Acton's Feud: A Public School Story
by Frederick Swainson · English · Gutenberg #14772 · 345,856 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Acton's Feud: A Public School Story
Author: Frederick Swainson
Release date: January 25, 2005 [eBook #14772]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14772
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ACTON'S FEUD: A PUBLIC SCHOOL STORY ***
[Illustration: ACTON DROPPED TO THE GROUND LIKE A BLUDGEONED DOG.]
ACTON'S FEUD
A PUBLIC SCHOOL STORY
BY
FREDERICK SWAINSON
1901
WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON
GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED
SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND
1901
AD MATREM
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE FOUL 1
II. THE PENALTY 8
III. THE REGENERATION OF BIFFEN'S HOUSE 15
IV. BIFFEN'S PROGRESS 22
V. COTTON AND HIS JACKAL 27
VI. THE LAST CAP 36
VII. THANKS TO ACTON 49
VIII. BIFFEN'S CONCERT 57
IX. THE END OF TERM 65
X. THE YOUNG BROTHER 75
XI. TODD PAYS THE BILL 88
XII. RAFFLES OF ROTHERHITHE 93
XIII. "EASY IS THE DOWNWARD ROAD" 99
XIV. IN THE STABLE 106
XV. GRIM'S SUSPICIONS 112
XVI. TODD "FINDS HIMSELF" 119
XVII. RAFFLES' BILL 126
XVIII. HODGSON'S QUIETUS 133
XIX. HOW THEY "'ELPED THE PORE FELLER" 138
XX. ACTON'S TRUMP CARD 146
XXI. LONDON AND BACK 156
XXII. THE PENFOLD TABLET FUND 161
XXIII. BOURNE _v._ ACTON 170
XXIV. A RENEWED FRIENDSHIP 179
XXV. A LITTLE ROUGH JUSTICE 187
XXVI. THE MADNESS OF W.E. GRIM 194
XXVII. CONCERNING TODD AND COTTON 204
XXVIII. ACTON'S LAST MOVE 209
XXIX. WHY BIFFEN'S LOST 215
XXX. THE END OF THE FEUD 225
ACTON'S CHRISTMAS
I. SNOWED UP 237
II. OVER THE FELLS 248
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
ACTON DROPPED TO THE GROUND LIKE A BLUDGEONED DOG Frontispiece
PHIL WALKED DOWN THE STEPS WITHOUT A FRIENDLY CHEER 40
ACTON JUST REACHED IT WITH HIS HEAD 50
AS THE TRAIN MOVED, GRIM SAID, "THREE CHEERS!" 74
ACTON THREW HIM INTO THE SNOW-HEAP 78
A LITTLE YELLOW, EAR-TORN DOG BUSTLED OUT OF SOME SHED 94
"I'M GOING TO HAVE THE SEVEN TEN, OR SHOW YOU UP" 128
THE GREEN POWDER UNDERWENT SOME WEIRD EXPERIMENTS 142
HE PUSHED UP HIS WINDOW AND CRAWLED THROUGH 160
"CUT, YOU MISERABLE PUPPY" 172
HE GAVE ME A LONG, STEADY LOOK OF HATRED 204
AS THE HORSES WHIRLED PAST, HE CLUTCHED MADLY AT THE LOOSE REINS 226
CHAPTER I
THE FOUL
Shannon, the old Blue, had brought down a rattling eleven--two
Internationals among them--to give the school the first of its annual
"Socker" matches. We have a particular code of football of our own, which
the school has played time out of mind; but, ten years ago, the
Association game was introduced, despite the murmuring of some of the
masters, many of the parents--all old Amorians--and of Moore, the Head,
who had yielded to varied pressures, but in his heart thought "Socker"
vastly inferior to the old game. Association had flourished exceedingly;
so much so that the Head made it a law that, on each Thursday in the
Michaelmas term, the old game, and nothing but the old game, should be
played, and woe betide any unauthorized "cutters" thereof. This was almost
the only rule that Corker never swerved a hair's breadth from, and bitter
were the regrets when Shannon had sent word to Bourne, our captain, that
he could bring down a really clinking team to put our eleven through their
paces, if the match were played on Thursday. Saturday, on account of big
club fixtures, was almost impossible. Corker consented to the eleven
playing the upstart code for this occasion only, but for the school
generally the old game was to be _de rigueur_.
So on this Thursday pretty well the whole school was out in the Acres,
where the old game was in full swing; and, though I fancy the players to a
man would have liked to have lined up on the touch-line in the next field
and given Shannon the "whisper" he deserves, O.G. claimed them that
afternoon for its own, and they were unwilling martyrs to old Corker's
cast-iron conservatism. Consequently, when Bourne spun the coin and
Shannon decided to play with the wind, there would not be more than
seventy or eighty on the touch-line. Shannon asked me to referee, so I
found a whistle, and the game started.
It was a game in which there seemed to be two or three players who served
as motive forces, and the rest were worked through. On one side Shannon at
back, Amber the International at half, and Aspinall, the International
left-winger, were head and shoulders above the others; on our side, Bourne
and Acton dwarfed the rest.
Bourne played back, and Acton was his partner. Bourne I knew well, since
he was in the Sixth, and I liked him immensely; but of Acton I knew only a
little by repute and nothing personally. He was in the Fifth, but, except
in the ordinary way of school life, he did not come much into the circle
wherein the Sixth moves. He was brilliantly clever, with that sort of
showy brilliance which some fellows possess: in the exams, he would walk
clean through a paper, or leave it untouched--no half measures. He was in
Biffen's house and quite the most important fellow in it, and no end
popular with his own crowd, for they looked to him to give their house a
leg up, both in the schools and in the fields, for Biffen's were the
slackest house in St. Amory's. He played football with a dash and vim good
to see, and I know a good few of the eleven envied him his long, lungeing
rush, which parted man and ball so cleanly, and his quick, sure kick that
dropped the ball unerringly to his forwards. He was not in the eleven; but
that he would be in before the term was over was a "moral." He was
good-looking and rather tall, and had a certain foreign air, I thought;
his dark face seemed to be hard and proud, and I had heard that his temper
was fiery.
Bourne had chosen him to play against Shannon's team, and as Acton bottled
up the forwards on his wing Bourne felt that the school's future right
back would not be far to seek.
I soon saw that the school was not quite good enough for the others:
Shannon was almost impassable, and Amber, the half, generally waltzed
round our forwards, and when he secured he passed the ball on to Aspinall,
who doubled like a hare along the touch-line. The question then was "Could
Acton stop the flying International, who spun along like Bassett
himself?" And he did, generally; or, if he could not, he forced him to
part with the ball, and either Baines, our half, lying back, nipped in and
secured, or Bourne cleared in the nick of time. Nine times out of ten,
when Acton challenged Aspinall, the International would part with the ball
to his inside partner; but twice he feinted, and before either of the
school backs could recover, the ball was shot into the net with a high and
catapultic cross shot. Again and again the game resolved itself into a
duello between Acton and Aspinall, and Bourne, when he saw the dealings
with the International and his wiles, smiled easily. He saw the school was
stronger than he thought.
The interval came with the score standing at two against us. When I
started the game again I found that our fellows were pulling along much
better with the wind, and that some of Shannon's men were not quite so
dangerous as before, for condition told. We quickly had one through, and
when I found myself blowing the whistle for a second goal I began to think
that the school might pull through after all. Meanwhile Acton and Aspinall
were having their occasional tussles, though somewhat less often than
before, and three or four times the school back was overturned pretty
heartily in the encounters.
Though there was not a suspicion of unfairness or temper on Aspinall's
part, I fancied that Acton was getting rather nettled at his frequent
upsets. He was, I considered, heavier than Aspinall, and much taller, so I
was both rather waxy and astonished to find that he was infusing a little
too much vigour into his tackling, and, not to put too fine a point on it,
was playing a trifle roughly. Aspinall was bundled over the touch-line a
good half-dozen times, with no little animus behind the charge, and
ultimately Bourne noticed it. Now, Bourne loathed anything approaching bad
form, so he said sharply to Acton, though quietly, "Play the game, sir!
Play the ball!" Acton flushed angrily, and I did not like the savage way
he faced round to Bourne, who was particularly busy at that moment and did
not notice it. The game went on until within about five minutes from time.
Amber had been feeding Aspinall assiduously for the last ten minutes, and
Acton had, despite his cleverness, more than he could really hold in the
flying International. He stalled off the attack somehow, and Bourne always
covered his exertions, so that it seemed as if there would be a draw after
all. At last the ball was swung across, and Aspinall was off on a final
venture. Acton stuck to him like a leech, but the winger tipped the ball
to his partner, and as Acton moved to intercept the inside, the latter
quickly and wisely poked the ball back again to Aspinall. He was off again
in his own inimitable style, and I saw him smile as he re-started his run.
I rather fancy Acton saw it too, and accepted the smile as a sneering
challenge; anyhow, he set his lips and I believe made up his mind that in
any case Aspinall should not get the winning goal. How it exactly happened
I cannot say, but as Aspinall was steadying himself, when at top speed,
for an almost point-blank delivery, I saw Acton break his own stride,
shoot out his leg, and the next moment the International was stumbling
forward, whilst the ball rolled harmlessly onward into our goal-keeper's
hands. I could hardly believe my own eyes, but it was a deliberate trip,
if ever there was one! Aspinall tried to recover himself, failed, and came
with a sickening crash against the goal-post. I blew the whistle and
rushed to Aspinall; his cheek was bleeding villainously and he was deadly
pale. I helped him up, and he said with his usual smile--who could mistake
it for a sneer?--"Thanks, old man. Yes, I do feel a bit seedy. That back
of yours is an animal, though." He tried hard to keep his senses; I saw
him battling against his faintness, but the pain and shock were too much
for him; he fell down again in a dead faint.
We improvised a hurdle and carried him up to the school. Acton, pale to
the lips, prepared to bear a hand, but Bourne unceremoniously took him by
the arm and said with concentration, "No thanks, Acton. We'll excuse
you--you beastly cad!" I heard Bourne's remark, though no one else saw or
heard. Acton's hand closed involuntarily, and he gave Bourne a vitriolic
look, but did nothing nor said anything. We took Aspinall up to
Merishall's--his old house--where he was staying, and left him there still
unconscious.
What astonished me was that no one save Bourne had noticed the trip, but
when I came to think it over the explanation was easy. Acton had, whether
from accident or of purpose, "covered" his man and blocked the view from
behind. I myself had not really _seen_ the trip, but it would have
been plainly visible for any one opposite on the touch-line, and luckily
there was no one opposite. The goal-keeper might have seen it, but Roberts
never attends to anything but the ball--the reason he's the fine keeper
that he is. Bourne had actually seen it, being practically with Acton, and
I knew by his pale face and scornful eyes that he would dearly have liked
to kick Acton on the spot.
I was, as you may guess, intensely pleased that no one had an idea of the
foul except Bourne and myself, for I could imagine vividly where the
rumour of this sort of "form" would spread to. We'd hear of it for years
after.
I mentally promised that Acton should have a little of my opinion on the
matter on the first opportunity.
CHAPTER II
THE PENALTY
I arranged to see Bourne that evening, when we should have heard the
doctor's report on Aspinall. In the evening Bourne strolled into my room,
looking a little less gloomy than I expected. "Briggs says that there is
nothing broken, and that as soon as Aspinall gets over the shock he will
be all right. The cut may leave a scar, but that will be about all. All
the same, Carr, I think that's too heavy a price to pay for the bad temper
of one of our fellows who can't stand a tumble into the mud at 'footer.'
You saw the villainy, didn't you?"
"I can't say I actually saw him trip, but there's no doubt whatever that
it was an abominable foul."
"None at all. I saw him, worse luck, tolerably plainly."
"Do you know anything about him?"
"Practically nothing."
"I think Biffen's rather fancy he's going to lift them out of the mire."
"Can't say I envy them their champion."
"What strikes me as odd is that such a magnificent player should do such a
vile trick."
"Rum, certainly. The affair will give quite a professional touch to our
'Socker' fixtures, and the Carthusians will ask us to bar our bullies when
they come down again. Oh, this _is_ sweet!"
"I say, Bourne, this business must not move one inch further. You've
spoken to no one?"
"Is it likely?"
"We'll not have any of our dirty linen washed _coram populo_, old
chap. Frightful bad form. No one knows but you, Aspinall, and self."
"Surely Aspinall will----"
"You don't know Aspinall, old man. He'd shrivel up sooner than say a word
more. Bet you he'll speak of it as an accident. Remember, he was captain
of the school here once."
"Which makes it a blacker shame than ever," said Bourne, wrathfully.
"I've inquired casually of the Fifth, and it seems our friend once
distinguished himself in the gym. Lost his temper--as _per
recipe_--and Hodgson had to knock him down before he could see that
we put on the gloves here for a little healthy exercise, and the pleasure
of lifting some of the public schools championships. He, however,
apologized to Hodgson, but I don't think he'll do the honourable here."
"Then, the chief attraction of the beauty is its temper?"
"Or want of it."
"Who is he, anyhow?"
"Yorkshire people, I believe. Own half a town and no end of coin. Been to
school in France and Germany, and consequently came here rather late. I
know his head-piece Is all right, and I imagine his amiability is only a
little foreign blood working its way out. He will be with us in the Sixth
at Christmas."
"Delightful prospect. What I want to know is--how are we to settle this
business as far as he is concerned? Ought Moore to know?"
"I don't think so. Never trouble Corker more than you can help, old man.
That's a tip for you when I'm gone. Besides, masters generally mishandle
affairs of this sort. I rather fancy I'll put it to Aspinall when he pulls
through."
"Do. One thing, though, is pretty certain. He'll never get his cap as long
as I'm captain of the footer eleven. I'd rather come out of it myself."
"Of course. I see there's no help for that, but, all the same, it will
make complications. What a pity he _can_ play!"
"It is, for he is a back out of a thousand."
Bourne's voice had in it a ring of genuine regret, and whilst I could
almost have smiled at his unaffectedly tragic tone, I could see the vista
which his resolution opened up. I heard the school shouting at Bourne to
let the finest player out of the eleven in, and all the shouting would be
across "seas of misunderstanding." I know Bourne saw the difficulties
himself, and he left my study soon after with a rather anxious look on his
face. Personally I determined not to think about the matter until I had
seen Aspinall. From the very first I had never expected any help from
Acton. There was something about the whole of his bearing in the caddish
business that told me plainly that we would have to treat him, not as a
fellow who had been betrayed to a vile action by a beastly temper and was
bitterly sorry for it, but as a fellow who hated us for finding it out.
I saw Aspinall two days later, and as we walked towards the station I
broached the matter.
"Certainly; I thought he tripped me, but he has written me and said how
sorry he was for my accident, so, of course, it rests there."
"Candidly, Aspinall, have you any doubt yourself?"
"No, old fellow. I'm sorry, but I really think he tripped me. He was riled
at a little hustling from Shannon's lot, and I may have upset him myself
occasionally. But it is a small matter."
I looked at the bandages across his cheek, and I didn't think it small.
"But, Aspinall, even if we leave you out of the business, it isn't a small
matter for us, especially for Bourne."
"Well, no; hardly for you," he admitted. "'Twas a piece of sheer bad form.
It shouldn't be done at our place at all."
"If you were in Bourne's place would you bar him his place in the eleven?"
Aspinall considered a full minute.
"On the whole, I think I should--at least, for one term; but I'd most
certainly let him know why he was not to have his cap--privately, of
course. I should not like it to get about, and I do not fancy Acton will
say much about it."
That night Bourne and I crossed over to Biffen's, and waylaid Acton in his
den. I'm pretty sure there wasn't another room like his in the whole
school. No end of swell pictures--foreign mostly; lovely little books,
which, I believe, were foreign also; an etching of his own place up in
Yorkshire; carpets, and rugs, and little statuettes--swagger through and
through; a little too much so, I believe, for the rules, but Biffen
evidently had not put his foot down. Acton was standing on the hearthrug
with his back to the fire, and on seeing us he politely offered us chairs
with the air of a gentleman and a something of grace, which was a trifle
foreign.
I saw that Acton's polite cordiality nettled Bourne more than a little,
but he solemnly took a chair, and in his blunt, downright fashion, plunged
headlong into the business.
"Only came to say a word or two, Acton, about Thursday's match."
"A very good one," he remarked, with what Corker calls "detached
interest." "Aspinall's accident was more than unfortunate."
"The fact is," said Bourne, bluntly, "neither Carr nor I believe it was an
accident."
"No? What was it, then? Every one else thought it was, though."
"We know better. We know that you deliberately fouled him, and----"
Acton paled, and his eyes glittered viciously, though he said calmly,
"That is a lie."
"And," continued Bourne, "though there is not a fellow even a respectable
second to you at 'footer,' I shall not give you your cap as long as I am
captain of the eleven. That is all I came to say."
Acton said quite calmly (why was he so uncommonly cool, I asked
myself?)--though his face was red and white alternately: "Then listen
carefully to what I say. I particularly wanted to have my footer cap--why,
does not concern any one but myself--and I don't fancy losing it because a
couple of fellows see something that a hundred others couldn't see, for the
sufficient reason that there wasn't anything to see. I shall make no row
about it; and, since you can dole out the caps to your own pet chums, and
no one can stop you--do it! but I think you'll regret it all the same. I'm
not going to moan about it--that isn't my way; but I really think you'll
regret it. That is all; though"--this with a mocking sneer--"why it
requires two of you to come and insult a man in his own room I don't
understand."
"I came to say that if you'd apologize to Aspinall things might
straighten."
"Might straighten! Oh, thanks!" he said, his face looking beastly
venomous. "I think you'd better go, really."
So we went, and I could not but feel that Bourne was right when he said on
parting, "Our friend will make himself superbly disagreeable over this,
take my word for it! But he won't get into the eleven, and I won't have a
soul know that old Aspinall's scar is the work of a fellow in St. Amory's,
either. If they have to know, he must tell them himself."
