For almost a minute the three chums stared in hypnotized fashion at the bent head of Fane, as the bully-killer sat dispiritedly in his chair.
"You mean you—" gurgled Billy at length.
"I'm awfully sorry, old pal, but there it is," said Fane, with the stolid calmness of despair. "I'd give anything to be able to say I'm mistaken, but it's no go. I see my mistake now. The coat's just the dead ringer of one I've got myself, and like an ass, I mistook them. Only just now, when you mentioned Billy's coat being missing, I remembered that my own coat hasn't been unpacked."
The four boys were silent for several seconds. The sharp, sudden blow, the renewed assurance from Fane that the coat had actually gone, left the three pals dumbfounded.
"Well," said Jack gloomily, "it's gone, right enough. We've lost it."
"Billy, Billy!" cried Fane, "it was my fault absolutely. I don't know what made me so terribly careless. I'm no end cut up about it—isn't there anything I can do?"
"Nothing suggests itself at the moment," said Patch, with a recovery of his calm manner. "The thing would be, of course, to get hold of the hawker and buy the coat back. But—" He shook his head, with pursed lips. Then, all at once, he smacked Jack heavily upon the back—so heavily that Jack indignantly jumped a foot in the air.
"Great Caesar!" he gasped, "What did you do that for, you giddy lunatic? You've dislocated my neck!"
"Bother your neck!" cried Septimus. "I've got the plan to get back the spiffing old Star—we're in luck! It's brother Egbert!"
"Brother Egbert?" echoed Jack, staring at the inventor open-mouthed. "Has he gone off his rocker?" he inquired anxiously of the other two. "Poor fellow—brains all addled. Or perhaps poached. I knew he would do it. My advice is, Patchie, wear an ice-pack on your fevered brow."
"It's all right, comrade," Septimus assured him. "Here's another occasion to thank your uncle Patch! Brother Egbert, I may explain, is my brother, and he'll be down here to-night. He's making a trip down the coast on his motor-bike, and he intended to call in at the school on the 14th, which is to-day."
"Well, what about it?"
"My good baboon," said Patch pityingly, "don't you see? Egbert will be only too pleased to take Billy, or myself, in pursuit of the jacket and—the Black Star. I think I should go, because it was really my fault that the coat went. Edgar A. Poe didn't mention anything about stray accidents that might happen in any good, well-regulated family, or their bearing on his no-concealment wheeze. I confess I begin to lose my respect for Edgar. The next hiding-place for the Star will be a most abstruse one, when we get the thing back—"
"If we do," supplemented Billy. "Look here, Patch, that was a very defective plan of yours, I agree, but I think I'll make the trip with brother Egbert, all the same."
There came a rapping at the door, and Jack invited the rapper to come in. A singular-looking young man entered, took a comprehensive glance over its occupants, and then spoke in a drawling, bored voice.
"Permit me to introduce myself," he said. "I am Egbert, fifth Baron Patch. Sounds good, doesn't it, that phrase, 'barren patch'? Rumour hath it that one Septimus, a juvenile relative of mine, is to be found in the precincts of this study. Ah, I see I am right—how are you, brother?"
"Bursting with robust health and goodwill," declared Septimus modestly. "See here, though, you've just arrived at the right moment. A rather interesting business has been going on here, and—can I tell him everything, Billy?"
Billy Faraday nodded, and Septimus explained the whole matter of the Star and its disappearance to his attentive brother, who resembled a collection of walking-sticks as he half-lay, half-sat in one of the chairs, his big head resting in his open palm.
"Quite a decent little mystery," he commented, when his brother's account had finished. "I twig what you want me to do—give chase, and all that sort of rot, what? Well, if any of you would care for a rough, bumpy, perilous journey on the back of a big 7-9, then I shall be happy to oblige. As I said to the Duke last week, when he asked me for a fiver, 'Dee-lighted, old bean!'"
"That's that, then," said Septimus. "The only question is, who's going? Billy wants to go, and I'm not anxious to stand in his way, see? But though we can arrange that Billy shall not be missed to-night, it might prove dashed awkward to-morrow, when he does not show up in class."
"Who's taking us in the morning?" thoughtfully asked Billy. "Old Salmon, isn't it? How on earth—"
"Don't worry, comrade!" interrupted Patch suddenly. "I've got the most ripping suggestion, and you'd better be off right now. Your absence will never be noticed—I'll fix that much for you. But try and be back by to-morrow night—I'll not guarantee to have the beaks hoodwinked much after that time. Now, Fane said that the hawker was going south—"
"That's right," said Fane eagerly, anxious to be of assistance to redeem something of his error. "He was just outside the gate, and lots of the fellows gave him old clothes, and I heard Big Martin ask him where he was bound for—he said Moruya. He only had a covered cart and a scraggy-looking old mare, and you ought to be able to catch up—"
"Just what the Marquis said, when I lost my hat out of his car, and ran back for it." It was Egbert Patch who had spoken. "We've got a lot to do, and I think we'll vamoose. Good-bye for the present, and sweet dreams!"
With these words, the eccentric-looking young fellow, suddenly animated, jumped to his feet and, grabbing Faraday by the arm, left the room. Inside a few minutes the chattering roar of his motor-bike was heard, and he had left the College, racing southward with Billy Faraday clinging perilously behind him.
"Doesn't believe in losing time," murmured Jack. "But, I say, aren't we going to have a bit of trouble in accounting for Billy's being away, to-morrow?"
"My dear old Angora," returned Patch, "aren't you aware that Salmon is as near blind and deaf as makes no difference? What's to prevent us from making a dummy of Billy, and putting him in Billy's seat? You know he sits right at the back of the class."
"Good grief!" said Jack. "Is that the bright and brainy idea? Patchie, old boy, the sooner you go to sea the better for you—and all of us. Who ever heard of a dummy—and in school at that? Why, Salmon's sure to smell a rat, and once he asks Billy a question, the game's bust."
"Not so, comrade! Among my other accomplishments, I am no mean hand at ventriloquism, and—"
"Well, you've got a pretty tall nerve, Patchie! I'll confess that I'd never have thought of such a dodge."
"Its boldness," averred Septimus, "is its strength. To-morrow I shall prove that. Meanwhile, there is a most irritating chunk of Sallust to be prepared for the morn. Leave me to it."
And, opening his books, the extraordinary fellow calmly set to work. After a moment or two of silence, Jack picked up the volume from which Patch had been taking swimming instruction, and began to turn its leaves idly....
On the following morning, Mr. Salmon entered the classroom with his usual salutation, and the whole form eyed him apprehensively. Would he surprise them in their deception? Was an awful row impending?
