasped Wilson, pretty blown.
"There's only one," said Rogers, "and it is that young owl Bourne, too. He's shed Acton."
"Perhaps he's punctured," suggested Grim; "anyhow, we hang on to Jack."
Rather puzzled at the non-appearance of Acton, they kept the first-comer well in view as he pedalled hard for Westcote.
"That's Jack right enough," said Rogers; "and we'll have to leg it or he'll slip us. Jove! he's captured a wheel with a vengeance. Hear it hum."
The quartette strung down the hill full pelt, but when they got to the bottom the cyclist was a good hundred yards ahead. His pursuers came to a dead stop.
"May as well go home now," said Grim, in great disgust. "We can't dog him now, and anyhow it isn't Pettigrew's pheasants that Jack's after: he's gone past the woods. What a bone-shaker he's captured. Hear the spokes rattlin'."
"Not so quick, Grimmy. He's wheeling into that little Westcote inn. We'll run him down now."
The rider had indeed dismounted nearly a quarter mile ahead, and instantly the Amorians were stringing down the road again. Before the door of the little inn they found a bicycle propped up drunkenly against the wall, and the Amorians, pumped though they were, had breath enough left to explode over Bourne's machine. It was a "solid" of pre-diamond-frame days, guiltless of enamel or plating, and handle-bars of width generous enough for a Dutch herring-boat's bow.
"There's no false pride about Jack," said Grim, gloating over the weird mount. "Whatever is he doing in here?"
"Liquid refreshment," said Rogers between a gulp and a gasp. "Oh, Jack, was it for this and this that you gave us the go-by?"
"This place doesn't seem Jack's form somehow," said Wilson, looking doubtfully up and down the little inn.
"Ring him out, Wilson," said Grim. "His little game's up now, and we can rag him for an age over this."
"Let's try his mount first, Grimmy." Rogers wheeled out the machine and, after hopping twenty yards, "found" the saddle. To mount it was one thing, to ride it was evidently a matter of liberal education beyond the attainments of a junior Amorian, for, as Rogers attempted a modest sweep round, the machine collapsed, and he was sprawling on his back, the bicycle rattling about his ears. Then—it seemed automatically to the gasping Amorians—a sturdy youth rushed out of the inn flourishing a half-emptied glass of beer in one hand, and he seized the struggling Rogers by the scruff of the neck with the other. Rogers was unceremoniously jerked to his feet before he quite realized what it was all about. One or two men lounged out of the inn, and surveyed the scene dispassionately, and the landlord pushed his way forward.
"Wot's the matter?"
"Matter!" gasped the youth, tightening his hold on Rogers' collar and waving his glass dramatically.
"This young shaver was going to nick my bike. I seen him."
"I wasn't, you fool——" began Rogers, who did not like the man's knuckles in his neck.
"Fool am I, you little ugly thief? Worn't you a-scorchin' down the road w'it? I see you."
The other Amorians curled up with laughter at the way things were mixing up, and at the last exquisite joke.
"Jove, Rogers, to think you meant to steal it!" burbled Poulett.
"Leave loose of my collar, you idiot," said Rogers, squirming in the man's grasp; "I tell you it's all a mistake."
"That's all my h'eye. I see you sneak it, and it'll be a month for you. Sneaking bikes is awful! Mistake be blowed."
"Oh! explain, some of you," said Rogers, frantically, "before I—Grim, tell the lunatic."
The Amorians were beyond mere laughter now, but the landlord had wit enough to see that there was some mistake somewhere, and he finally persuaded the owner of the bicycle to moderate his attentions to the exasperated Rogers. Grim recovered sufficiently to lift some of the suspicions from that ill-used youth.
"We thought you were a friend of ours—back view only and at a distance, you know—but you're not very like him, really, in the face. His name's Bourne."
"Mine's 'Arris," said the bicycle owner, angrily.
"A very nice name, too;" said Grim, soothingly. "You'd better see what's the damage to the machine for we must be trotting back to St. Amory's."
Mr. Harris spun the pedals and tried the wheels.
"It's shook up considerable, that's wot it is."
"All right," said Grim, hastily. "Here's a shilling. Give it a drink of beer."
This was a wretched joke really, but it brightened the face of Mr. Harris considerably when he heard it, and the loafers departed from their dispassionate attitude, and became quite friendly. The landlord went in to draw beer.