CHAPTER III
THE REGENERATION OF BIFFEN'S HOUSE
To say that Acton was upset by our visit and our conversation and Bourne's
ultimatum would be beside the mark; he was furious, and when he had cooled
down somewhat, his anger settled into a long, steady stretch of hate
towards us both, but especially towards Bourne. He simmered over many
plans for getting "even" with him, and when he had finally mapped out a
course he proceeded, as some one says, "diligently to ensue it;" for Acton
was not of that kind to be "awkward" as occasion arose, but there was
method in all his schemes.
It so happened that Worcester was captain of Biffen's house, and also of
Biffen's "footer" team. My own opinion was that poor old Worcester would
have given a lot to be out of such a house as Biffen's, and I know he
utterly despised himself for having in a moment of inexplicable weakness
consented to be permanent lead to Biffen's awful crowd on the Acres. He
died a thousand deaths after each (usual) annihilation. Worcester and
Acton had nothing in common, and, except that they were in the same house
and form, they would not probably have come to nodding terms. Worcester,
of course, looked up to the magnificent "footer" player as the average
player looks up to the superlative. After the first game of the season,
when Acton had turned out in all his glory, Dick had thereupon offered to
resign his captaincy, even pressing, with perhaps suspicious eagerness,
Acton's acceptance of that barren honour. But Acton did not bite. Captains
were supposed to turn out pretty well every day with their strings, and
Acton was not the sort of fellow to have his hands tied in any way. So he
had gently declined.
"No, old man. Wouldn't dream of ousting you. You'll get a good team out of
Biffen's yet. Plenty of raw material."
"That's just it," said Worcester, naively; "it is so jolly raw."
"Well, cook it, old man."
"It only makes hash," said Worcester, with a forlorn smile at his own
joke.
But now Acton thought that the captaincy of Biffen's might dovetail into
his schemes for the upsetting of Bourne, and therefore Dick's proposal was
to be reconsidered. Thus it was that Worcester got a note from Acton
asking him to breakfast.
Worcester came, and his eyes visibly brightened when he spotted Acton's
table, for there was more than a little style about Acton's catering, and
Worcester had a weakness for the square meal. Acton's fag, Grim, was busy
with the kettle, and there was as reinforcement in Dick's special honour,
young Poulett, St. Amory's champion egg-poacher, sustaining his big
reputation in a large saucepan. Worcester sank into his chair with a sigh
of satisfaction at sight of little Poulett; he was to be in clover,
evidently.
"That's right, Worcester. That _is_ the easiest chair. Got that last
egg on the toast, Poulett? You're a treasure, and so I'll write your
mamma. Tea or coffee, Dick? Coffee for Worcester, Grim, tea for me. Pass
that cream to Worcester, and you've forgotten the knife for the pie.
You're a credit to Sharpe's, Poulett; but remember that you've been
poaching for Biffen's footer captain. That's something, anyhow. Don't
grin, Poulett; it's bad form. Going? To Bourne's, eh? I can recommend you,
though it would be no recommendation to him. You can cut, too, Grim, and
clear at 9.30. See the door catches."
Grim scuttled after the renowned egg-poacher, and Worcester and Acton were
left alone. When Worcester was fed, and had pushed back his chair, Acton
broached the business to which the breakfast was the preliminary.
"Fact is, Worcester, I've been thinking how it is that Biffen's is the
slackest house in the place."
"Oh! it's got such a plucky reputation, you know. The kids weep when
they're put down for Biffen's. Give a dog a bad name--"
"But why the bad name?"
"Dunno! Perhaps it's Biffen. I think so, anyhow. At any rate, there's not
been a fellow from the house in the Lord's eleven or in the footer eleven,
and in the schools Biffen's crowd always close the rear. By the way, how
did you come among our rout?"
"I think mater knew Biffen; that's the explanation."
"Rather rough on you."
"Don't feel anything, really, Worcester."
"Well, Biffen has got a diabolical knack of picking up all the loose ends
of the school; all the impossible fellows gravitate here: why, look at our
Dervishes!" (Dervish was the slang for foreigners at St. Amory's.)
"We've certainly got more than our share of colour."
"That's Biffen's all the world over," said Dick, with intense heat; "you
could match any colour between an interesting orange and a real jet black
among our collection. Biffen simply can't resist a nigger. He must have
him. What they come to the place at all for licks me. Can't the
missionaries teach 'em to spell?"
"_La haute politique_," suggested Acton.
"Of Sarawack or Timbuctoo?" said Worcester, with scorn. "Bet my boots that
Borneo one's governor went head-hunting in his time, and the darkest
African one's knows what roasted man is."
Acton laughed, for a nigger was to Worcester as a red rag to a bull. "St.
Amory's for niggers!" Dick would say with intense scorn.
"Anyhow," said Acton, "I think there's no need for us to be quite so
slack."
"You'll pull us up a bit?" said Dick, with genuine admiration.
"Thanks. But I meant the whole house generally."
"Not much good. We're Biffen's, that never did nor never shall, etc."
"I don't know. There's sixty of us, barring your niggers; we ought to get
eleven to look at a football with a business eye out of that lot, you
know."
"We ought to, but don't."
"We ought to do something in the schools too."
"We ought to, but don't, though Raven is in for the Perry Exhibition.
Guess he won't pull it off, though."
"We'll see about that, too," said Acton. "As for the niggers--"
"Oh, never mind them!" burst in Worcester. "Without humbug, Acton, do you
really want our house to move a bit?"
"Rather!"
"Well, then, consent to captain our footer eleven and we give ourselves a
chance, for I can't make the fellows raise a gallop at any price, and I
somehow think you can. Have a try. If you are sick of it at Christmas,
I'll come in again; honour bright. It isn't too good-natured of me to ask
you to pull Biffen's out of the mud, but you're the only fellow to do it
if it can be done. Will you?"
"You wouldn't mind resigning?"
"By Jove, no!" said Worcester, precipitately.
"Don't mention it. Not at all, old man, not at all."
"Well, I've been thinking that, if you didn't mind, I'd like to try my
hand on our crowd; though, since you don't move 'em, there can't be much
chance for me to do anything smart."
"That doesn't follow, for you aren't me, old man."
"Then I'll have a shot at it."
Worcester grasped Acton's hand, as the French say, "with emotion."
"But the house will have to elect me, you know; perhaps they'd fancy Raven
as captain. He can play decently, and they know him."
"Well, Biffen's are a dense lot, but I'm hanged if even their stupidity
would do a thing like that. They've seen you play, haven't they?"
"Thanks. Fact is, Dick, I feel a bit bored by the patronage of Taylor's
and Merishall's, and Sharpe's and Corker's, and all the rest of the
houses."
"Oh! Biffen's laid himself out for that, you must see."
"I don't fancy Bourne's sneers and Hodgson's high stilts."
"Haven't noticed either," said Dick.
"H'm!" said Acton, rather nettled by Dick's dry tone. "I have. As for the
niggers--"
"The other houses despise us on their account. We're the Dervish Camp to
the rest."
"As for the niggers, they shall do something for Biffen's too," said
Acton, rather thoughtfully.
"You mean in the sing-songs? Well, they'll spare the burnt cork
certainly."
"Well, that's an idea too," said Acton, laughing, "but not the one I had.
That will keep."
Worcester might have some curiosity to know what Acton's idea was, but he
wasn't going to inquire anything about the niggers.
"It's awfully brickish of you, Worcester," said Acton, as Grim was heard
trotting up the corridor "to stand down."
"Not at all; the sacrifice is on your altar."
"Then _allons_. Here's Grim knocking, and I've to see Corker at 9.40.
You'll excuse me."
Grim came in and commenced to clear away, and the two sallied out.
CHAPTER IV
BIFFEN'S PROGRESS
That day, after morning school, Biffen's held a meeting, and thereat Acton
was proposed captain by Worcester and seconded by Raven; and Biffen's
confirmed Worcester's qualified opinion of their sense by electing him
_nem. con_.
From that day Acton threw his heart and soul into the regeneration of
Biffen's. There did not pass an afternoon but that he turned out for
footer, and coached, encouraged, bullied, stormed, praised each individual
member of the team with the strictest impartiality and Spartan justice.
The smallest fault was dragged out into the light of day, and commented on
with choice fulness, and any clever concerted piece of work got its due
reward. Acton would stand no half-hearted play; he wanted the last ounce
out of his men. The fellows stared a bit at first at his deadly
earnestness, so unlike Dick's disgusted resignation at their shortcomings;
but they found the change refreshing on the whole, for they could stand a
lot of bullying from a fellow like Acton, who never seemed to make a
mistake, or to have an off-day, and who could give stones and a beating to
the best man among them. They respected his skill, and buckled to the work
in hand. In about a fortnight there was a suggestion of style about the
moving of some of the fellows up the field. Worcester backed up Acton with
whole-hearted enthusiasm, and Raven was lost in wonder at the forward
movement. This backing Acton found rather useful, for Dick and Raven were
as popular as any in St. Amory's.
Some of the fellows were inclined to turn restive after about a fortnight,
when the novelty of earnestness in football had worn off, but Acton's
demands were as inexorable as ever. Matters came to a head (probably, as I
expect, to the new captain's inward satisfaction) when his girding upset
Chalmers--about the best forward of Biffen's regenerated lot. There was to
be a match with some of the Fifth for the Saturday, and Acton had arranged
a preliminary canter the day before to test his attack. Chalmers was the
winger, but on the day he was tremendously selfish, and stuck to the ball
until he was robbed or knocked off it. Now, Acton loathed the "alone I did
it" type of forward, and asked Chalmers pretty acidly what his inside man
was for. This riled Chalmers considerably, for he had a large private
opinion about his own play, and he said pretty hotly, "Mind your own
business, Acton."
Acton said very coolly, "I am going to do so. Please remember, Chalmers,
this is not a one-horse show."
"Seems distinctly like it, judging by the fellow who's been doing all the
talking for the last age."
"Play the game, and don't be an ass."
"I object to being called an ass," said Chalmers, in a white rage.
"Well, mule, then," said Acton, cheerfully. "Anything to oblige you,
Chalmers, bar your waltzing down the touch-line to perdition. You're not a
Bassett nor a Bell yet, you know."
Chalmers would dearly have liked to have struck Acton, but Worcester
looked so utterly disgusted at the whole business, that I fancy it was
Dick's eye that suggested to Chalmers his getting into his coat and
sweater. He did so, and stalked angrily off the field.
Now, Chalmers really liked the game, and did not fancy being crossed out
of the eleven, which Acton would almost certainly proceed to do; so that
night after tea, he went to Worcester's study, and boarded Dick.
"Apologize to Acton," said Dick.
"But he called me an ass!"
"You were one," said Dick, dryly. "Acton's putting in a lot of work over
the slackest house that ever disgraced the old school, and this is how
he's treated. Ass is a mild term."
Chalmers went to Raven.
"Apologize," said Raven.
"He called me a mule," urged Chalmers, despairingly.
"So you were. I quite expected to see the kicking begin, really. Acton's
sweating no end to screw us up to concert-pitch, and flat mutiny is his
reward. Apologize, and help us win the Fifth to-morrow."
So Chalmers moved reluctantly across to Acton's and made his apology.
"Don't mention it," said Acton, cheerfully. "Sorry I upset you, Chalmers,
but you elected me captain, and I do want a little success in the houses,
and how can we get it if the fellows don't combine? Say no more about it;
I was rather afraid you weren't going to come, which is the unadorned
truth."
This last delicate touch, which showed Chalmers that, without the apology,
his captain had meant to cut him adrift, _sans_ hesitation, and yet
contained a pretty little compliment to his footer, embarrassed Chalmers
more than a little; but Acton offered his forward tea and muffins, and
five minutes afterwards Chalmers was finding out what a nice fellow Acton
really could be. The next day Chalmers smoothed his ruffled feelings by
piling on three goals against the Fifth, who sneaked off the Acres five
goals to the bad. This was the first time for ages that Biffen's had
tasted blood, and the news of the victory staggered others besides the
victims. There was quite a flutter among the house captains, and Acton, by
the way, had no more mutinies.
"Without haste, without rest," Biffen's captain started his second project
for the elevation of his house. He had noticed what none of the other
fellows would condescend to see, that two of the despised niggers of
Biffen's were rather neat on the bars. He spent a quarter of an hour one
evening quietly watching the two in the gym, and he went away thoughtful.
Singh Ram and Mehtah thereupon each received a polite note, and "could
they call about seven in Acton's study?" They came, and Acton talked to
them briefly but to the point. When they sought their quarters again they
were beaming, and "Singed" Ram carried a fat book of German physical
exercises under his arm.
"Am I not coming out strong?" said Acton, laughing to himself, "when I set
the very niggers a-struggling for the greater glory of Biffen's--or is it
Acton's? Then, there's that exhibition, which we must try to get for this
double-superlative house. Raven must beat that Sixth prig Hodgson, the
very bright particular star of Corker's. Would two hours' classics, on
alternate nights, meet his case? He shall have 'em, bless him! He shall
know what crops Horace grew on his little farm, and all the other rot
which gains Perry Exhibitions. Hodgson may strong coffee and wet towel
_per noctem_; but, with John Acton as coach, Raven shall upset the
apple-cart of Theodore Hodgson. There's Todd in for the Perry, too, I
hear. Hodgson may be worth powder and shot, but I'm hanged if Raven need
fear Cotton's jackal! If only half of my plans come off, still that will
put Philip Bourne in a tighter corner than he's ever been in before.
Therefore--_en avant!_"
CHAPTER V
COTTON AND HIS JACKAL
As I said before, the victory of the despised Biffenites over the Fifth
Form eleven--a moderate one, it is true--caused quite a little breeze of
surprise to circulate around the other houses, which had by process of
time come to regard that slack house as hopeless in the fields or in the
schools. Over all the tea-tables that afternoon the news was commented on
with full details; how Chalmers had gained in deadliness just as much as
he had lost in selfishness, and how Raven and Worcester had worked like
horses, and mown down the opposition--"Fifth Form opposition!" said the
fags, with a lift of the eyebrows--like grass, and as for Biffen's new
captain, well, if there was one player who could hold a candle to him it
must be Phil Bourne, and he only.
In the Rev. E. Taylor's house, Cotton senior, who answered to the name of
"Jim" among his familiars, and was "Bully Cotton" to his enemies--every
Amorian below the Fifth, and a good sprinkling elsewhere--and Augustus
Vernon Robert Todd, who was "Gus" to every one, sat at tea together in
Todd's room. Cotton had been one of the slain that afternoon on the Acres,
and was still in his footer clothes, plus a sweater, which almost came up
to his ears. There was a bright fire in the grate, and though Todd's room
was not decorative compared with most of the other fellows' dens, yet it
was cheerful enough. Cotton had come back from the match hungry and a
trifle bruised from a smart upset, only to find his own fire out, and
preparations for tea invisible. Having uttered dire threats against his
absent, erring fag, he moved into his friend's room, and the two clubbed
together their resources, and the result was a square meal, towards which
Cotton contributed something like 19/20, A.V.R. Todd's share being limited
to the kettle, the water, and the fire. When Cotton had satisfied his
footer appetite, he turned down his stocking and proceeded vigorously to
anoint with embrocation his damaged leg, the pungent scent of the liniment
being almost ornamental in its strength.
"How did you get that, Jim?" said Gus, surveying the brawny limb with
interest.
"Acton brought me down like a house, my boy."
"Fair?"
"Oh yes; but you've got to go down if he catches you in his swing."
"You fellows must have played beautifully to let Biffen's mob maul you to
that extent."
"Gus, my boy, instead of frowsing up here all the afternoon with your
books, you should have been on the touch-line watching those Biffenites at
their new tricks. Your opinion then would have a little avoirdupois. As it
is, you Perry Exhibit, it is worth exactly nothing."
"You're deucedly classical to-night, Jim."
"Oh, I'm sick of this forsaken match and all the compliments we've had
over it. I'm going now to have a tub, and then we'll get that Latin paper
through, and, thirdly, I'll have the chessmen out."
"Sorry, I can't, Jim," said Todd, discontentedly. "There is that beastly
Perry Scholarship--I must really do something for that!"
"Thomas Rot, Esq.!" said Cotton. "Haven't you been a-cramming and
a-guzzling for that all this afternoon? You've a duty towards your chums,
Toddy, so I tell you."
"That's all very well, Jim, for you, who are going to break some crammer's
heart, and then crawl into the Army through the Militia, but my pater
wants me to do something in the Perry, I tell you."
"Chess!" said Cotton, disregarding Todd's bleat, and then, with a sly
smile, he added, "Shilling a game, Gus, and you know you always pull off
the odd one."
"All right," said Todd, swallowing the bait with forlorn eagerness; "I'll
have the board set out if you must come in."
"Oh, I must!" said Cotton, with a half-sneer at Todd's anxiety to pick up
a small sum. "Clear the table, and we'll make a snug evening of it."
Todd's method of clearing a table was novel, if not original. He carried
it bodily into Cotton's room, and then returned with his friend's
mahogany, which was undoubtedly more ornamental than his own.
Acton was absolutely right when he sneeringly called Gus "Cotton's
jackal." Todd was exactly of the material which makes a good jackal,
though he never became quite Jim Cotton's toady. He was a sharp, selfish
individual, good-looking in an aimless kind of way, with a slack, feeble
mouth, and a wandering, indecisive glance. He had a quick, shallow
cleverness, which could get up pretty easily enough of inexact knowledge
to pass muster in the schools. Old Corker knew his capabilities to a hair,
and would now and then, when Gus offered up some hazy, specious
guess-work, blister him with a little biting sarcasm. Todd feared the
Doctor as he feared no one else. Todd's chief private moan was that he
never had any money. His father was a rich man, but had some ideas which
were rather rough on his weak-kneed son. He tipped poor Gus as though he
were some thrifty hairdresser's son, and Todd had to try to ruffle it with
young Amorians on as many shillings as they had crowns. Not a lad who ever
had naturally any large amount of self-respect, the little he had soon
went, and he became, while still a fag, a hewer of wood and drawer of
water to his better-tipped cronies. His destiny finished when, on his
entry into the Fifth, Jim Cotton claimed him, and subsidized him as his
man.
