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King of Ranleigh: A School Story

by F. S. Brereton · English · Gutenberg #42862 · 511,774 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: King of Ranleigh: A School Story

Author: F. S. Brereton

Illustrator: Ernest Prater


        
Release date: June 2, 2013 [eBook #42862]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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KING OF RANLEIGH

A School Story

by

CAPTAIN F. S. BRERETON

Author of "The Hero of Panama," "The Great Aeroplane," etc. etc.

Illustrated by Ernest Prater







London
S. W. Partridge & Co. Ltd.
Old Bailey




[Illustration: "CLIVE WAS DASHED BACKWARD WITH TERRIFIC VIOLENCE."]




CONTENTS


CHAPTER PAGE

        I. THE CONSPIRATORS                     9

       II. A BOOBY TRAP                        25

      III. OFF TO RANLEIGH                     47

       IV. SOME INTRODUCTIONS                  68

        V. AN ULTIMATUM                        89

       VI. CLIVE AND HIS FRIENDS TRIUMPHANT   111

      VII. PLANS FOR AN OUTING                131

     VIII. BREAKING BOUNDS                    153

       IX. HONESTY'S THE BEST POLICY          173

        X. THE RUINED TOWER                   194

       XI. BERT MAKES A DISCOVERY             214

      XII. ROUNDING UP THE BURGLARS           236

     XIII. TRENDALL AND SOME OTHERS           259

      XIV. THE STRENUOUS LIFE                 278

       XV. STURTON'S POLICY IS VINDICATED     295

      XVI. A GREAT DISTURBANCE                317

     XVII. WHO IS THE SCOUNDREL?              340

    XVIII. TRACKED DOWN                       358

      XIX. A MONSTROUS ACCUSATION             374

       XX. THE OLD FIRM HANGS TOGETHER        386

      XXI. KING OF RANLEIGH                   403




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


    "Clive was dashed back with terrific
    violence"                      _Frontispiece_

    "His rage was almost appalling"            44

    "'Look out, Susanne! I'm coming
    in to help'"                              114

    "Rawlings and Trendall were tossed
    into a dense mass of bushes"              171

    "'Forward!' ordered the sergeant
    sternly. 'Rush 'em!'"                     254

    "They were swept back by an appalling
    gush of flame and smoke"                  328




KING OF RANLEIGH




CHAPTER I

THE CONSPIRATORS


Clive Darrell took from the pocket of a somewhat tattered coat, which
bore many a stain and many a sign of hard wear, a filbert of good size,
and having admired it in silence cracked the same by placing it upon a
miniature anvil and giving it an adroit blow with a hammer. There was a
precision about his movements and his action which spoke of practice.
Clive was inordinately fond of nuts. His pockets bulged widely with
them. As he ate he extracted a handful and presented some to each of his
two comrades.

"Here, have a go. I've heaps to draw from. Well?"

"Well?" came from Hugh Seymour, a boy of his own age, just a little more
than thirteen.

But Bert Seymour, brother to Hugh, made no answer. Taller than the other
two, a year older than his brother, he was a weedy, lanky youth,
running to height rather than to breadth. He had tossed his cap on to
the bench, so that he presented a tousled head of hair, above a face
thin like his frame, but ruddy enough, with keen penetrating eyes which
wore a curiously dreamy aspect for such a youngster. He was cogitating
deeply. That was evident. But being the prince of good fellows, one who
made a point of returning hospitality, he rummaged also in his pocket,
producing a medley of articles to be found nowhere else save in the case
of a schoolboy. A piece of tangled string, half a broken hinge, a knife,
a second knife, somewhat bigger and distinctly rusty, a length of
galvanised wire which made one wonder if he were a jack-of-all-trades,
three handkerchiefs, each more terrible in appearance than the last, a
number of air-gun slugs, a broken box for the same, now empty and
severely damaged, and lastly, that for which he searched, a respectably
sized piece of toffee in a wrapping of paper which was broken at one
corner, and through which a half-dozen slugs had contrived to insert
themselves and were now nicely imbedded in the sweetmeat.