For, in the back row of the class, reclining gracefully on Billy Faraday's seat, was a dummy figure. Attired in an old suit of Billy's, it looked very lifelike, its arms supporting a book on the desk before it, and its head apparently none the less attentive for being stuffed with straw.
As the lesson proceeded, and as the master still failed to smell a rat, the class's fears subsided, and they began to enjoy the joke. Subdued chuckles sounded at intervals, the presence of the dummy schoolboy striking his companions as distinctly grotesque; but, as Patch had said, Mr. Salmon was almost deaf and very dim of sight, and unless anything out of the ordinary occurred, Billy's absence would pass unnoticed.
"Bathgate," said Mr. Salmon suddenly, "commence the translation. Line 25."
Bathgate, a big, sleepy youth at the back corner of the class, awoke suddenly from his dreams of better things, and began translating the Latin in a loud, clear, albeit, a trifle hesitant, voice.
"Speak up," commanded Mr. Salmon.
"Ought to yell in your ear," observed Bathgate, with a humorous glance at his mates.
"What did you say?" asked the master.
"I—thought—you—could—hear," said the shameless Bathgate. "Shall I proceed?"
"Proceed—yes! No, one moment. You've done pretty well. Go on, next boy."
There was a dead, stunned silence. The next boy was no boy at all, but the effigy of Bill Faraday, and the effigy simply sat still and stared at the master with the most guileless stare in the world.
"Faraday—you heard me?"
"Yes—sir," squeaked Patch, diving down under his desk, and attempting to throw his voice in the direction of the quiescent Billy. But the attempt met with poor success. The squeak did not come to the ears of the master at all, and he repeated his reminder, with a trace of irritation at the delay.
"Faraday—I believe you've gone to sleep."
The ingenious Patch was now brought up against a poser, but his resourcefulness met the obstacle. He got down on the floor and attempted to cross over to a position behind Billy's seat, which would enable him to deputize for the thick-headed effigy.
Unfortunately he was observed, and Mr. Salmon demanded at once to know what he was doing.
"Dropped my pen, sir," he explained loudly, and then frantically whispered to Jack, "Get behind Bill's chair and speak up."
To cover Jack's move across the aisle between the desks, Patch stood up, and showed his pen to Mr. Salmon, as ocular evidence of the truth of his explanation.
"I've got it now, sir," he observed brightly. "It had rolled right under my seat."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Salmon testily. "Sit down."
But Septimus was sparring for time until Jack was ready to take up Billy's translation. So he added, in his most foolish manner, "It's curious, sir, where these things get to, isn't it! Once I lost a pencil, and found it in the bottom of my trousers. Philosophers call it—"
"Sit down, sir!"
"—call it the perversity of inanimate—"
"Will you sit down?"
"—objects, like a collar-stud, or—"
"Patch!"
"Very well, sir," said Patch, sitting down with the aggrieved air of one who has been casting his pearls before swine. He glanced sharply towards Billy's chair, and sighed with relief.
"Perhaps we can get on with our work now," said Mr. Salmon sarcastically. "Faraday, are you properly awake?"
"Yes, sir!" yelled the supposed Faraday in such a loud voice that it came to Mr. Salmon's ears in the form of a smart answer. The master nodded. "Go on, then," he said.
Jack went on as fast as he was able, and for five minutes the class held its breath. At the end of that time the possibility that Billy's deception would be discovered seemed to have passed. The master went on through the class, and the boys were presently deep in their work; so deep, in fact, that Bathgate felt impelled to relieve the tedium by a little horse-play.
Propping his book up before him, he proceeded to annoy his neighbour in front, one MacAlister, in sundry well-thought-out ways that ended in Mac's turning round and firing a book at Bathgate's head.
Bathgate, who had, of course, been expecting retaliation, ducked smartly, and the book hit the wall with a bang. Mr. Salmon looked up, for the book happened to have been a dictionary, and the sound of its arrival rather loud.
"Bathgate," said the master, "don't tap."
The class chuckled afresh, and Bathgate inserted a pin in the toe of his boot, winking across at Jack Symonds in unmistakable "you-watch-me" manner. Then, sitting back innocently, he let the pin sink into MacAlister's calf.
"Ow!" gasped MacAlister, jumping up in a rage and aiming another book at his tormentor's grinning face. "Take that!"
Bathgate, however, had no intention of taking it, and he slid sidewise on his chair to avoid the missile. His move was too sudden for his equilibrium. The chair went over, and he went over with it, pitching head-first into the stomach of the bogus Billy Faraday. The effigy did not protest, but slid gracefully to the floor, where it lay in the attitude of a gentleman looking under the sofa for his collar-stud.
"Jimjams!" gasped Septimus Patch, "That's done it!"
Done it, it had. Mr. Salmon demanded to know why Bathgate and Faraday were crawling around on the floor, and Bathgate, looking sheepish, said something about falling off his chair.
"My chair overbalanced, sir," he said. "I knocked Faraday over."
The class was on tenterhooks. Would Mr. Salmon come up and investigate for himself? Faraday, at any rate, lay there absolutely still.
"Faraday," said the master, grimly, "evidently desires to emulate Doré, the artist, who drew his pictures while lying down on his stomach. Or is he just asleep?"
"I think he's hurt," said the indomitable Patch, getting up again. He meant to pull the fat out of the fire if it were humanly possible. He grabbed the effigy and savagely hauled it into place, keeping between it and the master all the time. He got back to his seat, but barely had he reached it when the dummy boy doubled up at the waist like a jack-knife, and banged its head on the floor. To Patch's horror, the head, which was loosely attached, came off and rolled a full yard down the passage.
Jumping up once more, Patch grabbed the head, and, amid the laughter of his companions, restored it to its position. The effigy of Faraday grinned impudently at the master, its head on one side, as Patch got back to his seat.
"There is too much disorder," said Mr. Salmon petulantly. "Far too much of it. Patch, and you too, Faraday, and Bathgate, take one hundred lines."
Just at that moment came the bell announcing the end of the period, and Mr. Salmon, gathering his gown about him, stalked out indignantly.
"Phew!" breathed Patch. "I don't want to have a strain like that again for a few years. Talk about nerves! You'd want nerves of phosphor-bronze, or something, with an obstreperous dummy like this on your hands."
He landed a kick into the effigy's waistcoat, and it fell on to the floor. The class simply roared.
"Anyhow," went on Patch, "you've got to do a hundred lines, you grinning idiot. Thank goodness I haven't got to look after you this afternoon."
Meanwhile, how had it been faring with Billy Faraday and Egbert Patch. It will be remembered that they left by bike on the afternoon following the departure of the hawker, so that that person had a twenty-four hours' start on them. Not that that mattered very much. The big machine could cut down that discrepancy with ease. The only problem left unsettled was the question of whether or not they would be able to find the purchaser of the precious coat.