At the beginning of the term his father had told him that if he could make
a good show in the Perry Exhibition there need not be any more grumbling
about his tip. Gus came back to St. Amory's hysterically anxious to cut
out all competitors for the Perry, but the shackles of his old serfdom
were still about him. When he showed signs of being restive to the old
claims, and recommended Cotton to do his own classics and mathematics,
Cotton coolly and calmly demanded repayment of sundry loans contracted of
old. Todd had not the pluck to face a term of plain living and high
thinking by paying his former patron all he owed him and exhausting all
his present tip by so doing, but flabbily, though discontentedly, caved
in, and became Cotton's jackal as before.
Cotton was by no means as bad as his endearing name might make you think.
He was a tall, heavy fellow, with a large, determined-looking face. He was
wonderfully stupid in the schools, but was quite clever enough to know it.
He had some good qualities. He was straight enough in all extra-school
affairs, did not lie, nor fear any one; kept his word, and expected you to
keep yours.
"You can't beat Hodgson of the Sixth, Gus, so what is the good of sweating
all the term? Hodgson's got the deuce of a pull over you to start with."
"I'm not frightened of Hodgson if you wouldn't bother, Jim."
"Can't do without you, old cock. You're just the fellow to lift my Latin
and those filthy mathematics high enough out of the mud to keep the beaks
from worrying me to death. I tried Philips for a week, but he did such
weird screeds in the 'unseens' that Merishall smelt a rat, and was most
particular attentive to me, but your leverage is just about my fighting
weight."
Gus had sniffed discontentedly at this dubious compliment; but Cotton had
smiled stolidly, and continued to use Gus as his classical and
mathematical hack. Besides, there was something about Gus's easy-going
lackadaisical temperament which exactly suited Cotton, and he felt for his
grumbling jackal a friendliness apart from Gus's usefulness to him.
This afternoon had been a fair sample of Todd's usual half-holiday.
Feeling no heart for any serious work for the Perry, he had spent it in
reading half a worthless novel, and skimming through a magazine, and
feeling muddled and discontented in consequence. He had the uneasy feeling
that he was an arrant ass in thus fooling time away, but had not
sufficient self-denial to seize upon a quiet afternoon for a little
genuine work.
Cotton soon returned from his bath, and the two cronies spent about an
hour in getting up the least modicum of their classics which would satisfy
Merishall; and then they played chess, by which Gus was one florin richer.
A third game was in progress, but Todd managed to tip over the board when
he was "going to mate in five moves." Cotton thereupon said he had had
enough, but Gus avariciously tried to reconstruct the positions. He failed
dismally, and Cotton laughed sweetly. Now Cotton's laugh would almost make
his chum's hair curl, so he retorted pretty sweetly himself, "I say, Jim.
I can't get out of my head that awful hammering you fellows got this
afternoon. Think Biffen's lot likely to shape well in the House matches?"
"There's no telling, old man. But if they get moderate luck they'll be
waltzing about in the final."
"That's absolute blazing idiocy!" said Todd, knocking over more chessmen
in his astonishment.
"All right, Gus. To talk absolute blazing idiocy is my usual habit, of
course. They may carry off the final even, but that, perhaps, is a tall
order."
Todd nursed his astonishment for a full five minutes, whistling
occasionally, as at some very fantastic idea. At last he said more
seriously: "Aren't you now, Jim, really pulling my leg?"
"No, honour bright! Biffen's are really eye-openers."
Gus said with infinite slyness: "Look here, I'll bet you evens Biffen's
_don't_ pull off the final."
"Oh, that is rot, Gus, to talk about betting, for you can't pay if you
lose."
Gus had not too much sensitiveness in his character, but this unmeant
insult stung him.
"You've no right to say that. I've paid all I've ever betted with you."
Cotton considered heavily in his own mind for a moment. "That is almost
true, but--"
"Well, what do you mean--" began Todd, in a paddy.
"All right," said Cotton; "shut up, confound you! I'll take you."
"Three quid Biffen's are not cock-house at 'footer.'"
"Done," said Cotton, unwillingly pulling out his note-book; "and straight,
Todd, I shall expect you to pay if you lose."
"Oh, shut up, Cotton, you cad! I shall pay if I lose, man. What do you
want to keep on insulting me like that for?"
"Steady, Gus. You'll have Taylor up if you howl like that. I meant
nothing."
"Nothing!" said Gus in a fury, seeking for something particularly sweet to
say to his patron. "I jolly well hope, then, that if our house should meet
'em in the rounds you will do your little best to put a stopper on their
career. Don't, for the sake of pulling off your bet, present 'em with a
few goals. You 'keep' for our house, you know."
"Oh, dash it all, Todd," said Cotton, in a white rage, "you are a bounder!
Think I'd sell my side?" he demanded furiously.
"Ah!" said Gus, delighted at having got through Cotton's skin. "You don't
stomach insults any more than I do. Then why do you ladle them out so
jolly freely to me?"
"That was a particularly low one," said Cotton angrily; "and anyway, you
avaricious beggar, you've got thundering good terms, for it is hardly
likely that Biffen's can really be cock-house. There's Corker's house,
with Bourne and Hodgson and a few more good men. You're a sight more
likely to see my three sovs, that I am yours."
"I hope so," said Gus, with some relief at the anticipation of this
pleasant prospect.
Then the anger of the two simmered down, each having given and received
some very choice compliments, and as these little breezes were usual
between the two, ten minutes afterwards they were amiably entertaining
each other. Cotton was putting up a pair of dumb-bells three hundred
times, and his crony was counting and criticising his form. The Perry
Exhibition did not enter Todd's head, but his bet--"such a gilt-edged
one," he chuckled--was never once out of it. And Todd's bet had some
momentous consequences for him, too.
CHAPTER VI
THE LAST CAP
While Acton was thus making such strenuous exertions to lift Biffen's out
of the mire, Bourne was finding out the whole unpainted beauty of the
situation--as far as it concerned himself.
The experimental footer elevens were chosen in what, I believe, is the
usual manner. The old members of the school eleven formed a committee, and
chose fellows to play in the weekly matches, and if any one of them showed
special talent he was, of course, retained, and by-and-by the captain gave
him his school cap, and he was henceforth a full-blown member of the
eleven, with a seat on the committee like any of the old gang.
There were left of the last year's team five players--Bourne, Mivart,
Vercoe, Baines, and Roberts. The final promotion of fellows into the
eleven, however, rested with the captain alone, and when he considered any
fellow good enough he signified the same by presenting him with the blue
and silver cap of St. Amory.
The giving away of a cap had become quite a function. Whenever there was
the rumour that some one was to have a cap after a match, pretty well the
whole school swarmed round the pavilion, and when the new member came out
in all the glory of his new blue and silver he got the cheers which his
play or popularity deserved, and especially did the new member's house
distinguish themselves in the shouting.
Thus Bourne had six caps at his disposal, and since "Socker" had been
introduced, the last cap was always given so that when the school played
the last match--the Carthusians--the eleven would be complete.
Bourne saw at once the cloud which was rising on the horizon when, at the
first committee meeting to choose the eleven against "The Cognoscenti"
Mivart said, "Well, Bourne, we've got your partner for to-morrow ready
made. I think we may put that new chap Acton down right off."
"Rather," said Vercoe. "He can't be left out."
"Best back we've seen for an age-barring Phil, of course," said Baines.
"And the others we'll have to fight over, as usual. My choice is Hodgson
for centre."
"Too lazy, Roberts. Mine is Chalmers."
"Rot! He's a winger."
And so the selection of an eleven against the Cognoscenti went on in the
usual old-fashioned style.
Bourne dropped into my study afterwards and said, gloomily; "On the whole,
Carr, had I not better tell the fellows that they may elect Acton for our
school fixtures, but he cannot have his cap? That will take the bull by
the horns from the beginning."
"By no means. The other fellows have nothing whatever to do with giving
caps away; that is your business entirely. Besides, who knows? Acton may
not care to play when he knows he cannot get his cap."
"I'd be agreeably surprised if he didn't. But that won't be his little
game. Take my word for it, he'll turn out on every blessed occasion, play
like a master of the game, and give us no end of trouble."
"Perhaps he may. Anyhow, something may turn up between now and the last
match--we'll hope so, anyhow; and until the last cap is given away the
fellows generally won't spot your little game."
"'Tis only putting off the evil day, Carr," said Phil, discontentedly.
"A good day to put off."
Thus, when Hodgson was given the first cap, there was the general comment
that he was pretty sure to annex a cap sooner or later, and might as well
have it soon. Acton's turn--so said the school would come later, though
Biffen's house sneered. "Of course, Hodgson is in the Sixth. What else but
a Sixth Form fellow is wanted in a footer eleven?"
Sharpe's house secured the next two caps, and Biffen's groaned aloud.
"Whatever is old Phil about? One might think he was blind in his right eye
and straddled in his left. We'll send him a pair of gig lamps, and then
perhaps he may discover Acton--Acton, of Biffen's."
The weeks went by, and after a spirited display by Chalmers against the
Emeriti, he was given his cap, and for the first time since Biffen's was a
house they had a man in the eleven. But they gasped as Chalmers came out
of the pavilion with his blue and silver cap on his curls. "That ass
Bourne found the house at last, and then he goes and carefully spots the
wrong man. Whatever _is_ the matter with him? To pick Chalmers before
Acton! Rot!"
Over tea that night Biffen's bubbled and choked, and the other houses
began to take a lively interest in the next distribution, for this
constant passing of Acton was becoming exciting. But still--and I was glad
to see it--the school had faith in Phil; they counted on justice being
done, as it were, in the last laps. No one mentioned a word to him about
the intense curiosity and even anxiety that his odd bestowal of caps had
excited amongst them, for Phil has that way with him that can shut up a
fellow quicker than you can snap a knife if that fellow is travelling out
of bounds.
However, when Place, of Merishall's, came out of the pavilion a full-blown
member of the school eleven there was a scene. The whole body of fellows
now thought that the comedy was pretty nearly becoming a tragedy, and they
showed their feelings unmistakably. Place was cheered by Merishall's, but
not overwhelmingly, and from the other houses there was an ominous
silence. Place, as he trotted out, looked rather puzzled, and a bit
undecided how to take his odd reception, and glanced rather helplessly
round at the sea of faces all turned anxiously towards him. There would be
pretty nearly seven hundred fellows round the pavilion, for there was no
end of excitement.
"Keep up your pecker, Place! You're all right, anyhow!" shouted some one.
The other members came out one by one, and were cheered to the echo, and
at last Phil came out with Hodgson. He was rather pale, but had his back
very straight. There was a dead silence, and, for the first time since he
had been captain, Phil walked down the steps without a friendly cheer. I
think even now the old school behaved itself very well--the fellows were
not behind the scenes, and didn't see more than was before their eyes, but
there was not a single word thrown out at Phil. Acton came out with
Worcester, and the pity was that he didn't deserve the cheers he got.
[Illustration: PHIL WALKED DOWN THE STEPS WITHOUT A FRIENDLY CHEER.]
The week before the Carthusian match there was but one solitary player to
be promoted. The position was back, and every fellow in the place knew
that, bar Bourne himself, there wasn't another man that could hold a
candle to Acton there. The committee doggedly, and with meaning, elected
the only player there was to elect, and Acton signified that he was
willing to play. Bourne, as usual, was there, and no one felt more than he
the air of distrust and constraint which hung over the meeting. When Acton
was unanimously elected for back Phil stolidly wrote out the list of the
team and had it pinned up on the notice-board. He had carefully drawn the
line in red ink above the last name--Acton's--which showed that the
pride of Biffen's was not in the eleven yet.
Probably Acton on the next day played as well as even he had ever played
in his life, for he was almost impassable, and the crowd of fellows
cheered him till they were hoarse. The minute the whistle blew, like one
man the whole school swarmed round the pavilion. The question each asked
himself and his chum was, "Would Acton get the last cap?" And the answer
was, "Why, of course! Who else should have it?"
That afternoon to most of the fellows the eleven seemed an age getting
into their sweaters and coats. When Acton appeared first, and it was seen
that he was wearing the pink cap of Biffen's on his head there was more
than astonishment, there was consternation. Whatever did it mean? Acton
smiled good-naturedly at the school as they cheered him to the echo, and
hurried unconcernedly along. The others of the eleven came out dejectedly,
and filed up the hill in gloomy little groups. The whole school waited for
Phil, and when he came out, pale and worried, they received him in icy
silence. As he was coming down the steps one of Biffen's fags shouted
shrilly, "Three cheers for Acton!"
Phil stalked through the shouting school, and as I joined him and we
walked up together, he said, through his clenched teeth--
"I wish, old man, I had never seen that brute."
That evening Bourne wrote to Worcester offering him the remaining cap.
Worcester flew across to Acton's room, and said, "Bourne has offered me
the place--the last cap. He must be stark, staring mad!"
"Take it," said Acton, coolly.
"No fear," said Worcester. "We have a stupid kind of prejudice here for
having the best eleven we can get, and it isn't the best if you're out of
it. Bourne has always been a most impartial fellow up to this date, so
this little occurrence has thrown us off the rails. Before I go to
protest, though, have you any idea what is the matter?"
"He does not consider me fit for the eleven," said Acton with a light
laugh, but also with perfect truth.
"Rot!" said Dick, hurrying away.
He hunted up the other nine fellows, and said bluntly his business.
"I vote we all protest to Bourne. A round robin should meet the case."
"Good," said Mivart. "Draw one up, Dicky dear."
Dick in time produced the following:--
"We, the undersigned, think that the St. Amory eleven is incomplete
without John Acton, of Biffen's house, and, consequently, that he ought to
have the last cap; and we would beg the captain to offer it him unless
there be very good reasons for not doing so. We would suggest that if John
Acton isn't to have the cap he be told the reason. The undersigned do not
wish in the smallest degree to prejudice the right of the captain to
select members for the eleven, but think that in the present case the
withholding of a cap from John Acton inexplicable."
"You're a ready scribe, Dick," said Chalmers. "We may all sign that, eh?"
"Yes," said Worcester. "I first, because I am undeservedly offered the
cap, and the rest of you in order of membership."
No one saw any objection to signing Dick's memorandum, and forthwith, with
all legal formality, the round robin was signed by the ten, and sent to
Phil by Dick's fag with orders to wait for an answer.
It came within five minutes.
"DEAR WORCESTER,
I have no intention of offering John Acton a place in the St.
Amory's football eleven. There are good reasons for not doing
so, and I have already told Acton the reasons. Please let me
know whether you accept the vacant place I had the pleasure of
offering you.
Yours sincerely,
PHILIP BOURNE."
This was a thunderbolt among the fellows. Then Acton knew!
Worcester posted back to Acton, lost in amazement.
"Look at this, Acton!"
Acton carefully read Bourne's letter, and Dick, who was watching him
anxiously, saw him bite his lips with rage; for Phil's icy contempt stood
out in every word of the letter.
"He says you know why you are not in the eleven."
Acton knew that he would have to explain something, or else Bourne would
win the day yet. So he said--
"That is true. He told me so at the beginning of the season, but, of
course, I never bargained for his keeping his word; and when you hear the
reason he gave me--if this is his reason--you'll gasp."
"Well," said Dick, "although I've no right to ask you, I'd like to hear
the plain, unvarnished tale, for, speaking out, Phil Bourne has always
passed for a decent, level fellow. This business, somehow, doesn't seem
his form at all, and it is only fair to him to say it."
"Did you see the match we had with Shannon's scratch team when the term
began?"
"I did."
"Did you notice anything about my play?"
"You opened our eyes a bit, I remember."
"Did I play roughly?"
"No. Not quite that! You were not gentle; but you aren't that as a rule,
though your game is fair enough."
"Not for Bourne. He doesn't like my game. I'm too rough. It's bad form,
_pace_ Bourne, therefore I'm barred my place in the eleven."
"Is that the explanation?"
"Yes. Honour bright! Except"--Acton paused diplomatically for a
moment--"except, I don't think he likes me."
"Then Phil is a fool, and he'll find out pretty speedily that we can't
stand rot of this quality. I, of course, can't take the cap."
"My dear fellow, why in the world not? If you don't, some other house will
get it. Biffen's deserves two fellows in the eleven this year."
"They do, by Jove!"
"Then let us have the satisfaction of keeping out another Corker fellow."
Dick told the other fellows plainly and without any gilding, his
conversation with Acton, and they pressed him to go and see Phil
personally; so Dick marched heavily to Bourne's quarters.
"Sorry, Worcester, but I cannot explain anything. Not even to you. But I
do hope you'll come into the eleven."
Dick said shortly, "I think I shall, for Biffen's deserves the other cap,
though the right fellow isn't getting it. By the way, Bourne, you'll not
be very sweet to the school generally after this. They--the fellows--to a
man, are no end cut up over Acton's treatment."
"I supposed they would be. I knew it would be so."
"Look here, Phil. You always did the square thing. Let us have the reason
for this," said Dick, earnestly.
"Sorry, Worcester, I can't."
"Good night, then."
"Good night."
The rage and consternation of the Biffenites when they found that Bourne
was immovable in his decision can be imagined. Some were inclined to take
the matter up to Corker's throne, but they were a miserable minority.
"Let Corker have a finger in our own private affairs!" said Dick, with
intense disgust. "What next, gentlemen? We won't be able to blow our own
noses without his permission. Keep the masters out of this, whatever we
do. Can't we see the thing through ourselves? I vote we try, anyhow."