A minute afterwards the quartette was heading back for St. Amory's as hard as it could go, and whenever a halt was called for breath, three of the cronies collapsed on the earth, and howled at Rogers, who could not see the joke.
Over a quiet little tea, after call-over, at Hooper's Rogers explained fully his views.
"No, I'm not going to do any more detective work. We missed Acton and Bourne beautifully; they don't go to Westcote, and Grimmy's idea about poachin' 's rotten. He may be Acton's messenger-boy or the rider of a decent pneumatic, but I'm going to let him go his own way."
When, afterwards, they rubbed embrocation into their wearied limbs, the rest agreed with Rogers.
"But, yet," said Grim, "I'd like to know about that cartridge too."
Todd had found out all the unpainted beauty of public-school life without pocket money, and discovered that existence was just possible. A shilling on your watchchain and a shilling's worth of stamps admit of no luxuries, and Todd, through his impecuniosity, even if he had wished, could not have done anything else but work. Taylor's house was supposed to provide a fairly liberal table, but Gus really did miss his after-dinner cup of coffee at Hooper's, and not many fellows would regard long letters to and from home as being the summum bonum of the week. Yet Todd had come to regard his mamma's letters—four-paged gossip about his sisters, his brothers, the horses, and the dogs—in the light of luxuries.
Consequently, with nothing to distract him, Gus really did work. His standing in the Fifth sensibly increased. Merishall did not make elaborate jokes on his Latin, and Corker not once let fall the warning eye-glass preparatory to savaging him for his Greek, formerly called so by a courtesy title. There was a world of difference between his old haphazard slip-slop and his present honest attempts in the ways of scholarship.
The half-holidays, though, dragged dreadfully, for Gus was one of those fellows who have no natural aptitude for games, and he had a theory that he did not care a straw about them either. Being in the Fifth he could, of course, suit himself what he did with his halfers. Sometimes, in very desperation, he would lounge down to the Acres, and wander forlornly from goal post to goal post, and sometimes he spent the afternoon amusing himself—with Lancaster's express approval—in the laboratory, and so effaced previous bad impressions from the science master's mind. Gus, however, was honest enough with himself to own that he would rather have had an aimless stroll with Cotton than any amount of footer-gazing or "bottle-washing." But Cotton had definitely thrown him over; they did not nod when they met, and Jim was very careful not to see Gus walking in solitary state in the roadway.
Todd was moodily looking out of his window one halfer, and discontentedly wondering how he could exist till he should switch on the electric for the evening grind, when a not unfamiliar knock sounded on the door. Gus faced round wonderingly, and opened the door. The house-master dropped into the chair which Todd hastily drew out for him.
"I thought I should catch you in, Todd. Nothing on, have you?"
"No, sir," said Todd.
"No particular engagement for this afternoon."
"No, sir," said Gus, with a half sigh merging into a half smile, "though I did think of going down to the Acres, and looking at the footer."
"I'm glad of that," said Taylor, as though he really were. "I promised to referee this afternoon—Hargon's v. Sharpe's—but I want to cry off now. Neuralgia, Todd, is simply torturing me this moment, and refereeing wouldn't improve it. Do you mind taking my place? Do please say 'No' if you'd rather not."
"Very sorry, sir," said Gus, referring to the neuralgia. "Referee!"
"Yes," said Taylor, with a ghost of a smile at Todd's astonishment.
"Certainly, I will, sir—I mean I'll take your place. But the fellows will gasp when I step into the arena."
"Thank you, Todd. Why will they gasp?"
"Footer isn't my line, sir."
"Hasn't been, Todd. Anyhow, they'll be delighted when you whistle them up."
"I hope they'll be delighted when I've finished, sir," said Gus, doubtfully.
"One side won't, of course," said Taylor, cheerfully. "That is natural, and the usual thing. Do you know, I never played football, but I like refereeing immensely. Positive it's the best thing after playing, and I know that a really first-class referee is a very rare fowl. Of course it's the off-side rule and, etc."
Taylor delivered himself of a little homily on the subject of refereeing. He was enthusiastic almost to the point of forgetting his neuralgia, and Todd got quite interested in the theme so earnestly handled. He had not thought there was much fun in it until the house-master unfolded its possibilities, but he took over the whistle fairly sanguine.