Through the night they sped for two or three hours, and at length came storming into Rimvale, a small town of some importance in the coastal district.
Here they put up for the night; and, early next morning searched for news of the hawker. Fortunately, they had not far to seek. An old man, who had purchased some articles from the itinerant vendor, informed them that the person they sought had left the town on the previous night.
"This is alarmingly easy!" grinned Patch, leaping into the saddle as the big machine moved off. Billy followed suit, landing on the carrier; and they were off once more.
Through the long, dusty miles Egbert set his machine positively roaring, and the distances were eaten up in fine style. To such good effect did they travel that inside three hours they came up with the hawker's covered cart, and asked him to pull up.
"What the matter?" he asked, leaning down on them from his perch like a strange bird.
"You must excuse us, Mucilage," said Egbert Patch. "That is your name, isn't it? But the fact is, old coffee-bean, you bought a coat back at Deepwater College in error, and we want it back."
"What do you mean? I paid for it."
"Quite so, my dear Tupentine; quite so. You see, a chap sold you a coat belonging to this fellow here, in mistake for one of his own, and we want to buy it back. See!" And as a token of good faith, he showed a hand filled with silver.
The Indian wrinkled up his brows in a puzzled fashion, and then began to rummage in his goods without another word. At length he turned to the expectant pair and eyed them keenly.
"You mean a brown jacket?" he asked.
"Yes, yes," said Billy, impatiently. "You've got it there, have you? Bring it out, and I'll give you ten bob for it."
The Indian shook his head gravely, and calmly repacked his bundles.
"I can't do anything, sir," he said at length. "The coat is sold."
"Sold!"
The other nodded, and went on to explain in his slow, but intelligible English. It appeared that a man had bought the coat in Rimvale for six shillings. The Indian made a small song about the fact that he had been unable to get six-and-six for it. At all events, he did not know who the man was. That he was young, and that he was evidently a native of Rimvale, he was able to state. Beyond that, he knew nothing.
"Thanks," said Billy in a low voice, turning away. It seemed that he was pursued by the worst of bad luck. How on earth were they to discover the owner of the coat, now? It might be that the Indian was not telling the truth. Billy was ready to imagine that he had observed a gleam of avarice in the fellow's eye. Of course he had not been deceived; he knew that there must be something unusual about the coat. And perhaps he had lied....
Billy groaned. "Rimvale's the only place," he said, and, mounting behind Egbert Patch, he sped off back along the path to the little fishing town.
Arrived there, they stowed their machine in the local garage, and set out on a feverish errand of investigation. But they knew that it was pretty hopeless.
"How on earth can we be successful?" Billy repeated to himself again and again, and as the morning wore away his hopes sank lower and lower.
All at once he gave a great cry, caught Patch by the arm, and pointed.
"Look there!" he said hoarsely. "That fellow's wearing the jacket!"
"The Dickens he is!" replied Patch, staring at a tall, rather bullying youngster who looked as if he might be a butcher's boy. In another moment the inventor's brother had started forward and called out to the wearer of the missing coat.
"Wait a moment! Hi!" he said.
The red-faced youngster turned and eyed them with obvious disfavour. "What do you want?" he demanded. "Who are you?"
"I'm the man who put the salt in the sea," said Patch gravely, "and my friend here's the man who's going to take it out. Twig? Look here, old man, that's a nice coat you're wearing."
"Oh, go and play!" grunted the other, turning away sullenly. "What's the game, anyhow?"
"I've taken a fancy to that coat, that's all. It used to belong to my mate here, the man who rode the bull through Wagga. But another chappie mistook it for one of his, and sold it to a nigger named Mucilage, who in turn sold it to you—for six bob."
"I see—and you want it back, hey? Well, it happens I've got to like this coat, and I don't want to part with it, see?"
Billy not only did see this particular point, but saw also that he was up against a pretty shrewd bargainer, who was ready to turn their own eagerness for the jacket into ready cash. He was too anxious, however, to bluff.
"Look here," he broke in, "I'll give you ten bob for the coat, and fix everything up. No fuss—give me the coat, and this half-note will be yours."
The red-faced boy's little eyes gleamed. "Ten bob—ten bob for a coat I've taken a fancy to," he murmured. "Look here, mate, I can't part with the coat—not under a quid. It's a good coat."
"It's certainly a good coat, but—" Patch was dubious.
"Well, then," said Billy desperately, "I'll make it a quid, just to please you. There you are—a pound note—and now, the coat."
"Hold hard, hold hard." The country boy's interest had been roused by this reckless bidding for the old jacket, which was scarcely worth a third of the money Billy Faraday now flashed before his eyes. What was wrong with the coat, he asked himself; or, rather, what was right with it? "No, I don't think I'll sell," went on the yokel shrewdly, "until I've had a good look over it."
"Until you've what?" asked the horrified Billy.
The other noted his emotion and slowly winked one eye. "Until I've looked over it," he repeated cunningly. "You never know. What if there's a five-pound note sewn up in the lining?"
"A five-pound note?" gasped Billy weakly.
"I'm going to have a look," said the rustic, taking off the jacket and fumbling it between his fingers. "Why," he yelled, suddenly, "what's this here?"
Billy's heart sank into his boots as the red-faced country youth, with a grin of the most horrible triumph, rubbed between his fingers the slight lump under the coat-cloth that indicated where the Black Star had been so carefully hidden.
"There's something here, right enough," he said, cheerfully, "and we'll have it out in a jiffey. When I've seen what it is, then you can buy the coat—perhaps."
And he began to open a very efficient-looking clasp-knife. But at that, all Billy had gone through to recover the coat came up in his mind, and a wave of fury swept over him that he should be thus baulked at the last moment.
Uttering an inarticulate cry, he dashed forward, snatched the jacket out of the other's hands, and took to his heels, with Egbert merely a pace or two in his rear. The yokel stood dumbfounded for an instant, and then roared out at the top pitch of his voice, "Stop thief! Stop thief!"
The quiet, respectable little town of Rimvale witnessed the most astounding of chases along its sleepy main street. First came Billy and Patch, running their hardest for the garage and the big cycle, and after them tore the outraged country lad, yelling in a voice that would have roused the envy of any Indian chief of the prairies.
The country boy continued to yell, "Thi—eeves!" lustily as he rushed after the two boys.
The solitary policeman that the town boasted, aroused by the uproar, left the veranda of the country hotel, and stepped into the glare of the noonday sun.
"Hey! What's the trouble?" he asked, in the voice of one bent on smoothing troubled waters.
"Sto-oo-op thi-eef!" came the stentorian shout of that amazing vocalist, the robbed boy. "Stop them two thieves!"
Billy Faraday took a swift survey of the situation. It would not do, he decided, to run into the arms of the policeman, who did not look formidable, but who might cause a deal of bother.