Some were inclined to blame Dick for accepting the cap; but pretty
generally it was agreed that, if Acton was not to have it, Dick was the
next best man, but at what a distance! The honour of having two men in the
eleven was no _solatium_ for the wounded pride of Biffen's, when they
considered their great injury. The reason, though, was, naturally, what
puzzled them--and, for the matter of that, the whole school. Did Bourne
expect his team to play footer as though it were a game of croquet? Were
drawing-room manners to be introduced on to the Acres' clay? Were the
famous eleven of St. Amory's to amble about, like a swarm of
bread-and-butter misses? One wit suggested wadded coats and respirators.
Acton rough, indeed! Phil Bourne must be an embodiment of his grandmother,
then! Most of the fags in Biffen's house sent Phil elaborate instructions
for "a nice drawing-room game to take the place of 'Socker'
football--nasty, rough 'Socker' footer--for one-and-six, and guaranteed
to do no injury to the most delicate constitution. A child can play it!"
These letters were anonymous, of course; but Biffen's house-paper was
freely used. "Anyhow," said Phil, with a gentle smile to me, "the spelling
is obviously Biffen's."
Acton went on his own way, serenely indifferent to his house, which would
have made a god of him on the smallest provocation. He cheerfully ignored
Bourne, and he had the art of never seeing Phil when they met, in school
or out, though, of course, Phil minded this not at all. When the
Carthusians were played, Acton spent the afternoon reading with Raven,
whose exam, was now very near; and, whilst the two were grinding out all
the absurd details of Horace and his patron, "and the poet's little farm,
and the other rot which gains Perry Exhibitions," the shouts and cheers
of the school down at the Acres came floating up the hill to their room.
The school lost their match with the Carthusians--the match which a good
St. Amorian would rather win than any two others--and it was plain that
Dick, though a useful fellow, could not bottle up the forwards in the
Actonian style. This defeat was the last straw to break the back of the
school's patience.
It was customary, after the Carthusian match, for the footer captain to
give his eleven a formal tea, Phil arranged the usual preliminaries, sick
at heart, and wearily certain as to the result. Three put in an
appearance--Vercoe, Baines, and Roberts--and in place of the burly forms
of the rest of the St. Amory's eleven, the sylph-like figures of their
fags flitted to Phil's hall of entertainment with curt little notes.
Worcester and the rest "regretted they were unable to avail themselves of
the captain's invitation."
The tea was not a success.
The school followed the plain lead of the eleven, and as Phil hurried
along to chapel the next day no one hooked in with him, as had been done
"the day before yesterday!" He was left severely alone.
In plain words, St Amory's School consigned Phil Bourne to Coventry.
CHAPTER VII
THANKS TO ACTON
After the Carthusian match there was but one topic, or to be strictly
accurate, perhaps, two topics of interest in the school--who would be
cock-house at footer and who would get the Perry Exhibition.
The rest of the houses knew that Biffen's house was not now the
unconsidered article it was once; that it wasn't the door-mat upon which
any one might wipe his feet before proceeding into the inner circles of
the housers' competition, and there was more than a little curiosity to
see how far the "resurrected" house would mount.
But not a single soul dreamt that it would reach the final. The whole
school gasped for a fortnight on end as Biffen's annihilated Dover's,
Hargen's, Sharpe's, and Merishall's _seriatim_, and at last faced
Corker's house in the final. This was a resurrected house with a
vengeance! Corker's had had a bye in the first round and had been drawn
against rather rickety houses since, but they were generally fancied to
pull off the final as usual, for Bourne was captain, and they had Hodgson
and Roberts of the eleven as well. The wonderful progress of Biffen's had
thrown an awful lot of excitement into the game.
The match was fixed for the last Saturday in the term, and the result of
the Perry Exhibition was to be announced on the evening of the same day,
so the last Saturday was going to be the memorable day of the Michaelmas
stretch.
If you want a full account of the match you had better write to the editor
of _The Amorian_. He will send you the magazine with a page or so of
description and account, but all I'm going to say is that Bourne and Acton
played as they had never played before--I think I've said that before
about Acton, but he really was superlative in the housers' final--and that
five minutes from time the score was "one all." Then Acton showed the
school a stroke of genius. He brought Raven out from centre-forward, where
he was quite unable to cope with Bourne, whispered him to go "back" with
Worcester, and before any one could realize what was happening he was
playing forward himself. He' was a "lambent flame along the ground" if you
like. In a second Biffen's were swarming round Roberts in goal, Acton
passed out to Chalmers, who was ready for the pass, and in a twinkling the
ball was in the net. From the row you might have imagined the school had
gone mad.
[Illustration: ACTON JUST REACHED IT WITH HIS HEAD.]
The ball was kicked off again. Almost immediately Acton secured near the
centre. He dribbled through the ruck of his opponents until he saw Bourne
upon him. With a smile of triumph upon his lips he gently rolled the
leather to Chalmers, who was hungrily waiting for the pass out on the
touch-line. Chalmers waltzed beautifully for the short run almost to the
corner flag. He steadied himself for one instant after his run, and then
lifted the ball magnificently into the goal mouth. As the leather was
skimming past, Acton just reached it with his head and deflected it high
and dry out of Roberts' reach into the net. It was the supreme effort
of his splendid game.
Biffen's had won by three goals to one!
They carried Acton off the field in ecstasy, and nearly scared Dame Biffen
out of her wits by the "whisper" of "cock-house." Well, it certainly was
unusual.
After tea the whole of St. Amory's crowded into the Speech Room to hear
the result of the Perry Exhibition. There would not be a fellow away, I
should fancy, bar the cripples in the hospital, for there was no end of
excitement. Was this to be another Biffen's triumph? Was Raven of the
Fifth to beat Hodgson, the chosen of the Sixth, for the Perry? It was not
to be expected that he would, but when the whisper circled round that
Acton had '"coached" him in classics it was agreed that perhaps there
would be another feather in Acton's cap.
The masters were there on the platform in serried ranks, the whole fifty
of them, from Corker to Pfenning who "does" the music.
Corker, as usual, went straight to the mark, whilst the entire mass of
fellows kept a death-like silence. "The result of the examination for the
Perry Exhibition is as follows:--
1st. Arthur Raven, 672 marks.
2nd. Theodore Hodgson, 591 marks.
3rd. Augustus Vernon Robert Todd, 114 marks."
Then out broke the usual uproar, "shivering the silence," as some one
says, "into clamour." We all cheered for Raven, who scored a popular and
unexpected victory, for why should a Fifth Form fellow beat one of the
Sixth? Biffen's crowd kept up the cheering until Corker rose again.
"I can heartily congratulate Raven on his success, for his classical
knowledge was distinctly good. Hodgson I can also congratulate, for his
papers too were good. As for Augustus Vernon Robert Todd"--we all yelled
with laughter as Dr. Moore scrambled in hot haste through Todd's awful
list of names, but were again quiet when he dropped his eye-glasses from
his eagle's beak, a sure sign he was going to "savage" somebody--"as for
_his_ performance in this _examination_, I can only regard it as
a very bad practical joke, or as his _ballon d'essai_ for some
kindergarten scholarship."
Raven got up from his seat near the door. He was pale to the lips, but his
voice was clear and unhesitating. "If you please, sir, may I say a word?"
"Eh, what?" said Corker. "Say a word? Oh, certainly."
"I am very glad indeed to hear that I have won the Perry Exhibition. I
know in my own mind that I could never have beaten my friend Hodgson if I
had not had Acton's help. I owe the winning of the Exhibition entirely to
him, for he has read the whole of the classics with me and helped me in
every way in his power. I cannot thank him enough for all he has done, but
at least I owe him this open acknowledgment."
Corker looked no end pleased, and turned round and beamed on Biffen, whose
good-natured easy face shone with pleasure and delight.
"Biffen," said good old Corker, audibly, "your house is fortunate in
having Acton, and St. Amory such a good amateur coach in classics.
Cock-house, too, bless me!"
And can you wonder that Biffen's, frenzied with delight, carried Raven and
Acton shoulder high through the gas-lit streets?
Whilst the Biffenites were thus shouting their way home, one unhappy youth
hurried to his room feeling as though the moon had fallen out of heaven
and crushed him--Todd. After that night when he had made the bet with
Cotton, he had neither worked for the Perry nor yet left it alone, but
loafed about with Cotton as usual, and piffled with the work for the
Exhibition. As a last-lap spurt, he had, in the last week or so,
desperately stuffed himself with cunning tips leading twistingly to
nowhere. Never had any one faced a serious examination with such a rag-bag
of tips as Todd, and the examination had found him out with a vengeance.
As he slunk along to his quarters, Corker's words were buzzing in his ears
unendingly. "As for Augustus Vernon Robert Todd"--"_ballon
d'essai_"--"Kindergarten!" Oh! it was a sickener, and how the fellows had
laughed!
As for his bet with Cotton about cock-house, why, he had, when he saw
those goals put on at the last moment, felt a cold shiver run down his
back. He had crawled off the Acres a sick and sorry and miserable wretch.
Cotton had, being rather riled at his chum's temper for the last month,
hinted, in unmistakable terms, that the debt was to be paid on return
after holidays. Todd contemplated the ravishing prospect of the future
with unmixed feelings. Between the upper and nether millstones of the lost
Exhibition and the lost bet he had been crashed, annihilated!
When he had shut the study door, in sheer despair of spirit, he laid his
head on the table and--Well, did he blub? All I know is, the Rev. E.
Taylor knocked at the door once, twice, thrice, and Todd heard him not.
The house master came in and surveyed the bowed form of poor Gus with a
good-natured smile, tempered with some scorn. He took the liberty of
loudly poking Gus's decaying fire, whereat the young gentleman sprang up
instanter.
"I knocked, Todd, but I suppose you were thinking too deeply to hear me."
"Sorry, sir," said Gus, hurriedly getting the master a chair, "and, as a
matter of fact, I was thinking."
"Yes!"
"What an awful ass I've been, sir!" "I don't know quite about the ass, but
you've certainly not been an epitome of all that's wise this term. It was
on that very subject that I came here to have a word with you before we go
for the holidays."
Gus looked blankly into the grate.
"This exhibition of yours, Todd, in the examination is just the answer you
might expect to the problem you've set yourself. 'How can I get something
of value by doing nothing for it?' I must say... etc." Taylor spoke very
much to the point to Todd for about half an hour, taking the ribs out of
Gus's conceit one by one, until he felt very much like a damp, damaged
gamp, and about as helpless. One by one he took him through the catalogue
of the aimless, stupid, footling performances in the term, and Gus blankly
wondered how the dickens Taylor knew quite so much of his doings, He felt
that the house master was not a bad imitation of Corker on a flaying
expedition. I must say that Taylor's performance was a considerable trifle
above the average "beak's wigging," but the sting of his discourse was in
the tail. "Now, Todd, would you like me to ask Dr. Moore to transfer you
to some other house, where your very intimate friends will not absorb so
much of your time?"
Todd blushed purple at this very broad hint.
"I'd rather stay where I am; I am not quite an incapable, sir."
"No; I don't think you are--not quite. Dr. Moore, however, is somewhat out
of patience with you, and proposes drastic measures."
"Home?" inquired Todd, with gloomy conviction.
"Yes," said the house master. "Dr. Moore has written your father. But you
are coming back next term, when you will have the chance of showing that
that awful performance in the Exhibition is not your true form. I hope
you'll take it."
Todd said bitterly, "I will, sir."
"I am glad of that," said Taylor, "and I believe you will. Good night,
Todd."
"Good night, sir."
Todd packed up his portmanteaux that night as gloomily and as savagely as
though his shirts were his deadly enemies. But there was a square,
determined thrust-out of his weak chin which boded ill for Jim Cotton's
classics and mathematics in the future.
CHAPTER VIII
BIFFEN'S CONCERT
It was the inalienable right of the juniors of the cock-house to give a
concert the last night of the term, and to have free and undisputed
possession of the concert-room. Corker made it a rule that the captain of
the school should be there to see there were no riots, which, as the fags
were off home on the morrow, was more than possible. So when I got a
polite note from Grim about half an hour after the results of the Perry
Exhibition had been announced, telling me that Corker had given the
customary consent, I strolled about looking up a cohort of monitors to
help me in maintaining the "sacred cause of order and decency." I knew of
old those junior concerts. "Pandemonium" was nearer the word.
Biffen's juniors, red-hot from their exertions and hoarse from their
shouting in the speech-room, held a meeting in their own private quarters
to deliberate as to their concert.
"I vote Father Grim to the chair," said Wilson.
"Thanks, my son," said Grim, with alacrity "Somebody second that, and
let's get to business."
Somebody obligingly seconded, and Grim enthroned himself with dignity in
the chair, and said cheerfully, "Carried _nem. con._ That's the way
to commence biz. Now, you fellows, I thank you for this unexpected honour,
which has quite taken me by surprise. I shall always--"
"Shut up, Grim," said Brown. "You know jolly well you asked Wilson to
propose you."
"All right, Brown; I'll talk with you afterwards. Sorry your Roman nose is
out of joint; but nobody proposed you, you know, so shut up. Gentlemen--"
"Hear, hear!"
"Biffen's are cock-house at last" (deafening cheers) "and we must make our
concert a stunner. It must go with a bang from start to finish. It must
lick every other fag's concert that ever was, and 'be the bright harbinger
of--' What is the rest of the quote, Wilson?"
"'Of future joys,' you ass."
"'Of future joys,' you asses."
"I'll punch your head, Grim; you said you remembered it."
"All serene, old man, never mind the cackle."
"What about our concert?" asked Brown.
"It's going to be great. Does any one happen to have a programme of that
awful performance of Corker's house last year?"
"Rather!" said half a dozen of Biffen's ornaments. "Did you think we'd
burn a curiosity like that?"
"Cut out and get yours, Rogers, my pet."
"My pet" bolted and came back with the year-old programme of the Corker's
fags.
"Pass the abomination this way, Rogers. Gentlemen," said Grim, with
intense scorn, "those unspeakable Corker asses started off with a
prologue."
"We must go one better--eh, you fellows?" said Rogers.
"Rather!" they all shrieked.
"I vote," said young Cherry, "that we lead off with an epilogue. That will
leave 'em standing."
"Hear, hear!" said Fruity.
"Who'll second that?" said Grim.
"I will," said Rogers, cheerfully.
"Then do it, you ass," said the chairman.
"I second," said Rogers, hurriedly, "and you needn't be so beastly strict,
Grim."
"Gentlemen, the proposal before the meeting is that we lead off with an
epilogue. Item number one on the programme to be 'An Epilogue.' Those in
favour signify. Carried unanimously."
"I say, Grim, what is an epilogue, anyhow?" said a voice.
"Oh, I say," said the chairman, "pass that young ignoramus this way. Lamb,
do you mean to say you don't know what an epilogue is?"
"No, I don't."
"This is sickening," said Grim, with disgust. "A fellow in Biffen's not
know what an epilogue is! Tell him, Fruity," he added, with pathetic
vexation.
"He asked you," said Cherry, hurriedly.
"I'm the chairman," said Grim, in a wax, but with great relief. "Explain
away, Fruity!"
"Oh, every first-class concert starts with one," he said vaguely.
"See now, Lamb?"
Lamb professed himself satisfied, but he did not appear absolutely blinded
by the light either.
"Anyhow," said Wilson, "Fruity will see to that. I propose he does."
"I second it," said Lamb, viciously, whereupon Cherry kicked the seconder
on the shins, for he did not exactly thirst for that honour. "I'm an
ass," he said to himself; "but, anyhow, I'll look up what the blessed word
does mean, and try to do it."
"I see," said Grim, "they've got a poem on 'Cock House' for number two.
That seems all right, eh?"
"Oh yes; it's always done."
"Well, we'll have one too, eh? Who's got to do the poetry, though?
Somebody propose somebody"--thereupon every fag proposed his chiefest
enemy, and the battles raged along the line. "And you call yourselves
gentlemen!" said Grim in disgust--he had been overlooked for the time
being.
"I propose Sharpe," said Wilson, dusting himself. "He does no end swell
construes from 'Ovid.'"
"I second that," said Rogers. "He has long hair. Poets always have. Milton
had."
"That bit is _side,_" said the chairman, judicially. "Those who are
in favour of Sharpe doing the poetry hold--Carried, _nem. con._"
"_Nem. con_. is side too, Grim," said Rogers.
"Shut up, you mule! Sharpe, you'll have to do the poem."
"I say, you fellows, it will be horse work," said Sharpe, disconsolately.
"There isn't a rhyme to Biffen's."
"Oh! isn't there? What about 'spiffing'?"
Sharpe choked.
"Griffin."
"Tiffin."
Lamb squeaked out "stiff 'un," and some one gently led him out--even
Biffen's fags caved in at that.
"Sharpe, you're booked for number two, old man. Gentlemen, I direct your
attention to number three--Corker's did Indian clubs and the gold-fish
dodge."
"Oh, well," said Wilson, "we're not going to copy Corker's, anyhow. Let's
do dumb-bells and something else."
"I propose that Wilson does the something else," said Cherry,
good-naturedly.
Wilson said he was ready to do something to Cherry any time that was
convenient. Rogers suggested that they ask the niggers to do something on
the bars, and Sharpe seconded it, so the dervishes were written to and
promised a scragging if they didn't turn themselves inside out for the
glory of Biffen's concert.
"I say, you fellows," said Grim, "it's to be a concert, you know, and
except for Fruity's epilogue there isn't any music down yet." Cherry
groaned to think he'd been let in for a song.
"What about Thurston?" asked half a dozen of the fags.
"Right, oh! Now, 'Dicky Bird,' hop up to the front, and trot out your
list."
Thurston wasn't shy, and rather fancied his bleat, so he said, "Oh! I
don't mind at all."
"We thought you wouldn't," said the chairman, winking.
"What do you say to 'Alice, where art thou'?"
"We don't fancy your shouting five minutes for her at all. Next, please."