"I'll do my best, sir," said Gus, in conclusion; "and if they stone me off the Acres——"
"I'll bury my reputation as a prophet under the missiles."
In one thing Todd was certainly right. When he found Hargon's v. Sharpe's pitch and told the assembled twenty-two—rather diffidently, I must own—that he was the deputy referee, they did gasp.
"Show us your whistle, Gus," said Higgins, Hargon's captain, doubtfully.
Gus held it up, with a genial and childlike smile.
"Got the rules in your pocket, too, I suppose."
"I have," said Todd—"for reference. But I know now, Higgins, that goal-keepers cannot take more than two steps with the ball, and——"
Sharpe's lot guffawed at Todd's neat little thrust at Higgins's little failing as a goal-keeper.
"But don't you worry, Hig; I'll see you through all right. Three-quarter each way, I suppose?"
Todd gave his whole mind to the refereeing, and soon warmed to business. He found that there was heaps more fun in it than he had bargained for, and as he was a sharp, quick, and clever youth he came out of the ordeal with flying colours. He made mistakes, naturally, but momentous issues depended on none of them, and he felt he had not done so badly when Higgins, at half-time, spoke to him as one in authority to another. But Palmer, the captain of Sharpe's lot—the beaten side—put the coping stone to a pleasant afternoon by asking Gus to referee for them against Merishall's. Gus walked off the field a happy man.
From that afternoon Todd had no excuse for loafing away any halfer. His services as referee were in demand, not merely as a matter of utility, but of preference. Taylor, who had watched rather anxiously Todd's progress, smiled easily at the success of his understudy.
"I say," said Bourne to me, "what's come over Todd? Blessed if that usual ass didn't handle the Fifth v. Sixth to-day simply beautifully. When you're lynched, Gus will fill your shoes completely. Talks so-so, too. Who's improving him?"
I acted on Phil's advice, and Todd and I parcelled out the outstanding fixtures between us. Then Todd became one of the best-known fellows in the school, and strolled up the hill with Worcester, Acton, Vercoe, and other heroes as to the manner born. The old, lazy, shallow, shifty, shiftless Gus was drifting into the background every day.
Then Todd gave us a final shock. I was hurrying down the High when a constable asked me if I could tell him "where a young gentleman named Todd lived."
"I'm passing by his house," said I, more than a trifle puzzled as to what the police might want with Gus. "Hope it isn't house-breaking, constable?"
"No, sir," said he, laughing. "It is a matter of ice-breakin'."
I expect I looked mystified.
"Mr. Todd, sir, fished out of the water just below the Low Locks a common ordinary drunk, Robins—a bargee. That was yesterday afternoon, and this morning the superintendent sends me to see how he is."
I looked more blankly ignorant than before.
"He's kept it dark, I see, sir. There isn't a bigger fool alive than Robins when he's drunk—which he mostly—what is—and he acted yesterday up to the usual form of drunks. He would go on the ice just below the locks, when it would hardly bear a sparrer, let alone a drunk Robin, and he naturally goes under before he'd gone a dozen yards. Mr. Todd went for him without, I fancy, considering the risks. He broke the ice up to that forsaken Robins, and waded in after him. When we got there he was up to his neck in water, and he'd got the fool by the collar; then we pulled 'em both out. Mind, up to his chin in that frozen water! We thought Robins was a goner from cold when we landed 'im, and asked Mr. Todd's name as bein' likely to be required at the inquest. But, bless you, sir, Robins pulled through all right; that sort generally does."
"Was there any one to help Todd, when he went for the fellow?"
"No, sir; he just waded in and took his chance. I wouldn't—at least not for an ord'nary drunk. Mr. Todd just ran home as he was: said the sprint would warm him to rights. How is he?"
"Got a vile cold; he was barking pretty well all chapel."
"And Robins," said the policeman, in disgust, "doesn't own up to a snuffle. This Mr. Todd's house, sir?"
"Yes. I'd just ask to see Mr. Taylor, the housemaster, first. I fancy he'll be pleased to see you."
The constable's plain, unvarnished tale gave the Rev. E. Taylor as pleasant a ten minutes as he had enjoyed for some time, and he passed on the worthy man to the butler with instructions as to "something hot." Then he rapped on Todd's door.
Decidedly the ship Agustus Vernon Robert Todd "had found herself."