"This way!" he yelled, breaking off at right angles, and darting down a narrow laneway, between two paling fences. But Billy had made, for once, an error of judgment. The fences abutted on a brick wall of some height, and the lane was, consequently, a blind alley.
"We're diddled—dished," gasped Egbert Patch.
"Not a bit," said Billy, pausing for six precious seconds, while, with his knife, he ripped the Star from its place of concealment, and slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat. "Not a bit," he repeated, throwing the coat towards the pursuers, who were already at the mouth of the alley. "Come on!"
With an agile spring he vaulted over the paling fence and landed in the garden beyond. Patch followed, and the cries of the pursuers changed abruptly from triumph to chagrin. Billy found himself confronting an enormous man in a blue shirt, who seemed annoyed that the boy had landed full in the centre of a bed of prize cauliflowers.
"'Ere!" this worthy bellowed. "Oo are you?"
"The King of Sweden!" answered Patch grandly. "My card!" He made a move as if to hand the astonished fellow something, and before that person could realize what was happening, he had received a hard dig in what boxers call the "mark." He gasped, and sat down with the giant collapse of a pricked balloon.
Laughing, the two fugitives fled on, for the red-faced youth was leading the pursuit over the fence, and it was risky to linger. Over two more fences they hurried, and then found themselves confronted with an impasse.
This was a stone wall over which it was impossible to scramble. They therefore cut away towards the right again, making back towards the street. They were in the yard of a baker, as it happened, and they went full speed for the street that meant liberty. Rounding the corner, with pursuit perilously close, Patch had a sudden inspiration. He pulled open a wide door, had a swift glimpse of a bakery and a couple of white-clad forms, and then slammed it as hard as he could.
He and Billy remained outside, of course, and ducked into the friendly shelter of a pile of timber, just as the robbed boy, doubly red-faced now with his exertions, and the policeman, and a couple of others dashed up with the impetus of a fleet of fire-engines.
"In here—heard them slam the door!" gasped the rustic triumphantly.
"We've got 'em," said the constable, breathing hard. He flung open the door, and an angry white figure darted out fairly into his arms. It was the baker himself, who had been hurrying to catch the "impudent rascal" who had slammed the door; and, as it happened, his exit had coincided with the constable's entrance.
For a moment they struggled blindly, the baker dabbling his floury hands over the other's tunic with a fine eye for effect.
"Leggo!" panted the angry constable. "No use strug—whup!"
"Scoundrel!" roared the baker, who was enormously fat and red, and who was no mean hand at wrestling. "Whaddeyer mean by this—ur."
They fell over on the ground, rolling, gasping, and wheezing, like two great porpoises entangled with seaweed. Billy and Patch were helpless with suppressed laughter, as the two big men ramped and roared on the ground ludicrously. But in time their excitement cooled sufficiently to permit of recognition, and they fell back, seated on the ground, staring at one another amazedly.
"Why, it's old Jim!" said the baker.
"Course it is, you fathead! What the dickens do you mean?"
"Mean?" repeated the baker. "I like that! It's you that ought to say what you mean! Are you drunk?"
"Drunk? Me? Why?"
"Why, coming and playing fool tricks on my door—"
"Who's doing that? All I was after was two fellows funning—no, two fellows rulling!" The constable's tongue had become a trifle twisted, and he sought to make amends by shouting at the top of his voice.
"I mean," he roared, "you've got two hokes bliding—no, no!—they cinched a poat, I mean! Dash it, they dot in this gore—!"
"You are drunk," said the baker, judicially. "Very drunk," he added, as an afterthought.
"Never dinn before drinker—I mean, dink before drinner—no!" yelled the constable at the loudest tone he could raise, becoming more and more excited and inarticulate as he went on. "No, I don't mean that! What I mean is, two geeves thot away—they—hurry up!—colted with a boat!"
"A boat?" the baker asked. "Are you mad, Jim, or only—"
"Quick!" yelled the constable, threshing the air with his arms, and dancing first on one foot and then on the other. "Two fung yellows—!" This was as far as he could get, and he remained speechless, his eyes protruding from his head, his tongue tied in a furious knot.
"Oh, my only grandfather!" murmured Billy weakly, almost helpless from his restrained laughter.
There is no saying what might not have happened but for the intervention of the red-faced boy, who blurted out his story, and demanded the opening of the door.
"Oh!" said the baker, comprehension dawning on him at last. "But they didn't come in here, mate—they just slammed the door, and then bolted. That's why I thought it was Bill, here, playing jokes on me, and—"
But the red-faced youngster had turned and gazed about him, and the concealment afforded by the wood-pile proved inadequate, for he uttered a yell and his sharp little eyes gleamed. "Here!" he roared. "I see 'em. Come on!"
Billy and Patch had profited by their rest, and were away with the speed of the wind. The others gave instant chase, even the baker joining in. The fugitives realized that it would be a bad move to rush out into the open street, and they doubled on their tracks again, and darted into a grocery store, where they were met at the door by the grocer, in grimy white apron, who had not been favourably impressed by the manner of their entry.
"Ha!" he said. "What do you want?"
"A pound of hoo-jah!" said Patch promptly.
"What?" demanded the grocer in astonishment.
"Some gubbins," added Patch.
"Some—some—"
"Don't you sell it? A pound of doo-hickey."
"Here—" began the grocer.
"What I really want," said Patch calmly, "is an egg. Have you one? I'd like one called Percival, please, about fourteen hands high, and not too frisky. Ah, the very thing!"
He selected a couple of eggs from an open box on the counter, while the grocer looked on open-mouthed. He was quite convinced that he was being visited by a couple of lunatics, and he was doubly sure when he saw Patch turn to the doorway and let the red-faced youth have an egg fairly in the eye.
The pursuit had been somewhat tardy in discovering where the escapees had gone, and it was now arrested by the bombardment that Patch opened with the eggs. The baker, panting with open mouth, received a missile directly upon the teeth. The egg burst, and he found himself swallowing a mass of yolk and shattered shell. The constable had to wipe away a sticky mess before he could see; and the red-faced boy, blinded by the first egg, had collided with a pile of jam-tins, which descended joyfully upon his head as he lay sprawling.
"Thanks for the eggs," murmured Patch, pressing two florins into the grocer's palm. "Is there a back exit? Lead on, Macduffer."
And he bolted for the rear of the shop, closely followed by Billy. They had been working their way towards the garage, and it was only a stone's throw to the bicycle.
Hastily throwing his levers into position, Patch trundled the big Indian a few yards; and, as the engine began to fire, leapt on board, followed in a moment by the ever-ready Billy. They stormed out of the little village of Rimvale, leaving a trail of blue exhaust-smoke and more than one angry person.