"'Only to see her face again,' then?"
"Whose?" said Sharpe, irreverently.
"Why, the girl's the fellow is singing about," said Thurston, hotly.
"Oh! you'll see her the day after to-morrow, Dicky Bird, so don't you fret
about that now. Do you know 'My first cigar'?"
"Do you mean the one that sent you to hospital, Grimmy?"
"No I don't. None of your cheek. I'm chairman. I mean the one Corney Grain
used to sing."
"Yes."
"Well, you sing that and you'll make the fellows die with laughing. And
mind you illustrate it with plenty of life-like pantomime, do you hear?"
"Carried, _nem. con_.," shouted all the fags with enthusiasm.
"Hear, hear, Grimmy!"
"So that's settled for you, and if you get an encore, Dicky Bird, you can
trot 'Alice' out if you like."
"Which of the fellows have we to invite out of the eleven to help us?"
"Acton," was the universal yell.
"We'll see him, then, to-night."
"Three cheers for Acton," said someone, and the roof echoed.
"Well, we're getting on, and I say, you chaps, I have an idea."
"Hear, hear!" said Cherry, acidly; "Grimmy _has_ an idea."
"A grand idea, Fruity. Your epilogue isn't in it."
"What is it, Grim?"
"We'll have a boxing competition open to St. Amory's juniors only. Rogers
should pull that off, eh?"
"Rather," said they all. "One more feather in Biffen's cap.".
"But, Grimmy," said Rogers, "I don't last, you know."
"Ah!" said the chairman, brilliantly, "we'll only have one two-minutes'
round each draw. It will go by points. You're safe as a house, my pet,
really."
"Who'll be judge about points? I propose you, Grim," said Rogers, with
intent.
"Thanks, old cock, but I really couldn't do the honourable if you were
'rocky' in the last rounds. We'll ask Carr to see us through that part.
You'll be all right, I tell you."
"Who's to accompany on the P and O?"
"Oh, Brown must see to that!"
"I propose Brown key-thumper."
"I second that."
"Carried," said the chair, smartly.
"I say," said Grim, "I propose myself stage manager. I'm the only fellow
who knows a ha'porth about it."
"A ha'porth is an awful lot; besides, a chairman can't propose himself,"
said Cherry, revengefully.
"I second the chairman's proposal," said Wilson, backing up his chum.
"Carried, _nem. con_."
"No, I'm hanged if it was!" said Cherry. "You're a fraud, Grimmy."
"All right now, you chaps, the meeting is over. Wilson and I will go up to
Acton, and see what he'll do for us, and then we'll rough out a swagger
programme."
CHAPTER IX
THE END OF TERM
The two worthies, Grim and Wilson, after seeing Acton, began to get out
their programme. Here it is:--
BIFFEN'S JUNIORS' CONCERT.
_Cock House, December, 1898._
(1) Epilogue.
B.A.M. CHERRY.
(2) Poem on the subject of Cock House.
B. SHARPE.
(3) Bar Act.
(4) First Round Junior Boxing Competition.
PRINCE RUNJIT MEHTAH and RAM SINGH.
(5) SONG. "My First Cigar."
R.E. THURSTON.
(6) PIANOFORTE SOLO. "Oh! listen to the band."
O. BROWN.
(7) Second Round Boxing.
(8) SONG. "Jim."
J. ACTON, ESQ.
(9) Third and Concluding Rounds Boxing.
(10) SONG. "Well, suppose you did?"
R.E. THURSTON.
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.
ACCOMPANIST O.E. BROWN.
_Trinity College (by Examination)._
STAGE MANAGER W.E. GRIM.
N.B.--The Manager begs to state that there will be no Latin
or classical allusions throughout the evening. No waits. No
charge for programmes. No antediluvian jokes.
This was printed on paper blushing pink--Biffen's colours--and Grim and
Wilson, when they got the advance proof last thing on Saturday night,
almost embraced in their jubilation. There was such a swagger look about
the "N.B."
Meanwhile B.A.M. Cherry had consulted his dictionary, and therein found
that an "epilogue" was defined as "a concluding speech in an oration or
play." He broke into a cold sweat of horror. That was an epilogue, then!
Where could he find one? What would be the good of one if he did find it?
And supposing he had one and could recite it, it was at the wrong end of
the programme--the programme which had already been printed in such hot
haste? It was too late to tell Grim, who would have instantly summoned all
the strength of Biffen's to scrag him. The wretched Cherry shuddered at
his awful plight.
Nothing could he do or dare he do. In desperation he determined to fall
ill on the concert night. B.A.M. Cherry hadn't the heroic soul, and when
Grim asked him cheerfully how the epilogue was going on, he said
"spiffing," in the tone of a martyr at the stake.
On the Monday Grim scuttled about all day--now on the stage, listening to
Thurston going over his songs with Brown, now getting entries for his
boxing competition, now encouraging Sharpe, who was in the throes of
composition, and now criticizing the Dervishes with much force. Acton put
in an appearance in the concert-room, and gave Brown the accompaniment to
"Jim;" and, after hearing him play it through, went and read his novel the
rest of his spare time.
At 7.30 the juniors of St. Amory's began to stroll in, Biffen's lot
collaring the front seats as per custom. The programmes were distributed
to each one as he came in, and created no end of sensation, and W.E. Grim
was allowed to have come out very strong in the programme line. St.
Amory's fags did not spot anything wrong about item one, but the older
fellows chuckled a little and said "the manager was a funny ass." This
opinion was instantly conveyed to Grim by one of his cronies, and made
that young gentleman think himself no end of a sly dog.
Punctually to the minute Grim rang his bell, and, darting into the
dressing-room, said, "Now, Cherry, come along with your epilogue, They're
all waiting. Where is that ass?"
"Cherry has not turned up yet, Grim."
"What?" he said in horror.
"Not turned up yet!"
"I'll go and fetch the beggar at once."
Grim darted out of the room, tore along the street, and was hammering at
Cherry's door within the minute.
"Fruity, hurry up, they're all waiting."
"I'm not well, Grim."
"What?"
"I'm not well--I'm in bed."
"You miserable beast!" shouted Grim. "I'll massacre you. You'll make us
the laughing stock of the whole school. Get up, man, Be a man."
"I'm ill," moaned Cherry from within.
"You miserable beast! You'll be dead to-morrow." He shook the door
violently, but Cherry was not quite the utter fool Grim took him for, for
he had locked the door. Grim stood outside on the corridor for some
seconds, petrified with rage and disgust, and then flew like a madman back
to the concert-room. He cannoned up against some one leisurely strolling
up to the dressing-room, and was darting on again _sans_ apology. A
hand gently closed upon his collar and pulled him back.
"Hallo, young shaver! Little boys used to apologize when they--Why,
it's Grim! What in the name----"
Grim, almost blubbing with anger and shame, poured out his tale, and Acton
listened with an amused smile. "Sheer funk, Grim. Well, go on, and tell
'em their Cherry has rotted, but that I'll come and tell 'em a little tale
instead."
Grim would have embraced Acton if he'd been a little taller, but he
gurgled, "Acton, you _are_ a brick," and darted on to the stage.
He was received with deafening cheers, and shrieks of "No waits!"
"Manager!" "Don't hurry, Grim!" "We'll send out for supper!" "We want
Cherry!" "Go off," etc.
When Grim could get a word in he panted, "Gentlemen, I am sorry to say
B.A.M. Cherry is indisposed and cannot favour you with the epilogue."
"Funked it!" roared all the delighted juniors.
"He says he is unwell," said Grim, anger getting the better of him, "but
he'll be a jolly sight worse in the morning."
There was a hurricane of thunderous cheers at this sally, but Grim managed
to shout above the laughing, "I have great pleasure in announcing that
John Acton, Esq., will take Fruity's--I mean Cherry's--place and tell you
a little tale; even Corker fags will understand it," added Grim,
viciously.
Acton came on and received his hearty welcome with easy good nature. He
plunged right into his contribution: "A London cabby's account of his
different fares"--from the double-superfine gilt-edged individual to the
fat old dowager who _will_ have the parrot inside with her. Acton
gave it perfectly. Grim, who had his ears glued to the exit door, vowed he
could almost hear the swell drop his eyeglass.
Sharpe stepped on to the stage amid the polite attentions of his natural
enemies. "Be a man, Sharpe." "Don't cry." "You'll see mamma soon." "Speak
up." "He did it all alone, remember." "No help." "Oh, dear no!"
"When on the bosom of the sleeping pool,
That's shaded o'er by trees in greenest dress,
Upon its breast of snow its gem of gold
The water lily swims--"
The juniors howled with dismay at this commencement, and Corker juniors
instantly began to keep time to Sharpe's delivery in the organ-grinder's
fashion. But Sharpe toiled remorselessly on. He compared Biffen's house to
a water lily growing in a muddy pond, and again as a Phoenix risen from
the ashes; and he gave us, with circumstantial details, every round of the
footer housers, their two eleven caps, and the Perry Exhibition, and
darkly hinted at Acton's exclusion from the eleven.
He wound up his awful farrago in one glorious burst of solemn fury--
"And even Fate girds on her sword, and her right arm she stiffens,
As thunders to the icy pole the glorious name of Biffen's."
When Sharpe finally made his bow, according to the invariable custom,
every junior except a Biffenite imitated with rare fidelity the mixed
sensations of channel passengers after a stormy passage.
Sharpe, cheered to the echo by the Biffenites on the front row, went
proudly off.
The Dervishes were received with enthusiasm, and went through their
performance to the shouts of "Well wriggled, Java!" "Why don't you oil!"
"Do it again--orang-outang!" They amiably smiled acknowledgments as they
backed away.
Then I myself stepped on to the stage, prepared to judge the two-minutes'
rounds. Grim had whipped up sixteen fags, each willing to do battle for
the honour of his house. The rounds proceeded to the accompaniment of
ear-splitting encouragement, and I had the satisfaction of knowing that
not a solitary one of the defeated heroes thought he had really been
beaten on points.
No mistake about it, Biffen's had a fag who could sing. Thurston's "My
First Cigar" only lacked one thing--it should have lasted a little longer
to suit the audience.
"She called it an Intimidad,
It had spots of a yellowish hue,
She said the best brands always had,
And I firmly believed it was true."
A good number of the fellows knew "The Soldiers in the Park," and Brown
hammered it out in a good old breezy style.
As he was racing home, and the jolly chorus was crashing out from the
piano, one fag started "Oh, listen to the band!"
Instantly the whole school, juniors and seniors as well, joined in the
chorus, keeping time with their feet.
"Oh, listen to the band!
Who doesn't love to hark
To the shout of 'Here they come'
And the banging of the drum--
Oh, listen to the soldiers in the park."
When the dust had settled, every one acknowledged that Biffen's concert
was going with a bang. I am not going to bore you with a longer account of
Biffen's concert. Thurston sang "Alice, where art thou?" the fellows
telling him between the verses that "She wasn't going to come," "Spoony
songs barred," etc., and Rogers carried off the fags' boxing competition
with a big rush in the final round, and Biffen's crew howled with delight.
Finally the bell rang for Acton's song. Brown rattled through the
preliminary bars, and the song commenced. The singer held himself slightly
forward, in a rather stiff and awkward fashion, and his eyes were staring
intently into vacancy. There was not the shadow of a shade of any
expression in his face. A feeling of pity for Acton was the universal
sensation when the first words fell from his lips. Acton had not the ghost
of a singing voice, and the school shuddered at the awful exhibition.
There was an icy silence, but Acton croaked remorselessly on. This is the
song:--
"Jim and I as children played together,
Best of chums for many years were we;
I had no luck--was, alas! a Jonah;
Jim, my chum, was lucky as could be.
Oh, lucky Jim! How I envied him!
"Years rolled by, and death took Jim away, boys,
Left his widow, and she married me;
Now we're married oft I think of Jim, boys,
Sleeping in that churchyard by the sea.
Oh, lucky Jim! How I envy him!"
As the words followed on there was a suggestion of oddity in that awful
voice singing a comic song, and there were a few suppressed laughs at the
idea. As the song progressed, the utter dreary weariness of the voice, and
the rather funny words, compelled the fellows to laugh in uncontrollable
bursts; but still Acton never turned a hair. When he arrived at the
churchyard lines there was one universal howl of delight. Brown stopped
dead at the end of the second last line, and Acton stopped dead too.
Instantly all the fellows became as mute as fish. The singer straightened
himself up, looked round the room with a mocking smile while one might
count a dozen, and then winked to Brown, who recommenced softly on the
piano. Then Acton _sang_ slowly and deliberately--sang with a voice
as clear and as tunable as a silver bell--
"Oh, lucky Jim! How I envy him!"
His croak was a pretence--he had hoaxed us all! Before we recovered from
our stupefaction he had vanished. The school clamoured for his return,
but though they cheered for three minutes on end Acton did not reappear,
and Brown struck up "God save the Queen!" Biffen's concert was at an end!
Grim held a five minutes' meeting among the Biffenites before bed.
"There's never been a fellow like Acton in St. Amory's. He goes away at
nine to-morrow. The Great Midland are going to stop their express to pick
up St. Amory fellows, and Acton goes up to his place by that. I vote we
all go in a body to the station and cheer him off. We keep it dark, of
course." This _staccato_ oration was agreed to with acclamation, and
Biffenites went to bed happy.
On the morrow Acton strolled into the station and espied the Biffenites,
who were scattered up and down the platform with careful carelessness.
The train came in, and at once the juniors crowded _en masse_ round
the carriage in which Acton had secured a corner seat, and stood talking
to Grim, who was in fine feather.
At that very moment Phil Bourne and young Jack Bourne bustled into the
station. An idea struck Rogers, and he said to all his chums, "Here's
Bourne, you fellows; let him know we see him."
The fags were delighted, and when Bourne entered the carriage next
Acton's there was a long-drawn-out hoot for his especial benefit.
"Another," said Rogers, whereat more soulful groans.
"The last," said Rogers, and Bourne took his seat to a chorus of hisses
and tortured howls. He smiled a little and opened his paper, while the
people in the carriage looked curiously at him.
The guard's whistle went and Acton sprang in. "Good-bye."
As the train moved, Grim said, "Three cheers for Acton!"
"Hip, hip, hurrah! Hip, hip, hurrah!"
"A groan for Bourne!" Acton smiled good naturedly to his henchmen. As he
glided past he said to himself softly, "And yet I have not quite hoed all
my row out either, Bourne. Wait, my friend, wait!"
[Illustration: AS THE TRAIN MOVED, GRIM SAID, "THREE CHEERS!"]
CHAPTER X
THE YOUNG BROTHER
When St. Amory's reassembled after the holidays Acton found himself
firmly established in the good graces of the fellows, and, indeed, he was
not far from being the most popular fellow in the place, but poor Phil
was looked coldly upon by those who had been his chiefest friends, and,
by those who knew little of him, he passed for a jealous bounder. Acton
played up to his cards in beautiful style, and acted the forgiving
innocent splendidly; but Phil, who was only a very honest fellow, did not
play anything to speak of. Those who gave him the cold shoulder once
never had a second chance of showing it him, for Phil was no end proud;
but he had still one or two friends, who condoned his passing of Acton
for the "footer" cap on the ground of "insufficient information" thereon.
Roberts and Baines and Vercoe were not a bad trio to have for friends
either. Acton was now in the Sixth, and a monitor.
His main idea was to keep Bourne in the bad books of the school until
such time as he could direct their ill-favour into channels favourable to
himself and unfavourable for Phil. A lucky chance seemed to open to him
an easy method of striking at Bourne, and Acton almost hugged himself
with joy at his windfall.
About a week after the holidays Acton had been skating on the Marsh, and
as he was returning he came across Jack Bourne engaged in a desperate
fight with a young yokel. There was a small crowd of loafers, who were
delighted at this little turn up, and were loud in their advice to the
fellow to give "the young swell a good hiding."
This little crowd, as I said, caught Acton's eye, and when he perceived
that one of the fighters was a St. Amory fellow, he hurried up to see
what was the little game.
Young Bourne was getting the worst of it. The yokel was a year or two
older, was taller, and stones heavier. It was an unequal fight. Bourne
was standing up to his man pluckily, and, thanks to the "agricultural"
style of the clodhopper, was not taking nearly so much harm as he should
have done. He was, however, pretty low down in the mouth, for there was
not a friendly eye to encourage him, nor a friendly shout to back him up.
On the contrary, the mob howled with delight as their man got "home," and
encouraged him: "Gow it, Dick! Knock the stuffin' out of 'im!"
Acton had not been noticed, but he thrust himself into the mob, and
said, "Stand back, you little beggars, or I'll massacre the lot of you.
Give the boy room, you filthy pigs!" The "pigs" scuttled back, and for
the first time Bourne really had fair play.
Acton took out his watch and assumed the direction of the fight.
"Time!" he shouted out. "You fellow, that's your corner, and if you stir
out of it before I give the word I'll thrash you within an inch of your
life. This will be ours, Bourne." He strode in between the two, and
pushed the yokel among his friends, whilst he dragged Bourne a little
apart.
"Thanks awfully, Acton. That beast knocked me off the path into the
snow-heap when he saw I was one of the school. I struck him, but he's a
big handful."
"Don't talk, Bourne," said Acton, grimly. "It's only wasting breath. Keep
cool, man, and you will pull it off yet."
Thanks to Acton's encouragement, young Bourne worked along ever so much
better, so that when time was called he had taken no damage practically,
but had scored a little on his own account.
"Sit down on my coat. You're doing famously. Whatever you do, don't let
him swing you one in the face. You'll be snuffed out if you do. Keep him
out at any cost, and try an upper cut after he swings. Waste no time
after he's missed."
But although young Bourne scored no end in the next few rounds by
following Acton's advice, his good efforts seemed wasted. The lout's face
was as hard as a butcher's block. Acton saw that Bourne was visibly
tiring, and that it was an almost foregone conclusion that in the end he
would be beaten. He could hardly stall off the fellow's attack.
After the seventh round Acton saw that he must put all to the touch, or
Bourne would lose. "Listen carefully, young 'un. You're jolly game, and
that's a fact, but there's no good hammering on the fool's face--he can't
feel. You must try another trick. It's the last in your box, too, Bourne,
so make no mistake. St. Amory's for ever! When he swings, duck. Don't try
to ward him off--he'll beat you down. Then, for all you're worth, drive
home with your left on the jaw. On the jaw for all you're worth. You've
seen the sergeant do it dozens of times in the gym. Keep cool, and look
when you hit--on the very peak. Understand?"
"Rather!" said Jack, coolly but wearily.
"Time!"
The yokel came on in all the pride of his beefy strength, for ha knew
that he was going to finish the "swell" this round. He swung. Bourne
ducked, and then, quick as lightning, the lad closed in, and, with the
last ounce he had in him, drove his left on the jaw. He was true to a
hair.
"_Habet!_" shouted Acton. "Don't give him time, Jack. Send him down
if you can."
Bourne's "point" had the usual effect; the lout's head swam, he felt sick
and sorry, and could not even ward off Jack's blows. He backed, Jack
scoring like mad all the time, and when Acton finally called "time!" he
dropped on to the ground blubbing. The fellow's eye was visibly swelling,
his lips were cut, and his nose bled villainously.
[Illustration: ACTON THREW HIM INTO THE SNOW-HEAP.]
"The pig bleeds," said Acton, cheerfully. "You have him now, Bourne; he's
too sick to have an ounce of fight left in him. Time!"
The next round wasn't a round really; it was a procession, with Bourne,
as fresh as paint from his success, following up the other blubbing with
rage, pain, and sickness. Before Acton called, the fellow dropped to the
ground and howled dismally.
"Get your coat, Jack, and then come here. He's done. Stand back, you
others."
Jack came back.
"Now, you pig, get up and apologize to this gentleman for having knocked
him into the snow-heap. I suppose your pig's eyes couldn't see he was
only half your size." Acton got hold of the fellow by the collar and
jerked him to his feet. "Apologize."
The fellow would not understand; he snivelled obstinately, and struggled
aimlessly in Acton's grasp.
"Apologize."
"I wown't."
"Good," said Acton, grimly. With his flat hand he gave the fellow a
thundering cuff which sent him sprawling. Acton then caught him by the
scruff of his neck and threw him headlong into the snow-heap.
"Come along, Bourne," he said, with a smile. "You have fought a good
fight this day, and no mistake. That fellow will have a fit the next and
every time he sees the smallest St. Amory's fag's cap."
"I say, Acton, you're an awful brick to back me up like that."
"Don't mention it, Bourne. Come and have some tea with me, and I'll pour
oil into your wounds, or at any rate, I'll paint 'em."
So young Bourne had tea with Acton, and his host went out afterwards to
Dann's the chemist's and brought back a camel's-hair brush and some
lotion. Thanks to this, Jack's scars appeared as very honourable wounds
indeed.
From that day Jack thought Acton the finest fellow in St. Amory's.
"He did not spread-eagle that fool," he said to himself, "but let me have
the glory of pounding the ugly brute into jelly, and made me go in and
win when I was ready to give in to the cad. Why did not Phil give him his
cap? There's something rotten somewhere."
As for Acton, as I said before, he regarded this little incident as a
treasure trove upon which he could draw almost unlimitedly in his
campaign against Bourne. "I'll strike at Bourne, senr., through his young
brother. I'll train him up in the way he should go, and when our
unspeakable prig of a Philip sees what a beautiful article young Jack
finally emerges, he'll wish he'd left me alone. Jack, my boy, I'm sorry,
but I'm going to make you a bad boy, just to give your elder brother
something to think about. You're going to become a terrible monster of
iniquity, just to shock your reverend brother."
Acton took not the smallest interest in the usual Easter Term games.
Footer was only played occasionally, but there was one blessing, the
fellows need not play the usual Thursday Old Game. As for cross-country
running, paper chases, _et hoc genus omne_, Acton refused to have
anything to do with them. "That sort," he said to Dick Worcester, "isn't
in the same street with footer."
"Why not try and lift the Public School Heavy at Aldershot?" suggested
Worcester.
"There's Hodgson in for it, Dick."
"A good man; but if you would only apply yourself seriously to the
business I'd back you. You're a good weight, and got a longer reach than
Hodgson."
"There's Bourne, too."
"Personally, I believe Phil is only pacing Hodgson to take him along
quicker."
"It's an awful fag, and I believe Eton have got the Heavy safe and sure
this year. A cousin of mine there says that their pet, Jarvis, would walk
right through the best man we've ever turned out."
"Oh, that's their usual brag!"
"Personally, I don't think so. They have got a young Bermondsey
professor--who is up to all the latest dodges--to coach. Our sergeant is
a bit old-fashioned--good, but old-fashioned. Does not do enough with his
right."
"I'm quite an amateur," said Dick. "Don't understand the finer shades of
the arts. Should have thought the sergeant good enough."
"_Dubito!_ Anyhow, Dick, I'll think it over; and if I think I can
make a decent show I'll have a shot. When does it come off?"
"At Aldershot? Oh!--last week in March."
"That gives me nearly two months. One can turn round in two months; and
if I'm satisfied as to my coaching I'll certainly try at Aldershot. But
what has a fellow to do on the half-holidays now? No footer, and one
might do enough practice after tea for the Heavy. I wish Kipling would
write a book every week. He is the only fellow in England who can write."
So Acton, on the half-holidays, prepared to read his novels by his
fireside. Not that he was particularly fond of toasting himself, but
because, for him, it was all he could do.
But Corker came to his rescue. The old man, after having had his back to
the wall for an age, consented to monitors being allowed to cycle by
themselves, and even to be _chaperon_ to any fags who cared to run
with them, and--important _proviso_--whom the monitors did not
object to. Otherwise the old rule of no cycling _sans_ house-master
was in force.
Acton thereupon invested in a swell machine, and he and young Bourne, or
Grim, or Wilson on the hired article, would cover no end of country
between dinner and roll call.
By-and-by Phil noticed that his brother was getting pretty thick with
Acton.
"Rather thick with Acton, Jack? I don't think he'll do you any good."
"He has, anyhow, Phil."
"How?"
Jack explained.
"I'm glad you licked the animal, young 'un; but, all the same, I wish
some other fellow had seen you through."
"I don't!" said Jack, hotly.
"I wonder," said Phil, dryly, "what is the great attraction which a Sixth
Form fellow sees in a fag? Above all, a fag of the name of Bourne?"
"Fact is, I don't see it myself," said Jack, shortly. "Better ask him."
"No, I don't think I shall. All the same, I would not dog Acton's
footsteps quite so much."
"He's a monitor."
"Who'll make you useful. Take my word for it."
"We'll see."
"Oh! Certainly we shall."
Jack was thoroughly unhinged by his brother's dry bantering tone, and
said hotly--
"I cannot understand, Phil, why he didn't get his cap. He deserved it."
"There's no need for you to understand it, young 'un."
"My opinion is----"
"Not worth the breath you're going to waste."
"It's considered a shame pretty generally."
"I've heard so; but, still, that does not alter matters. However, I did
not want to talk politics with you, Jack. Don't put your innocent little
toes into any scrape--that is all I wanted to tell you. Here is half a
crown for you to buy butterscotch, and while you're sucking it think over
what I've said. What! Little boys given up toffee? Then I'd better say
good night, Jack." Jack went out pretty sore.
About a week or so after this, Acton and young Bourne sped down to the
old Lodestone Farm, and as they pedalled in at the gate young Hill, the
farmer's son, said to Acton--
"The man's been here since twelve, sir."
"That's all right," said Acton. "Has he got the stable ready?"
"He's been putting it to rights the last hour."
"I say, Bourne," said Acton, turning to Jack, "ever heard of the Alabama
Coon?"
"The fellow who won that fight in Holland? The prize-fighter?"
"The very same."
"Rather!"
"Well, I've engaged him to give me a few lessons here. I'm going to try
for the Heavy at Aldershot. Like to see the fun?"
"Rather!"
"Then come along."
Together they went into the stable, and therein found "The Coon," a
coal-black negro, busily shovelling sand upon the floor, smoking an
enormous cigar the while.
"Making ready the cockpit," said Acton to Jack, who was staring open-eyed
at the worker. "Lusty looking animal, eh?"
"My aunt!" said Jack.
"Hallo, Coon, you're about ready!"
"Yaas, sir," said the negro. "I'm almost through."
"Brought the mittens with you, too?"
"Yaas, sir, I have the feather beds."
"Then when you've peeled we'll start."
The Coon put down his spade and slipped behind a stall.
"You see, young 'un, the sergeant at the gym is a good old hand, but he
is an old hand, so to speak--hasn't got the polish. Seeing that at
Aldershot they tie us down to a very few rounds, if St. Amory's have to
make any show at all they must get all the points they can first round or
so. That's why I've got the Coon down here. He is the most scientific
boxer we have."
"The figure will be pretty stiff, Acton, eh?"
"No matter about that if I can beat Jarvis. By the way, Bourne, you need
not say anything about this to any one. I have particular reasons for
keeping this quiet."
"All serene. I'm mum, of course."
"Thanks. You watch the Coon, and you'll pick up no end of wrinkles."
The Coon came out from behind the stall dressed in a vest, trousers, and
thin boots; his black arms were bare, and he had exchanged his cigar for
a straw, which he chewed vigorously. Acton changed his shoes and took off
his coat, and the lesson began.
Acton's opinion of the Coon's knowledge was, in Jack's mind, absolutely
corroborated by the display. His marvellous parrying of Acton's
attentions; his short step inwards, which invariably followed a mis-hit
by Acton; his baits to lure his opponent to deliver himself a gift into
his hands; his incredible ducking and lightning returns, held Bourne
fascinated. Everything was done so easily, so lithely, so lightly, and so
surely, that Jack gasped in admiration. Acton in the hands of the nigger
was a lamb indeed.
"This is an eye-opener," said Jack. "I'll try that left feint on Rogers,
the cocky ass!"
The negro stopped now and then to show Acton where and how to avail
himself of opportunities; and Acton, who was in grim earnest, applied
himself whole-heartedly to the business in hand, and, in consequence, as
Jack afterwards told us, "you could almost hear old Acton travelling on
the right road."
After about half an hour of instruction, Acton said--
"That is enough of jawing for the afternoon, Coon. Let us have three
rounds to finish up with. Take the time, young 'un."
Jack, with immense pride, took out his watch and prepared to act as
timekeeper.
"Better take it easily first two, sir, and put in all you know for the
last. A little hurricane in the third round is my advice."
Jack had an ecstatic ten minutes, the final round putting him in the
seventh heaven of enjoyment.
"All I could make out was Acton's white arms mixed with Alabama's black
ones, and the sand flying in all directions. Stunning isn't the word for
it!"
As Acton and young Bourne pedalled leisurely home for roll call, Jack
said--
"I think Jarvis' chance of collaring the Heavy for his place is a trifle
'rocky.'"
"I hope so."
"Crumbs! How Alabama does get home!"
CHAPTER XI
TODD PAYS THE BILL
Another youth had come back to St. Amory's with resolutions as fixed and
steady, though more legitimate than Acton's. Augustus Vernon Robert Todd
returned to school with pockets more scantily lined than ever from the
parental source, with his mind constantly fixed on the conversation which
he had had with his house-master on that awful concluding day last term,
and his chin still thrust out valiantly. Gus's square chin meant an
undeviating attention to serious study, and Gus, armed _cap-à-pie_,
against all his old friends.
For Todd had taken his precautions. His watch--a gold one, "jewelled in
numberless holes," as its owner pathetically remarked--had been left with
the family jeweller for three bright golden sovereigns, an eight-and-six
brass turnip, which went jolly well, although its tick was a trifle
vigorous under Gus's pillow, and an agreement. This document, drawn up by
himself, Gus regarded as a very masterpiece of business-like acumen. Gus
could have his gold watch back again within the year by paying three
sovereigns, and buying the brass turnip for half a sovereign, the profit
accruing on this latter transaction being, as Gus explained proudly, the
jeweller's percentage on the loan. The family jeweller had informed Gus
casually that he couldn't keep a wife and growing family on such
percentages, but to oblige, etc.
Todd received Mr. James Cotton blandly and politely, and Jim, in his
heavy way, mistook this airiness for non-paying symptoms on Gus's part.
"Had a good time, old cock, during the holidays?"
"Beastly," said Gus.
"Governor rusty?"
"No end. Been making the will again, and leaving me out."
"Perry _fiasco_, eh?"
"Yes, and other things."
"Well, I hope you can pay up all you owe me, old chap."
"Oh yes!" said Gus. "I said I would keep my word, although you were so
good as to have your doubts."
"All right, glad you can manage it."
"Here you are," said Gus, thrusting his hand into his pocket and bringing
up his coins. "Three three for that rotten bet, and the other fifteen bob
I owed you. It's all there."
Cotton opened his eyes.
"You said the governor was rusty, Gus?"
"So he was, beastly; but I can pay you all the same."
"Well," said Cotton, after a little awkward pause, "I don't want to clean
you out quite, so pay half now and the rest next term. Would that suit
you better, Gus?"
"Thanks, I don't mind," said Gus, airily. "Here's half, then."
Cotton left his friend's room considerably puzzled, but when he came next
night with his books for his old jackal's attentions as before, he was
more than puzzled, for Gus said--
"Can give you half an hour, Jim."
"We won't be able to screw up enough for Merishall in that time, old
man."
"Then you'll have to do the rest yourself, Jim. I'm not going to piffle
about any more."
"Oh, don't be an ass, Gus! I've heard that footle before," said Cotton,
with his heavy selfishness.
"Not quite, for this time I mean what I say."
"Oh no, you don't!"
"Oh yes, I do!"
"You wouldn't leave a fellow in the lurch like this, after all I--"
"I was left in the lurch last term, Jim, dear, and I'd rather you had a
taste of it this go. Do you remember when old Corker was savaging me
before all the school!"
The ghost of a smile flitted over Cotton's lips as he said--
"Rather!"
"The entire school, from the meanest fag up to Carr, was laughing at me,
and, by Jove! Jim, your laugh was the loudest and longest."
"It was your tips I was thinking of, and Corker's frothing through your
list of names," said Cotton, apologetically.
"All right," said Todd, acidly. "If you had left me alone I wouldn't have
wanted those tips, and as for my names, I did not christen myself. If you
want half an hour to shake out your work roughly I'll do it, but I can't
do more, Jim, honour bright."
"I don't want _that_!" said Cotton, angrily, gathering up his
books.
"Am deucedly glad you don't. And here, Jim, is the other half of the
money. Since I'm not obliging you in any way, why should you me?"
"You're logical, Todd, at any rate," said Jim, with half a sneer.
"Didn't know you could spot logic when you heard it, Cotton," said Gus,
with an equal amount of acid, and yet good-naturedly too.
"I suppose I clean you out?"
"You do. I've got a shilling to look at when you've taken up that heap."
"Is that your last word?"
"It is, but there's no need to quarrel--we're as we were before I began
to take your hire, Jim."
"Not quite," said Cotton, who was hit by Gus's decision. "I'll leave you
to your odd shilling and your forsaken tips."
He stumped off to his own room, and called Todd pet names till bedtime.
What made Cotton so angry was that, deep down in his own mind, he knew
that Gus was about to do a sensible and a manly thing, and just because
he himself was going to suffer by it he had not moral courage enough to
speak out openly his better mind.
But Gus, smiling at Cotton's bad temper, took out his books, drew up a
scheme for study, bolted his door, and commenced to work. He slacked off
when the bell went half an hour before lights out, and spent the time
left him in boring a hole in his solitary shilling. He then slipped it on
his watch-guard, prepared boldly to face a term of ten weeks without a
stiver.
CHAPTER XII
RAFFLES OF ROTHERHITHE
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.
[Illustration: 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.
CHAPTER XIII
"EASY IS THE DOWNWARD ROAD"
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.
CHAPTER XIV
IN THE STABLE
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.
CHAPTER XV
GRIM'S SUSPICIONS
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."
CHAPTER XVI
TODD "FINDS HIMSELF"
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 house-master, 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."
CHAPTER XVII
RAFFLES' BILL
It was with hearty thankfulness at the idea of being finally rid of
Raffles that Jack walked over to the "Lodestone" by himself on the
Thursday, jingling his last few shillings in his pockets. Raffles was
waiting for him in the stables, and he was very friendly and familiar,
which always annoyed Jack immensely.
"Glad you're in time, sir, and to 'ear the dibs a-rattlin' in your
pockets."
"Because they'll rattle in yours, soon, I suppose. I make out I owe you
about ten shillings, Raffles."
"'Ow do you make that out, Mr. Bourne?"
"Rabbits, cartridges, and dummy pigeons. I'm about right, I fancy?"
"Right as far as they go."
"As far as they go, of course--not farther. Then here you are."
"And the gun," said Raffles, calmly, looking into vacancy, and not
seeing Jack's coins--"leastwise, wot was a gun."
"Am I to pay for that filthy article?" said Jack, angrily. "Why, it
nearly blew my brains out!"
"'As'e to pay for that breech-loader gun?" said Raffles, laughing
softly as at some good joke. "Why, of course you have."
"My opinion is, Raffles, that that gun was rotten. It wasn't worth a
sovereign. I don't believe it was ever fit to shoot with, now."
"Of course, _now_," said Raffles, with a sneer. "_Now_, when you've got
to pay for it."
"I don't know so much about 'have got to pay for it' at all. That grin
of yours doesn't improve your looks, Raffles," said Jack, who was rather
nettled by Raffles' sneer.
"Well, my bantam cock," said Raffles, savagely, "I only 'opes as this
'ere bill won't spoil yours. And let me tell you, young shaver, I want
the money."