"Quick work, quick work!" said Patch. "That's the life, isn't it? As I said, when I gave up the job of carrying the red flag in front of a steam roller, 'The excitement's killing me.' But we got the merry old Star, and that's the main thing!"
"Jingo, but I'm obliged to you," said Billy gratefully. "I don't know what I should have done without you and the old bike! And that's a fact."
"Don't apologize," returned Patch cheerily. "We'll be back about five—that is, if the idiot policeman doesn't take it into his head to ring up and send a posse of constabulary on our track. I wonder how your mates have been doing back at Deepwater? Trust that brainy young brother of mine to concoct something ingenious to account for your absence! Wonder how he did it?"
That question was soon to be answered, when they arrived back at the College, and Billy was able to question the others as to what had transpired during his absence. He was vastly amused at the account of how he had been impersonated in the classroom.
He roared with laughter over the events narrated, and appeared a different fellow altogether now that the Black Star was once again in his keeping.
"What about hiding the Star this time?" said Jack.
"No Edgar Allan What's-this stunts," said Billy, grimly. "I'm going to put it under that loose flooring-board in the study. When the carpet's back in place no one could ever find it."
And that evening the Star was duly interred in its new hiding-place, the three study-mates standing round Billy Faraday as he replaced the board and the carpet, and left everything intact. "Let's hope it's safe this time," he breathed.
As the three boys returned from lunch next day, Jack opened the study door and fell back with an exclamation.
"Redisham!" he said.
"Yes, Redisham," said the owner of the name, in an obviously forced attempt to appear at ease. "What about it?"
The intruder was standing in the middle of the study, and it was evident that their entry had surprised him. But there was nothing to show that he had been up to any shady games. Jack closed the door. He had remembered that they had their suspicions of Monty Redisham, already—and it was not usual, at Deepwater, for visits to be paid to studies during the occupants' absence.
"What about it?" repeated Redisham, with a shade of defiance that showed that he knew he was suspected.
"Oh, nothing," said Jack carelessly. "What are you after?"
Redisham met his gaze squarely, and then glanced at Billy Faraday and Patch, who also were staring at him meaningly. He shifted from one foot to the other.
"I just came in to borrow a dicker," he explained.
"And that, I suppose," said Jack, "is why you shut the door?"
Redisham's lip curled. "I don't know what you are getting at, Symonds," he said. "It's true that the door blew to, in a gust of wind just now, but—"
The three pals looked at him queerly, and he resolved on a bold stroke. "Why, hang it," he said, taking the bull by the horns, "you look as if you thought—thought I was trying to pinch some of your mouldy traps!"
It was well done of Redisham. He met the charge before it was thrown at him. He experienced a distinct ascendancy.
"Oh, not at all," said Jack politely. "It looked queer for a moment that was all—the door shut, and all that. Of course," he went on, with elaborate irony, "if it had been somebody else, then—!"
Redisham flushed under the sarcasm, and sat down with an affectation of carelessness, showing his violent green socks as he pulled up his immaculate trouser-legs.
"I'm glad to hear it," he observed, his little eyes flashing. "How did the race go this afternoon?"
For a moment Jack did not reply, but eyed their visitor narrowly. He would have given a good deal to be in a position to search the pockets of the greasy, smiling senior. But there was nothing to go on—nothing at all. Politeness had to be preserved. He too, sat down. Billy and Septimus Patch did not move from the door.
"And how's your friend, Mr. Daw, progressing?" asked Jack casually.
Either Redisham was a good actor, or he was genuinely surprised by the question. "My aunt!" he exclaimed. "Who told you that he was a friend of mine?"
"I thought it was general knowledge," replied Jack. "We all heard that you considered him a little tin god, or something like that. I confess I could never have much respect for him—unless perhaps I was in his debt, or something—"
He paused, and shot a glance at Redisham to watch the effect of this loaded remark. But the senior took it very well indeed.
"General knowledge is wrong, then," he said blandly. "Daw may be all right—to those who know him, but I'm not one, or even likely to be. You don't mind if I go now?"
"Wouldn't you like to try a cup of brew?"
"Not this time, thanks. I'll bring this dicker back directly I've used it. Ta-ta." And he closed the door behind him. Billy spoke impulsively.
"Well, that's fishy if you like! Wonder whether the brute found anything? Perhaps it's better to have a look."
He rolled back the carpet, and lifted the loose board. For a moment he lay face down with his arm fumbling in the cavity. Then he rolled over and sat up, his face gone suddenly white.
"Jiminy!" he gasped. "The thing's not there!"
Jack Symonds uttered a cry of amazement, and even Septimus was stirred out of his usual calm.
"Not there!" repeated Jack. "Old fellow, are you certain? Surely it's not gone already!"
Billy rose to his feet with a gesture of deep despair. "Look for yourself, then," he said. "It's no go, Jack—I made certain before I spoke. She's gone this time—and I expect gone for good."
"Don't say that, comrade!" urged Septimus, striking him on the shoulder. "We got it back once, so why not again? Look here, there's—"
"Wait!" Jack interrupted him. "Ten to one it's that oily brute Redisham! He had the thing in his pocket all the time we were speaking to him. Oh, he's cool and all that, but I'm going along to ask him right out what he's done with it! There!"
Septimus Patch pulled him back from the door. "No, no, Jack!" he pleaded. "We've got no evidence that he's taken it, and if you went along that way he'd just laugh in your face, that's what he'd do. It looks to me as if he did pinch the Star, but—well, we can't do anything to him; he's got the whip hand over us. We'll find another way, never fear."
"But what way is there?" objected Jack.
Patch did not reply, but stared out of the window in deep thought. His eyes were narrowed to mere slits behind his great tortoise-shell glasses. He rubbed his hands together nervously.
"Give me time—give me time," he asked. "There must be a better way—let me think."
"And we're giving the beggar more time to hide it," said Billy Faraday.
"If he took it," said Septimus.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, just this. He must have been tremendously slick to have found the hiding-place, secured the Star, and replaced everything as before! How long could he have been in the room? Not long. Yet he had the nerve to do all that, knowing that we might be back any minute. Besides, why hadn't he gone when we arrived?"
"Why?"
"Seems to me he was just spying round. You remember he was standing in front of our lockers. Supposing that he had found the Star where we hid it. Would he be likely to hang round until we came? You can bet your life he'd be off in a moment! Again, why replace the carpet and the board? It only took longer, and delay was most dangerous for Redisham. Put yourself in his place. If you'd found the Star, wouldn't you have bolted right away? There'd be no sense in fixing up the carpet—your big idea would be to make yourself scarce, see?"
"So you think the Star went before Redisham came here?"
"I think so, comrade. Perhaps it went last night, and, if so, we know who took it!"
"Doctor Daw," murmured Jack.