Jack calmly took the piece of note-paper which Raffles hurriedly fished
out of his pocket, and flourished dramatically before Bourne. There was
a touching simplicity about Raffles' bill-making that would in ordinary
times have made Jack split with laughter, but, naturally, at the present
time he did not feel in a very jovial frame of mind. Hence he read
through the farrago with only one very strong desire--to kick Raffles
neck and crop out of the stable. This was the bill:--
Mr. burn owes me daniel raffles this money.
To bunneys at sixpence each... 2 0
To 50 cartrigges...... 6 6
To pidgins......... 1 6
1 gunn breech loder...... £7 0 0
_______
totel £7 10 0
"Now, Raffles," said Jack, in a white heat, "what do you mean by this
rotten foolery?"
"There's no foolery about it," said Raffles, sulkily. "That's my bill."
"Why, you unspeakable rascal, did you fancy I'd pay it?"
"I did, and I do."
Something in the fellow's tone made Jack a trifle uneasy, and he
considered within himself for a moment what he had better do. That the
rascal had made up his mind to be nasty was evident, and when Jack
thought that the gun, poor as it was, was destroyed, though through no
fault of his own, he thought perhaps he might give his old jackal
something as a solatium.
"All right, Raffles! I'll pay you for what I owe you now, and I'll give
you a sovereign for the gun. I'll send you that in a day or two. I've no
more money with me now."
"That ain't the bill. I want this 'ere bill paid."
"'This 'ere bill' is sheer rot!" retorted Jack.
"Rot or not, it's what I want from you. You pay up that seven odd, or it
will be the worse for you. What is seven odd to a young gent like you?
Aren't you all millionaires at St. Amory's?"
"Not by a long chalk."
"Well, I don't want to be unpleasant, my buck, but if you won't pay over
I'll show you up."
"Show me up, you beast--what do you mean?"
"I'll write to Corker and blow the gaff."
"If you did that," said Bourne, grimly, "I'd kill you first day I could
do it."
[Illustration: "I'M GOING TO HAVE THE SEVEN TEN, OR SHOW YOU UP."]
"Or I'd write to your brother."
"And he'd do it now, you skunk!"
"No names, young gent. That won't pay my bill. You don't seem to imagine
I mean what I say."
"No, I don't, for you wouldn't be any _nearer_ getting the money."
"But then you say you aren't going to pay anyhow, so I may as well touch
you up a bit. You've most every time told me not to be so beastly
friendly, and I ain't going to be. I'm going to have the seven ten or
show you up. That's straight."
"Show me up," repeated Jack, blankly. "You miserable blackmailer!"
Bourne felt then the beautiful feelings of being in the grasp of a
low-bred cad who could play with him as a cat with a mouse. He sat
staring in front of him livid with rage, and Raffles, who was watching
him covertly, and with no small anxiety, could see he was digesting the
whole situation. Jack would indeed then and there have let Raffles do
his worst, and would have stood the racket from Corker--and his
brother--rather than be blackmailed by the villain by his side, but he
said hopelessly to himself, "How can I do it without bringing Acton into
it? When this comes out all his training with the Coon must come out
too; perhaps he'll lose his monitorship for not keeping his hand on me,
and Phil's done him a bad enough turn already. I can't round on him.
Heavens! I can't do that."
This reads rather pitiful, doesn't it, under the circumstances?
Jack at the end of his resources tried a desperate bluff.
"I'll put Acton on your track, my beauty, and perhaps he'll make you
see--or feel--reason."
"That game's no good, young shaver. I don't want to see Mr. Acting no
more than you want to tell him of your little blow-outs. Look here, are
you going to pay? Yes or no?"
"I haven't got the money," said Jack, at his wits' end.
"Ho! that's very likely," said Raffles, with a sneer; "anyhow, you could
mighty soon get it if you wanted to."
"How?"
"Why, borrow it, of course. Ask your chum, Mr. Acting. _He_ 'as money.
No end of brass, the Coon says."
"I can't do that," said Jack, in utter despair.
"Orl right," said Raffles, seeing his shot had told. "I see you ain't
got the money on you now, and I don't want to be too 'ard on you. I'll
give you a chance. I'll give you till Saturday to turn it over. My
advice is to borrow from Mr. Acting. He'll lend it you, I should think;
anyhow, I can't stand shilly-shallying here all night, no more than I
can stand the loss of that grand gun, so I'm off. Have the money by
Saturday at three, or I blow the gaff and you can be hung up or cut up
for all I care. I'm not going to be more beastly friendly nor more
chummy than that."
Raffles lurched off with a savage leer, and Jack staggered back to St.
Amory's.
Jack's life was a burden to him for the next few hours, his head nearly
split with the hatching of impossible plans with loopholes to escape the
weasel on his track, but the end was as Acton had foreseen. Acton got a
note through Grim.
"DEAR ACTON,
"Could you give me ten minutes in your study to-night?--Yours,
"J. BOURNE."
"DEAR BOURNE,
"Twenty, if you like.--Yours,
"J. ACTON."
Jack went, and when Acton put him into the easy-chair and noticed his
white, fagged face, he felt genuinely sorry for him.
"You look seedy, young 'un."
"I hope I don't look as seedy as I feel, that's all."
"What's the matter?"
Jack boggled over what he'd come to say, but finally blurted out:
"Acton, would you lend me seven pounds? I'm in a hole, the deuce of a
hole; in fact, I'm pretty well hopelessly stumped. I'll tell you why if
you ask me, but I hope you won't. I've been an ass, but I've collared
some awful luck, and I'm not quite the black sheep I seem. I don't want
to ask Phil--in fact, I couldn't, simply couldn't ask him for this. I'll
pay you back beginning of next term if I can raise as much, and if not,
as much as I can then, and the rest later."
"Oh, you're straight enough, young 'un, and I'll lend you the money,"
said Acton.
Jack blubbed in his thanks, for he was really run down.
"Keep up your pecker, Bourne. Borrowing isn't a crime, quite. When do
you want the cash?"
"By to-morrow, please," said Jack.
"Call in for it, then, before afternoon school, and you can pay me back
as you say. I suppose the sharks have got hold of you."
"Yes," said Jack, with perfect truth, though he only knew of one, and he
went to bed that night blessing Acton. His gorge rose when he thought of
his fleecing, and at this he almost blubbed with rage as he blubbed with
gratitude to Acton.
That interesting Shylock, Raffles, was at the farm confidently waiting
young Bourne and his coins, and when he saw the young innocent bowling
furiously down the road, he sighed with satisfaction. His dream was
true.
"Write out the receipt."
"I've already done it, Mr. Bourne."
"Then here's your blackmail."
"Correct to the figure, sir, and I think it's a settle, nice and
comfortable for all parties."
"If it's any comfort for you to know you're an utter blackguard you can
hear it. A fellow like you isn't on the same level as your filthy
mongrel."
"I never said we was," murmured Raffles, as he shuffled away.
CHAPTER XVIII
HODGSON'S QUIETUS
Acton now felt pretty safe as regards young Bourne. He held him fast in
the double bonds of indebtedness and of gratitude, and with Jack the
gratitude was by far the greater. Acton had saved him from disgrace,
from a lengthened stringing up, from the scorn of his brother, from the
jeers and laughter of the rest of the fellows. Like others, he could
have stood Corker's rage better than the jokes of his cronies. He was
received back into the fold of his own particular set with more _éclat_
than he felt he deserved.
"Here's old Bourne gone and sacked Acton," said Grim.
"Sure Acton hasn't sacked him?" suggested Rogers.
"Best fellow breathing," said Bourne, fervently.
"Still, he's Biffen's."
"I don't care whether he's a water-lily or not--he can't help that, you
know, poor fellow."
"Why should he? Aren't we cock house?"
"Where would you have been if Acton hadn't lifted you out of your muddy
pond, and let you see a little sunlight?"
"You should be his fag," said Grim.
"I'd jolly well like to," said Jack. "I'd black his boots almost."
"He's a dozen pairs," said Grim.
"Write a poem on his virtues," suggested Rogers.
"Shut up this rot," said Wilson. "Let's try a run round the Bender--last
fellow stands tea at Hoopers."
"Carried, _nem. con_.," said Grim, who was pretty speedy.
And the reunited half-dozen cronies ran the three miles out and ditto
home, Wilson subsequently standing tea, for, as he pathetically
explained, "I was overhauling Rogers hand over hand when I slipped my
shoe, else he'd have had to fork out." Thus Jack became again for a
while the common or garden variety of school-boy, and he enjoyed the
change.
* * * * *
Phil Bourne came into my room the same evening that saw Jack Bourne
released from the toils of Raffles.
"Busy, old man?"
"Not at all," said I, pushing away my books. "Jolly glad you've come
in."
"There's a bit of news for you. I've just been in the gym. I fancy the
old school will pull off the 'Heavy' at Aldershot."
"Has Hodgson turned out so jolly well, then?"
"Hodgson! Oh no! Hodgson isn't going to be the school's representative
this year, I fancy."
"Why, have you been in form to-night?"
"Look here, old man, you are quite out of it. You sit here reading up
all that ancient lore about the cestus, and you could tell me the names
of all Nero's gladiators, and yet here at this establishment we've got a
gladiator who is going to make history, and you don't know it."
"I thought you were the only fellow who could show Hodgson anything."
"No," said Phil. "I never was as good as Hodgson. I always made a point
of making him go all the way to win on principle, but he always had a
pull more or less over me. You see, Hodgson is lazy, and he wanted some
one to challenge the right to represent the school, or I don't fancy
he'd have put in enough good work to stand much chance against the Eton
man. Therefore I stepped into the breach, and, by sweating him, have
made Hodgson from a very fair boxer into a good one--good, but nothing
super-excellent."
"Then who's been lying low all this time?"
"Acton."
"_Acton?_" said I, in utter astonishment. "Why, didn't our dear Theodore
dress him down once for losing his temper in the gym?"
"He did, my boy, and Acton repaid the compliment to-night--with
interest. He opened our eyes for us. I'm telling the bare truth when I
say that he simply played with Theodore, and at the third round he as
good as knocked him out."
I stared into the fire for a minute or two, thinking out this news.
"Eureka!" said I. "I've found it!"
"What?"
"The reason Acton crops up here. He cannot forget an injury. Hodgson
humbled him once, and so Acton must needs take away from Theodore his
own peculiar pet ambition, which is to represent St. Amory's at
Aldershot in the Heavy."
"I wish," said Phil, gloomily, "Biffen's Beauty's schemes always worked
out so well for the school's honour. He'll represent St. Amory's without
a doubt."
"Is he so very good, then?"
"Super-excellent, old fellow! Prodigious!" said Phil, with genuine
admiration. "We'll all sleep with both ears on the pillow when the
telegram comes from Aldershot. Such a left! He has a swinging, curly
stroke which he uses after an artful little feint which would win the
final by itself. Hodgson really seemed trying to catch quick-silver when
he tried to get home on Acton. Where did Acton learn all this? The
sergeant hasn't got that artful mis-hit in his bag of tricks."
"Don't speculate on Acton's doings or where he picks up what he knows.
It's too intricate."
"What a pity one can't go and shake his hand as one would like to do. He
is a marvel--this dark horse," said Phil, with genuine regret, as always
when speaking of Acton.
"Our _bête noir_," said I, without winking.
"You heathen," said Phil, laughing. "That was almost a pun. But I'm
afraid I'm a bit selfish in my joy about Acton. Since he's a certainty,
I can devote all my mighty mind to rackets. I don't think there is a
better pair in the place than Vercoe and self at present."
"Oh, thou modest one!"
"'Toby' always finishes up 'When you and Mr. Vercoe goes to Queen's
Club, Mr. Bourne, I advise you, etc.' So, 'Toby' evidently has no doubt
who's to go there."
"Toby" Tucker was our racket professional, and when he spotted a pair
for the public-school rackets, Fenton, the master who finally chose the
pair, never said "Nay." "Toby" was incorruptible. With both his little
eyes fixed inexorably on merit, the greatest joys of his life were
consummated when the St. Amory's pair brought the championship home.
"Congratulate you, old man. If Acton pulls off the Aldershot and you and
Vercoe the rackets--"
"If I only felt as confident on our lifting that as I do of Acton
bringing off his, I'd go straightway and smother 'Toby.' He almost works
one to death."
CHAPTER XIX
HOW THEY "'ELPED THE PORE FELLER"
As a rule, the laboratory was empty on half-holidays, and Gus used to
work through his tables in solitude, when he tried a little
"bottle-washing" as a change from the refereeing, but one afternoon he
found no less a person than W.E. Grim, the prize fag of Biffen's, doing
something very seriously with a green powder.
"Hullo, young 'un! What are you footling round here for?"
"Lancaster has given me this salt to analyze, Todd. I think there's
copper in it."
"What have you been up to, that Lancaster has run you in? Half-holiday,
too!"
"He hasn't run me in," said Grim, sulkily. "As a special favour he's let
me come in here to work a little myself. I did a ripping chemistry paper
last week, and--"
"Oh, I see. Are _you_ going to give Biffen's another leg up, too?"
"Just as soon as you give Taylor's one," said Grim, who, in common with
all the juniors, did not fear the easy-going Todd.
"No cheek!" said Gus. "If I mixed up coal-dust and brick-dust, how'd
you separate 'em?"
"Ask my grandmother for a telescope, and look out the mix through the
butt end."
"Quite so," said Todd, chuckling. "I suppose you've given me a specimen
of Biffen's latest brand of wit. Well, don't make too big a row in
hunting for your copper, and then I'll not chuck you out."
Grim murmured something disparaging Todd's authority for chucking out,
but Gus languidly sidled off to his own particular bench, where, out of
sight of Grim, he prepared to do an afternoon's quiet work.
Meanwhile Grim's particular cronies, Wilson, Rogers, Sharpe, Poulett,
and young Bourne, arrayed in all the glory of mud-stained footer-togs,
after vainly waiting outside Biffen's, were seeking high and low for the
copper-hunting chemist, who, for many reasons, had kept his afternoon's
plan very dark. He knew only too well that his beloved chums would not
hear of an afternoon's work, and would head him off either to footer or
a run round the Bender. Therefore, immediately after dinner, he had made
an unostentatious exit, and reached the laboratory in safety.
"Where _is_ Grimmy?" said Sharpe.
"Dunno," said Wilson.
"Did he know of our six-a-side against Merishall's lot?"
"Rather! Said he hoped we'd win."
"_We!_ Why, is he backing out, then?"
"Well, we've waited for him half an hour, and there's no sign of him
yet--look's like it."
"What is up with him, I wonder?" said Poulett.
"Seemed rather mysterious this morning--rather stand-offish to my idea.
Perhaps, though, he's only guzzling buns or swilling coffee somewhere.
Let's see."
The quintette thereupon spread themselves out, but every shop was drawn
blank.
"Rum!" said Rogers. "Where can the ass be?"
"If we knew, Solomon, would we try to find out?" said Sharpe.
"I say, you fellows--I've got an idea about Grimmy. Didn't Lancaster
give him a leg-up for his chemistry the other day? Permission to footle
in the lab. on half-holidays, and all the rest of it? Grim was no end
cocky over that."
"Grimmy waste a 'halfer' bottle-washing! Rot! That isn't his form,
Wilson."
"If," said Poulett, impressively, "he _has_ sunk so low, we must give
him an 'elpin' 'and, pore feller!"
"Rather. If Lancaster has put the cover over old Grimmy we must get him
out somehow. Let's adjourn to see."
The honourable five forthwith moved over to the laboratory, and Grim
received his beloved cronies with hot blushes and a rather nervous
manner.
"I say, you chaps, what do you want?"
"What did we want?" said Bourne, as though he'd forgotten it. "What was
it, Rogers?"
"A fellow, formerly Grimmy, not a nasty bottle-washer," said Rogers,
more in sorrow than in anger.
"But yesterday and Grimmy was an average back, and now he's holding up
some filthy brew to the sunlight to see how muddy it is. Oh, my great
aunt!" chimed in Wilson.
"How are the mighty fallen!" gasped Sharpe.
"Look here, you fellows--" began Grim, with still more vivid blushes
mantling his noble face.
"'Ear, 'ear! speech! speech! withdraw! apologize!"
"I'm not ashamed of being here and doing a little chemistry for my own
amusement, so there; and you fellows had better cut before Lancaster
comes and runs you all in."
"That is all right, Grimmy. Lancaster's sporting a silk tile, so he's
off to town. To think of your cutting our six-a-side to puff down a
dirty blow-pipe! Come out, you idiot, and get into your footer togs!"
said Sharpe.
"I'm not coming, I tell you."
"Insanity in the family, evidently," observed Poulett, judicially.
"Aren't you coming, really?"
"No, I'm not; do get out and leave me alone!"
"Never!" said Poulett. "We'll stay with him and see him through the fit,
eh?"
"Rather! We'll never desert you, Grimmy!"
"We'll let the six-a-side slide for this afternoon, and we'll help
Grimmy with his salt," suggested the egg-poacher, brilliantly; and any
amount of hidden meaning was in the word "help."
"We will! we will!" cried the rest, spotting Poulett's idea instanter,
with enthusiastic joy; and despite Grim's frenzied declamation and
eloquence they all "helped."
For two hours--as lively a couple of hours as ever were passed within
the laboratory--Gus lay low behind the far bench and enjoyed the
afternoon's performance far more than Grim. The green powder underwent
some weird experiments, each of the quintette availing himself of Grim's
knowledge and test-tubes and acid-bottles with the utmost freedom. The
analysis of Lancaster's mixture gave various results, but when Rogers
"found" rhubarb and black-lead this was held the correct find, and after
this verdict the generous five put up the test-tubes in the rack. They
all said Rogers had settled the matter, and anyway they had had a jolly
time.
"Understand," observed Poulett, as he washed away some acid stains from
his bare knees, "that Grimmy is not ashamed of his black-lead and
rhubarb hunt."