"Of course, Monty Redisham is up to some dirty game or other. Quite likely he's in Daw's debt, and Daw is using him as a tool. But if we go to Redisham, and let him know we've suspected him to that extent, and that we've been robbed, then he'll tell Daw everything."
"But what are we going to do about it?"
"Lie low. Redisham can wait—I've got a scheme for fixing him later, getting him into a trap. But Daw's got to be watched—and watched closely."
"Well?"
The schoolboy detective looked thoughtful. Then he spoke with assurance. "Look here, comrades—Hullo, here's Fane!"
"What's the matter?" asked Fane immediately.
Patch explained, and then went on: "I was just going to suggest a scheme. Jack heard Daw say that he wanted to stay on here at Deepwater. Therefore, he's not likely to bolt with the Star, if he's got it. We'll watch him, see where he goes, and while he's out one of us can ransack his room. Probably, though, he has the Star on his person, and he'll be anxious to get it across to Lazare or Humbolt. As soon as he does that, we can have either of them arrested quietly, before they have time to get far!"
"Otherwise?" queried Jack.
"Otherwise," said Patch quietly, "we'll have to go to the Head, tell all we know, and trust to luck that we'll be able to outwit the brutes! But you know how clumsy that notion is—the Head would almost want written confessions and affidavits before he'd venture to arrest a master! And Daw would swear black, blue and all colours that he'd never seen the Star, and didn't want to. You see how hard it would be for us to do anything?"
Accordingly a close watch was kept by one of the four pals on Doctor Daw; but they had to admit that the man was a wonderfully good actor, for he showed no signs of confusion or excitement, and remained indoors for the greater part of the time. For two nights he did not go out.
One of these nights, however uneventful for Doctor Daw, was certainly crammed with incident for Redisham. Patch had promised that he would catch the greasy senior in a trap, and he held good his word. The society of the Crees proved to be the instrument of his downfall.
During preparation one evening, Redisham was surprised by a knock on his study door. Hastily extinguishing his cigarette, which, in flagrant defiance of all rules, he was smoking, he called out, "Come in!"
A very small and innocent junior entered.
"Please, Redisham," he said, "Mr. Daw said he wants to see you outside the Chemistry classroom door at once."
"What's that? Doctor—I mean Mr. Daw wants to see me now. Isn't he taking prep. in Big School?"
"Well, he is, but he stepped outside for a few minutes, and sent me up to find you. I think he only wants you for a moment."
"Confound him!" muttered Redisham, putting on his cap. "All right, youngster—cut away."
The senior lumbered down the stairs, a big, awkward figure that moved clumsily. It was nearly dark outside, but he distinguished the form of Mr. Daw outside the chemistry-room.
As he approached, the master slipped into the porch, and beckoned Redisham to follow.
"Come in here," he whispered. Inside, it was darker than ever. "Well," the master pursued, "and did you find it?"
Redisham shook his head. "No luck," he grumbled.
"Did you look?" said Daw cuttingly.
"Yes, I did! Honestly, I didn't have much time, but I looked hard enough. The young blighters came back and found me in the room at that!"
"All right. But see me behind the gymnasium after lights-out, to-night. I've found something—I want you."
Redisham uttered a grumbling protest. "I say, it's confoundedly risky to be strolling round after lights-out. You've always got me doing it now, and I'll be getting into trouble."
The master uttered a short laugh. "You'll be there, anyhow! And now I've got to get back to preparation."
They parted; but Redisham would have been considerably startled to have watched the master, who did not go back to Big School, but who joined Symonds and Patch at the side of the chemistry-room, and shook with laughter. Also, as all the juniors of Salmon's house could have informed Redisham, Mr. Daw had undoubtedly been in Big School all the evening, in charge of preparation. Two facts that might have caused him some perturbation, had he been aware of them.
As it was, he walked into the trap laid for him as guilelessly as a snared chicken. He strolled round after lights-out to the side of the gymnasium, as directed by the bogus Doctor Daw, and waited, kicking his heels for a good five minutes.
"The man's a thundering nuisance!" groaned the unfortunate senior, looking round him. "Gee! What's that?"
His ejaculation had been drawn forth by the sight of a couple of men who, dimly visible in the half-light, had appeared round the end of the gymnasium.
Redisham wheeled round with a dismayed gasp, and prepared for flight. But he remained where he was, rooted to the ground with horror. About five similar dark forms had appeared quite silently behind him, and now confronted him evilly. With a shock of dismay he perceived that they wore black masks, and had their collars turned up about their ears.
"What—what d-do you w-want?" he said in a remarkably husky voice that somehow would not obey him. Redisham was a bit of a diplomat at times, but he had no physical courage. All his strength seemed to have left his legs, and he shook like a leaf in a gale.
"Shurrup!" came the low retort in ruffianly tones, from the foremost of the ugly-looking band. "Stow the lingo, or we'll throttle you! You one of the school kids, hey?"
"Y-yes."
The miserable Redisham heard footsteps behind him, and knew that the other two were close. He wished with all his heart that Daw would arrive. He would have been a good deal less hopeful had he known that Daw was, at that moment, asleep in bed. Suddenly he was bowled over by his cowardly assailants, and gagged.
In approved bandit style he was trussed hand and foot, and a bandage was finally tied over his eyes, completely excluding everything from his sight. He groaned. What on earth had happened? He was being carried by two of the men over rough country, and presently he lost count of their steps. They went miles and miles, as it seemed; his heart descended into his boots. He could already see himself tied up in a sack and thrown into a lonely part of the river.
Suddenly the journey ended. As a matter of fact, he had been carried five times round the playing-fields, with suitable changes of ground, and the Crees had taken it in turns to lug him about, for he was of no mean weight. They now entered Salmon's and on tiptoe brought their prisoner into the boot-room.
Flat on the floor Redisham was laid, and the bandage was removed from his eyes. An oil lamp guttered above his head, throwing a faint, uncertain light that wavered to and fro, making everything indistinct. Before him sat the most fearsome figure of the lot—a short, thick man in a sweater and wearing a beard, who held a revolver in his hand—a wicked-looking thing that sent a frightened shiver down the senior's back. In point of fact, this was Billy's weapon, which he had brought out of its concealment for the purpose; undeniably it gave a touch of colour to the scene.
It was, as a matter of cold fact, unloaded; but Redisham in the depths of his funk could not know that. He lay and stared up at it goggle-eyed.
"Now," said the leader of the gang of roughs, "you're miles away from anyone here, so it's no use yelling. Get me? Take his mufflers off, Snyder."
The man addressed as Snyder elevated himself out of the gloom and came slowly forward. He undid the bandages that held Redisham in durance, and the fear-stricken senior sat up, chafing his legs.
"See here, younker!" It was the awesome chief speaking again. "Are your people worth much?"