"Why those vivid blushes, then?"
"We never bargained that old Grim would copy that Fifth Form ass, Todd,
and chum up with Lancaster, did we?"
"What did you say about Todd?" inquired Grim, suavely.
"Said he was an ass."
"A what?"
"An ass, a jackass, a howling jackass!" cried Poulett, _crescendo_.
"How?"
"Remember Corker pitching into him? Said he wasn't fit for a decent
nursery, and Toddy had his mouth open all the time."
[Illustration: THE GREEN POWDER UNDERWENT SOME WEIRD EXPERIMENTS]
"Bully Cotton has given Toddy up. Toddy was too big an ass even for
Cotton," remarked Wilson.
"He looks fairly intelligent," observed Grim, in a gentle whisper.
"So did you, almost, till you started fooling like this."
Grim artistically kept the conversation on Todd, and Gus learned how
like an ass each individual of the quintette thought him. He smiled
gently at Grim's astuteness in paying him out so neatly for his previous
friendly remarks about chucking out. When the first stroke of the
roll-call bell reached the laboratory he emerged solemnly and with state
from his retreat, and stalked quietly through the knot of his outspoken
critics, who were instantly besieged by a variety of emotions. He closed
the laboratory door after him, and, when he saw the key outside, the
temptation to repay the left-handed compliments of Poulett and Co. in
their own coin was too strong. Gus gently turned the key, and was
halfway down the corridor before the band arrived at the locked door.
"Let us out!" shrieked Rogers. "We'll apologize all of us--won't we,
Poulett?"
"Yes!" yelled Poulett. "Anything! Oh, Todd, do let us out!"
But Todd went on his way, serenely ignoring the frantic appeals behind
him, and turned out into the street with a sweet smile on his face.
"That beast, Todd, has gone, and Merishall will ladle us out three
hundred of Virgil for missing call-over," moaned Bourne.
"It's four hundred, if Merishall takes it," said Rogers, with dire
conviction.
"Not for me," said Grim, beaming cheerfully around; "I'm all right. I'll
tell Merishall that the door was locked; but as for you five idiots, who
oughtn't to be here at all--well! What the dickens did you want to call
old Toddy all those fancy names for, you silly cuckoos?"
"Oh, look here, Grim, you artful bounder," shouted Poulett, bitterly,
"you've got us into this mess. Why didn't you say Todd was behind those
back benches?"
"Yes, why?" shouted the rest of the raging fags. "We'll scrag you for
this, darling. Cuckoos are we? Scrag him--put him in the scrum."
W.E. Grim had a very bad five minutes, but when he crawled out of the
scrum, hot, damaged, and dusty, he said viciously--
"I hope Merishall gives you a thou., you beastly cads. You've mucked up
my afternoon, and I'm hanged if I don't tell Lancaster."
Ten minutes after roll-call the janitor let them out, and shortly
afterwards a wretched procession of five emerged from Merishall's room
with two hundred lines from Virgil hanging over each head for a missed
call-over without excuse. Grim worked an artistic revenge on his
scrummagers by calling personally the next half-holiday to inquire if
they would prefer to analyze a green salt or to play a six-a-side
against Merishall's lot. In every instance a Virgil hurtled towards his
head. Having done his duty to his friends, he left them to pious Æneas
and the slope of Avernus, whilst he got another salt from the
science-master, and, with Gus, possessed the laboratory in peace.
CHAPTER XX
ACTON'S TRUMP CARD
On the Saturday before we should go home Acton was due at Aldershot, and
would return the same night, as the fellows hoped, with his laurels
thick upon him. Bourne and Vercoe were staying at school a week later
than we, for the rackets did not come off until our holidays had
commenced. Toby had begged for this almost with tears in his eyes, for
he had a mortal dread of the relaxing process of a week at home.
"You'd have no 'ands, Mr. Bourne, no spring, no eyes, when you toed the
mark at Kensington. I'll send you fit if I have you here."
So Vercoe and Phil agreed to stay.
And now Acton determined to put into operation his long-thought-of
scheme for the paying off of the score against Phil. It was subtle, and
founded on a perfect knowledge of Bourne's character, and a perfect
disregard of the consequences to any one--even including himself. Acton
would have willingly martyred himself, if he could have inflicted a
little of the torments on Bourne too.
There was one rule from which Dr. Moore never swerved a hair's breadth.
Compared to this particular law the stringency of the Old Game
regulation for Thursday was lax indeed. He never had departed from it,
and he never would depart from it. If any fellow took it into his head
to slip out of his house after lights out at ten on any pretence
whatever he was expelled. There was some legend in connection with this
severity, what exactly none of us rightly knew, but according to the
tale the escapade of two fellows years ago, when Corker was new to the
place, had resulted in one of the fellows being shot. Twice had he
expelled fellows while I was at school--Remington and Cunningham--and I
cannot ever forget the old man's deathlike face as he told them to go.
Some fellows broke out and were not found out, for Corker wasn't going
to have any barred windows as in some places. Any one _could_ break out
any night he liked, but he knew what he might expect if he were caught.
There was no help. Remington had been found out, and though there had
been Remingtons in the school since Anne's reign, Corker was inexorable.
He was expelled.
In a word, Acton determined to go to London and to take young Bourne
with him, and so risk certain expulsion for both, supposing they were
discovered. He had no intention of being expelled, though; for he liked
the life at St. Amory's, where incense floated round him all day long,
but he meant, when he had accomplished the ruin of Jack, to let Bourne
senior know it. Acton gloated in advance over Phil's anger, shame, and
consternation, and--this was the cream of the joke--his utter inability
to do anything except keep silence and chew the bitter cud of hopeless
rage against him--the man to whom he would not give the footer cap.
Acton never thought of Jack's share in the matter at all, and yet he was
genuinely fond of him; all he thought of was what would be Philip's
hopeless rage.
Phil, of course, could say nothing to Corker, for he knew it would be
hopeless. And Acton knew that Phil's pride could never bear the idea of
Jack--a Bourne--being expelled from the old place. Therefore he would
keep silence. I don't think I used the wrong adjective when I said it
was subtle. The only question was--could he so manage that Jack would
go? And Acton for good reasons was pretty certain that he could.
Jack was staidly taking a turn up and down the pavement with Grim when,
on passing by Biffen's house, he heard a whistle from one of the
windows, and, on looking up, he saw Acton.
"I want you, Bourne, for five minutes--if you can spare them."
"Of course he can," said Grim, _sotto voce_. "Aren't you a monitor?
Jack, my boy, Acton wants to knight you--or something. You'll find his
boots in the bottom cupboard, if you want to black 'em very much. I
suppose, being only a common or garden fag, my feelings aren't to be
considered for a moment. When you were--for once--talking sensibly for a
Corker fag, you are called away to----"
"Cork all that frivol, old man, till you see me at tea," said Jack,
moving into Biffen's yard.
When Jack was comfortably installed in a chair, Acton bolted his door,
and, somewhat to young Bourne's surprise, seemed rather in a fix how to
start what he had to say. The locking of the door was unusual, and this,
combined with Acton's grave face and hesitating manner, made Jack a
trifle uneasy. Whatever was coming?
"I say, Bourne," at last said his friend, "do you know anything about
betting?"
"Betting!" said Jack, with a vivid blush. "About as much as most of the
fellows know of it. Not more."
"Well, do you mind reading this?" He handed Jack a slip of paper which
contained such cryptic sentences as: "Grape Shot gone wrong, though he
will run. Pocket Book is the tip. If you're on Grape Shot, hedge on best
terms you can get," etc.
"I understand that," said Jack, "you've--if this means you--you've
backed the wrong horse."
"Exactly," said Acton. "I backed Grape Shot for the Lincolnshire
Handicap, and he hasn't a ghost of a chance now. Gone wrong."
"I see," said Jack, absolutely staggered that Acton, a monitor, should
tell him, a fag, that he was betting on horse-racing.
"I see, young 'un, that you seem surprised at my little flutter, but, by
Jove! this will have to be my last. Do you know, Bourne, I'm in an awful
hole."
"I'm very sorry to hear it," said Jack, with no end of concern.
"You see, if Pocket Book pulls the handicap off before I've time to trim
my sails, I lose a lot."
"Much," said Jack, "_for you?_"
"Thirty pounds."
"Whew!" whistled Bourne.
"I get a good allowance from home, Bourne, but I'm bound to say thirty
pounds would cripple me."
"Rather," said Jack, with a gasp.
"Of course, if the worst did come to the worst, I'd have to apply to
home; but there would be, as you might guess, no end of a row about it."
"Then you must hedge," said Jack.
"That is it, exactly. I must back Pocket Book for first place. This is a
sure tip--I can depend upon it."
"Then send to the fellow you bet with, and let him put you on Pocket
Book."
"That is just it, Jack--the bookmaker wouldn't take a bet from me."
"Why ever not?" said Jack, mystified.
"Because I'm a minor--I'm under age."
"Then how do you manage?" said Jack.
"Why, I bet through another man."
"I see," said Jack, for this was but another edition of his own little
adventures. "And that man----"
"Is Raffles," said Acton, quietly.
Jack bounced out of his chair as if he had been stung. "That beast!" he
gasped.
"Raffles?" said Acton, with a slow smile. "I didn't know he was a
beast."
"He is the meanest skunk alive," said Jack. He added fervently, "Acton,
have no dealings with that fellow. He is an abominable sharper."
"Thanks," said Acton, with a slight grimace at Jack's advice. "But, all
the same, I have to deal through Raffles."
"Then write to the fellow."
"I don't know--I've forgotten his address."
"Well, I'm hanged if I understand it!" said Jack, lost in astonishment.
"If you don't know it, and your bookmaker will only bet through Raffles,
you are in a hole--a marvellously deep one."
"There's only one way out--find Raffles."
"And that you can't do."
"And that I think I can do by going to London."
"Well, we're off for the holidays on Tuesday, and you can find Raffles
then."
"I should be hopelessly too late if I waited till then. It would be
almost ruinous to be put on to Pocket Book in a day's time. I must hedge
to-night."
"To-night?" said Jack, in a complete fog. "And you haven't found
Raffles!"
"No, but I think I know where to find him to-night. You know the Coon is
having a match with the Battersea Beauty at the Universal Sporting Club,
and Raffles is pretty sure to be there, and I must see him then."
"But that means going to London, Acton."
"Certainly."
"And Corker would expel you--even you."
"Without a doubt--if he finds out."
"There's a chance that he may."
"Certainly, but it's a mighty slender one, and in any case I mean to--I
_must_--risk it."
"I'm awfully sorry for you."
"Now, Jack, I want you to listen to me," said Acton, very gravely, and
his voice showed his genuine anxiety. "The Coon's match does not
commence until eleven o'clock at night, because an awful lot of the
Universal Sporters are actors and they cannot get away before that time
at earliest. Now, there are two entrances for the members into the club,
one in Pelican Street and the other in Ridge Street. Raffles must enter
by one or the other, and there must be some one at each doorway to give
him my note. I can take the one, and the question is--who will take the
second doorway?"
"Not I, Acton," said Jack, in a blue funk. "Please, Acton, don't ask
me."
"Jack, believe me, you were the last person I wanted to ask. I would
have asked Worcester or Chalmers if it had been any good, but they would
not know Raffles from Adam. It is ten thousand pities, but you are the
only fellow who knows Raffles here. No one else has ever set eyes on
him."
"Acton, it means expulsion," said Jack, hoarsely.
"Certainly for me if I'm caught, but, of course, I've no idea of being
caught. Jack, I'm not going to ask you to come with me. I shall think no
worse of you if you say you won't come, and I cannot take advantage
over you to force you against your own wish, because I lent you money.
Don't think so meanly of me."
"Acton," said Jack, sweating drops of terror, "it _is_ expulsion if
we're caught."
"Jack," said Acton, "have you ever known me to fail yet in anything I
undertake?"
"No."
"Well, I _will_ not fail here. If you like I'll give you my word of
honour we shall not be caught, and, if by a miracle of ill-luck we
should be, I shall see you through. I'll take every iota of blame on my
own shoulders. You'll find yourself captain of the school one day yet."
"If I were expelled, Acton," said Jack, with intense conviction, "the
pater would kill me first, and die himself afterwards; and as for
Phil----"
"Jack," said Acton, "I must see the business through myself. You can't
do it, I see. I must lose the £30."
Jack got up and walked up and down the room in agony.
For five minutes Acton watched his wretched prey torn to pieces by his
conflicting fears--his shame of leaving Acton in the lurch, and his
dread of discovery.
"Acton," said Jack at length, "I can't leave you in the lurch. I'll go
with you to London."
Acton clasped Jack's hand, and said, "Jack, you are a brick. I can only
say I thank you." He had landed his fish, as he knew he would.
Half an hour afterwards Jack said, almost cheerfully, for Acton had
been doing his best to smooth poor Bourne's ruffled feathers--
"But how are we to go to town?"
"I've got a plan," said Acton; "but I must turn it over in my mind
first. If you'll look in, young 'un, after tea, I'll tell you how we do
it. I'm going to see about it now. Once again, Jack, I thank you. You do
stand by a fellow when he's down on his luck."
Acton and Jack went out--the monitor to make arrangements for the
escapade, and Jack to Grim's quarters, where he was due for tea, which
he demolished with comparative cheerfulness, for Jack's confidence in
Acton was illimitable. After he had taken the jump he was not--is not
now--the kind of boy to look back.
At six young Bourne left his friend Grim among a waste of empty teacups,
plates, and jam-pots, and went to Acton's room.
"I've arranged all," said that worthy. "I've seen the proprietor of the
hotel down at Bring, and he's going to have a smart dog-cart and a
smarter horse to do the dozen miles between here and Charing Cross ready
for us at nine. He says we shall be rattled into town within the hour.
So if we aren't in time to spot Raffles we are down on our luck with a
vengeance. Your room is on the ground floor, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Jack, "overlooking Corker's flowerbeds."
"Well, pull up the window after supper as quietly as you can, and slip
into the garden. Then scoot through the field, and you'll find me
waiting for you in the hotel stables. You can pass the word to your
chums in Corker's that you aren't going to be on show after supper, and
then they won't be routing you out."
"My chums are mostly in Biffen's," said Jack. "Grim and Rogers, etc."
"Good omen," said Acton. "Leave your window so that you can easily shove
it up when you come back, and leave your school cap behind, and bring a
tweed instead. Got such an article?"
"Yes."
"How's your room lighted?"
"Oh, we have the electric. It is switched off at ten, so that the light
will not give any trouble, Acton."
"Well, bolt your door, too. It seems as though the fates were fighting
for us, eh, young 'un?"
CHAPTER XXI
LONDON AND BACK
At nine that night the two, as agreed upon, met at Dring in the hotel
stables. There had been no mishaps.
The groom was busy putting the horse into the trap, and, when Jack saw
what a really smart turn-out Acton had engaged, his fears began to
occupy less of his thoughts and the pleasures of a rattling hour's spin
a jolly lot more. Punctually to the minute Jack climbed up beside the
driver, the place of honour, and Acton swung himself up behind; the yard
doors were flung open, and the gig rattled smartly out. The hotel
proprietor had not chanted the praises of his horse in vain. On the
level road it laid itself out to go for all it was worth.
The pleasant music of the jingling harness and the scurrying of the
wheels made as jolly a tune as Jack could wish to hear. There was a
touch of frost in the air, which made the quick motion of the gig bite
shrewdly on his cheeks, and made him button up his overcoat to the chin
and settle his cap well over his ears. Acton threw out jokes, too, from
behind, which made Jack feel no end clever to listen to them, and the
driver now and then restrained his horse's "freshness" with the soothing
mellow whistle which only drivers possess. The farmhouses, hayricks, and
an occasional village, drifted past now to the right, now to the left,
and occasionally they overhauled a leisurely belated cyclist, who at
once began to take an unimportant position in the rear, his lamp growing
less and less down the stretch of long white road.
Soon the houses began to come more frequently, then came the streets
with their long avenues of yellow lights, and within the hour they were
rolling smoothly over the wooden pavements.
"Piccadilly," said Acton. "Drop us at the top of Whitehall, will you?
Then you can take the horse to the mews. Be ready for us outside
Frascati's by twelve. Understand?"
"Yes, sir, at Frascati's by twelve! I know the place." A minute or two
later the two swung off in Trafalgar Square, and the driver rattled away
into the crowd.
Jack was delighted. "Spiffing run, Acton, eh?"
"Glad you liked it, young 'un. Now let us localize the Universal
Sporting Club. I know it's about Covent Garden somewhere." Together they
went up the crowded Strand, Jack enjoying every minute of the bustling
walk to the Garden and imagining that he was a very much daring young
desperado to be so far from his little white bunk at St. Amory's. He
would have been usually fast asleep by this time.
The Universal Sporting Club was not a difficult place to find, and
though all its windows were lighted up, upon its fast shut doors were
two little notices: "This door will be open at 11 p.m. None but members
and friends admitted."
"Well," said Acton, "we've got about twenty minutes before there's any
particular need to begin our watch for Raffles, but some of the members
are hanging round now. The early birds get the best perch for the show.
On the whole, perhaps you'd better prowl about this door now, whilst I
go round the corner and see if I can run our fox to his earth."
"All serene," said Jack. "I'll mark time out here till I see you."
Acton walked round the corner, and Jack perambulated about, peering into
the faces of the idlers to see if he could spot the well-known and
much-detested face of Raffles. He had (of course) no luck.
Five minutes afterwards Acton came back smiling. "Almost first fellow I
ran against was Raffles, and I've given him his instructions. He'll
hedge for me with the bookie within five minutes."
"So you're quite safe now, Acton?" said Jack, beaming.
"Oh, quite," said Acton, laughing. "Now, Jack, you've been no end
brickish, and I'm going to treat you. Ever seen a ballet?"
"No."
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