"I—what do you mean?" spluttered Redisham.
"I means what I says!" said the fellow, in a low voice of concentrated fury. "Answer up, an' look slippy, or perhaps my finger'll slip on this 'ere trigger, and—"
"Please d-don't shoot!" quavered Redisham. "Do you mean have my people got much money?"
"Yes—have they?"
"Not very much—really."
"Crab apples!" cried the ferocious leader, angrily. "How much would they hand out to get you back, you miserable worm?"
"To g-get me back?"
"To buy you back! Shiver my timbers, but you've got more talk than a Madras monkey. How much ransom, hey? Five hundred?"
"I don't think so. Why, are you g-going—"
"Yes, my hearty, we're going to hold you to ransom!" came the disconcerting answer. "Is the figure five hundred?"
"But that's to-too much," shivered Redisham, squirming on the floor beneath the menace of the revolver, which the chief held in almost playful fashion four inches from his left eye.
"Too much! I should say it was too much!" rejoined the other, with promptness. "Five hundred for a bit of a puppy like you! Why, I'd not give five hundred pence! I'd throw the main deck overboard before I'd think of it! Wouldn't I?" he asked.
"I'm sure you would," said Redisham hurriedly.
"I expect your parents'll be downright glad to get rid of you, hey?"
"I—I suppose so."
"Well, belay my scuppers, if they don't part up with the boodle you'll be shipped to South America, that's all!"
"S—south America?"
"South America I said! They buy men for ten pounds apiece, to work 'em in the copper-mines. Think of it, hey! Workin' there year in, year out, and never see this place any more! Lovely prospect, ain't it? Like the idea?"
"N—no," said Redisham, to whom the idea did not appeal in the remotest way.
"Gr-r-rr! Of course you don't! But if your old man don't pay up, well—we'll have to get our tenner from you. Won't we, Snyder?"
"Sure," said Snyder. "But we'd only get eight for this goat—he's all flabby, no muscle, no chest, no nothink! Jest skin an' bone, that's all he is! Feel him!"
He did so, with his boot.
"That's so," agreed the chief. "He's just the spit of that bloke we shipped last summer—the bloke that pegged out on the voyage. Remember?"
"You bet," answered Snyder tersely. "They had to sling him overboard, and the sharks got the captain's tenner-worth! Just as well we got the money first, hey, mates?"
The mates all responded with a low, sinister laugh that made Redisham's blood run cold.
"See here," he pleaded. "Let me g-go!"
"Gr-r-rr!" snarled the chief. "Let you go! Likely, ain't it? Now, you stay here while we go upstairs and write a little note to your old man. You can add something that'll make them hurry up with the tin!"
"Or it's the South American mines for you!" grated Snyder, approaching his face closely to Redisham's.
"And no funny business," added the chief warningly, taking the lamp and looking back as he closed the door. "You stay here like a good kid, an' remember it's no use singing out. Mind you're here when we come back or—"
He touched the butt of his revolver significantly, and closed the door. Dense darkness shut down on the miserable Redisham.
When he had waited twenty minutes in the same position, he was under the impression that he had waited several hours. He had never experienced anything like the dead, changeless silence that now reigned. For what seemed an age there was no sound—not even the smallest sound. And then, feeling that he would scream out if he did not do something, he commenced to explore his surroundings. He collided with an immense table, on which were piled boots—in incredible quantities. He could make nothing of this mystery. At every stage it became more and more weird. Boots! What could that mean? He was still wondering when he barged into something solid, and it went over with an ear-splitting crash. For some seconds there was silence. Then came footsteps; the door opened.
"I wasn't trying to get out!" he protested feebly; and then his jaw fell. The figure before him was Mr. Glenister, of Salmon's, and the young master was carrying a candle!
Redisham did not pause a moment. He flung himself forward, grasped the amazed master round the waist, and held on with all his strength.
"Oh, save me!" he gasped. "Hurry up, sir! Take me away—before they come back!"
"What—what?" muttered the master, fully convinced that Redisham had gone off his head. "What do you mean?"
"The bandits, the bandits!" babbled Redisham. "They said they'd come back—"
"Come back?" queried the dazed master. "The bandits? Let me go! I don't understand—"
"Oh, hurry up, hurry up," murmured Monty, in an agony of apprehension. "They've got pistols, and everything, and they'll get ten pounds for you if they catch you. It's awful! Come back to the school, sir—hurry!"
"Back to the school? Redisham, wake up! You must be dreaming—we're at the school now, and I want to know what you're doing in the boot-room at this time of night."
"You—what?" asked Monty Redisham, putting his hand to his head and staring round wildly. "Are we at the College?"
"Of course we are! Where else did you think you were?"
"But I thought—I thought," gasped Redisham, still failing to understand. "Then they didn't kidnap me?"
"No, no; of course they didn't."
"And they won't write for a ransom?"
"No—you've been having a nightmare, boy. Overeating, and reading novels! Come, get back to bed at once."
Hardly knowing whether he was standing on his head or his heels, Redisham was conducted back to his dormitory, where he undressed and got into bed. There, for the first time, it began to dawn upon him that he had been the victim of a practical joke. Hot waves of anger swept over him at the recollection. He had made a complete fool of himself.
"Dash it all," he muttered savagely, "what an ass I was! Ten to one it was those confounded Crees—got me outside the gym, carted me about, and took me into the boot-room. Well, this beats the band!"
He nearly choked with fury at the thought of his ignominious treatment.
"Wonder how they knew?" he went on. "Must have heard Daw—or perhaps it wasn't Daw at all! I see it all now! Thought at the time Daw was speaking rather strangely.... Jove!" he muttered, as another aspect of the case struck him, "some beggars must know ... about Daw and me! Symonds and Faraday and, and—oh, what a night!"
He pulled the sheets over his head with a groan, and tried to sleep.
As for Jack, he was in immense feather over the business. Not only had they satisfied themselves that Redisham knew nothing about the missing Star, but the four pals had also had the time of their lives. Those of the Crees who had had a hand in the tormenting of Redisham were all agreed that the jape was the boldest on record, and the tale, as passed on in an elaborated form, brought a chain of chuckles from everybody in Salmon's. And even at that Redisham was lucky; they knew nothing of his discovery by Mr. Glenister. All things considered, it was wiser to keep silence.
"I say, Jack," said Fane the next afternoon, "do you see by the paper that Harry Nelson is coming down to Windsor?"
"Nelson, the light-weight champion?"
"Yes. He's going to box an exhibition with some fellow or other at the opening of the new Sports Club up there. Look here—it's all in this," he added, throwing the paper across.
Jack read in silence for a few minutes. Nelson, the Australian champion, was going to pay a visit to Windsor, a large mining centre some ten miles north of Deepwater Bay. The exhibition was timed to come off that night.
"Nelson's real first-class, I've heard," said Jack.
"Yes, that's what they say about him," agreed Fane. "I say, how would it be to slip out to-night and see him?"
"If we—"
"The roads are pretty decent, and we could get on our grids all right—it shouldn't take more than an hour to reach there, at the outside."
Jack was silent. The proposition appealed to him greatly. "I've a good mind to come," he said at last. "Of course, there's the risk—"
"I know; but there's not much risk, after all—and it's worth it."
"Yes; it's worth while seeing Nelson.... All right, then, count me in. How about Billy or Patchie?"
Fane shook his head. "I doubt whether they'd want to come. In any case four fellows missing from the dormitory would be a bit over the odds—it wouldn't take much to get us pinched."
"You're right. Well, don't forget."
And they might have been seen speeding over the dark road to Windsor, later on, on their bicycles. They arrived in the town just before the performance was due to start, and got seats close up, near the stage, which had been converted into a ring.
All around them there was the noise of the crowded audience. Jack and Fane sat down guiltily, wearing plain tweed caps in the place of their college caps, but full of excitement. There was not long to wait.
"Gen'l'men!" shouted the announcer hoarsely; "Harry Nelson, light-weight champeen of Orstralyer!"
Nelson smiled and bowed. He had a square, alert-looking face and bright eyes.
The champion had brought his own sparring-partner, and shortly his robe was slung off, and he got to work. Jack and Fane whistled with admiration at the man's magnificent physique. It seemed incredible that such strength could be packed away in so small a parcel, for he was no more than five inches over the five-foot mark.
The spar was a brilliant one, as Nelson had opportunities for display that a serious contest would not have afforded him. Jack and Fane sat entranced at the show, watching the fast little fellow dancing about the ring as lightly as a feather. They were sorry when the bout came to an end. Nelson remained in his corner, and presently the announcer came forward with a surprise to spring on the house.
"I have much pleasure in stating," he said, "that Nelson will box four rounds with any man under eleven stone in the audience. If anyone can last the full four rounds, the management will present him with five pounds!"
"Hold me back!" said Jack, pretending to struggle towards the aisle, but taking care not to be successful.
"Hullo!" said Fane, suddenly. "Somebody giving it a flutter!"
Jack looked across the crowded house, and as the challenger gained the stage he let out a gasp of astonishment. For the man was none other than Humbolt, the intimate of Doctor Daw, and the colleague of the mysterious Lazare!
Jack remembered, now, that when he had first seen the fellow he had marked him down as an ex-pugilist. What sort of a showing would he make? Humbolt bent and whispered mysteriously in the announcer's ear.
"Gen'l'men!" cried the announcer, placing his hand upon the head of the grinning Tiger, "Doctor Daw—Doctor Daw!"
"Go on, Doc!" yelled some irrepressible from the back of the hall.
Jack was choking with laughter. The dour Humbolt must have a sense of humour after all, he thought, thus to assume the name of his colleague as a nom-de-guerre. The mental picture of the oily, shifty Daw in a boxing-ring caused Jack inward convulsions, which he had only just overcome when the gong went for the first round.
"Doctor Daw," in trousers and singlet, met a very different Nelson from the pretty sparrer of a few minutes ago. The light-weight champion went for his man in deadly earnest, and the sound of blows filled the hall. But Humbolt was no fool—far from it. He saw that Nelson was taking him cheaply, and waited his chance. He was badly knocked about for two rounds, or so it seemed from the audience. In reality he was taking any amount of punches on gloves or forearms.
In the third round a startling diversion occurred. Nelson was hammering his man in fine style, when suddenly "Doctor Daw" stepped forward with his right foot and slid his left back, thus reversing his feet. Then his left glove shot into the champion's unguarded body, and his right shoulder seemed to jerk back with the venom and force of the blow.
Down went Nelson amid a startled roar—and stayed down. Humbolt grinned widely, and strolled back to his corner. The champion was palpably knocked out, and with one of the neatest "plexus" hits that any man present had seen.
As soon as the light-weight champion had recovered his wind, he made a hurried exit. He was not staying to tackle any more dark horses of this stamp. And Humbolt was presented with the five-pound note in full view of the audience.
"By jove, that was neat!" said Fane. "Nelson took the fellow far too cheaply—and, of course, 'Doctor Daw' was heavier. All the same—"
"You're right, laddie," said a venerable-looking old man sitting on Jack's left. "Nelson took that fellow too cheaply and I'll bet he didn't know who he was, or—"
"Why? Who was it?"
"Nobody here knows, seemingly," returned the white-bearded man, "but that was Jim Camp, who used to be light-weight champion about twenty years ago. That hit was his famous 'shift'—he knocked out scores of opponents with it, and then left the game suddenly—I don't know why. At any rate, it was believed that he'd gone to America. I've been puzzling ever since he started who he was—and I'm sure now, after seeing that old 'shift' again."
"Jove, that's interesting," said Jack. "Do you know whether 'Jim Camp' was his real name?"
"No, it wasn't his right name. I've forgotten what his right name was—something foreign, or foreign-sounding—"
"Not Humbolt?" suggested Jack gently.
"Humbolt! Bless my soul, I believe you're right! A funny fellow he was, too—not altogether straight out of the ring, they used to say. Of course, I don't know.... And he was always terribly afraid of snakes. One time he had a contest with a fellow who knew all about this snake business, and the cunning dodger actually came in with a belt made out of snake-skin—one of these big cobras, you know, with large markings that you could see a mile off.
"The buckle of the belt was a snake's-head design with the tail in its mouth, and it fairly gave Jim Camp the shivers. He fought about three rounds, and then his towel came in. He couldn't get near the thing, you see. Funny, isn't it, how we're all scared of some silly thing like that? Jim, they said, always made it an article in his agreements after that that the belt should be of plain design, with no snaky fancy-work on it, and so the trick wasn't tried again."
The veteran smiled at his memories, and the boys, finding it was rather late, decided to go. They did not care to stop for the rest of the programme, which was a twenty-round contest; and, getting their bicycles back from the shop, made off towards Deepwater.
They arrived safely, and without detection.
"What a term this has been," murmured Jack, "all flittings out and in, night and day. Rummy, isn't it?"
They entered the school by an accessible window, and made their way along the silent corridors. As they passed through, Fane gripped Jack's arm tightly.
"Jack!" he said. "What's that?"
In a moment his question had answered itself. "That" was the shadowy figure of a boy in his pyjamas; and as he passed a moonlit window they saw that it was Billy Faraday. They saw also, that he was sleep-walking, and that he carried the Black Star in his hand ... then out of the shadows a dark figure leapt upon the sleeping boy and flung him to the ground.