"Have some," he said laconically, handing over the packet to Clive.

"Fair does then. Thanks."

There was a strange taciturnity about these three lads. A silence and
absence of words to which they were unaccustomed. But then, great events
bring about equally great changes on occasion, and this day saw the trio
face to face with a circumstance which baffled them, rendered them
almost inarticulate, when they were accustomed to chatter, not seldom
either in the lowest tones, and made of them a somewhat morose
gathering.

Clive split the toffee into three equal-sized pieces with the aid of a
huge pair of metal shears, distributed two of the pieces, and thrust the
third into his mouth.

"Well?" he asked again, almost inarticulate since the sticky piece held
his jaws so firmly. "We've got to move."

"Or funk."

"Or go on getting kicked."

"Not if I know it!" ejaculated Clive, with a distinct effort, tearing
his two rows of shining teeth asunder. "Who's he? We've been here ages,
and he has the cheek to order us about."

"Suppose he imagines we're going to fag for him," exclaimed Hugh,
pulling his piece of toffee into the light of day as speech was
otherwise almost out of the question. "He's a cad, this Rawlings. Vote
we go for him."

"How?"

It was almost the first word which Bert had uttered. A keen glance shot
from those dreamy eyes, searching the faces of his two comrades. He
borrowed Clive's hammer and mechanically cracked the handful of nuts
presented to him, preparing a store for consumption after the sweetmeat
was finished. His dreamy eyes slowly travelled round his immediate
surroundings, noting without enthusiasm the many tools and appliances
which to boys as a general rule are the greatest of attractions. For
Bert was no mechanic. At the precise period of which we write he was
immersed in the intricacies of a calculation having for its object the
purchase of sundry cricket stumps, bats and a ball with a sum raked
together after noble self-sacrifice and still all too small for the
purpose. He was, in fact, keen on cricket, and no dull hand at the game.
Fair at the wicket, he could send down a ball at any time the varying
length of which might be expected to baffle one who had not stood up to
his bowling before. While at "point" he had already gathered laurels in
the village matches, to which residence in the depths of the country
confined him.

Mechanics distinctly bored Bert. He had no use for hammers, other than
that of cracking nuts, and even then he managed to hammer his fingers
fairly often. And there he differed from his brother, just as the latter
differed from him in appearance. For Hugh was a rosy-cheeked fellow,
short and active and strong, quick and brisk in his actions, and with
eyes which sparkled and could never be accused of presenting a dreamy
appearance. Always ready for cricket or football or any other game that
might be suggested, and shining particularly in the gymnasium, there
were two hobbies which absorbed his every waking thought, and contrived
to make him Clive Darrell's boon companion. For both loved the wild
things they saw about them. They were the terror of gamekeepers in all
directions, and there was not a copse nor a cover for miles around which
they had not visited in their search for nests. And the winter season
found them both for hours together in this workshop, once the happy
rendezvous of Clive's father. What wonder if they were enchanted with
the place? Imagine a large room, with steeply sloping roof, in which
were a couple of lights. A range of shelves down one side, each carrying
planes or cramps or wood tools of some description. While against the
farther wall stood a cabinet, glazed at the top, and presenting a range
of calipers, micrometers, drills, gauges, taps and dies and what-not;
while nests of drawers beneath contained every tool necessary for both
wood and metal turning. That was the triumph of this workshop. A
five-inch lathe stood against the far wall, the floor beneath stained
with many a splotch of oil. A belt ran to it from a shaft overhead which
travelled the length of the shop and was there fitted with a wheel of
large diameter to which a second belt was attached. This latter
travelled to the fast and loose pulleys of a second shaft, and thence to
a petrol engine, which puffed and rattled at the moment.

Clive toyed with the lever which operated his pet lathe. As he and his
comrades cogitated, he pushed the lever over, setting the shaft above in
motion and the spindle of the lathe revolving. A chunk of brass bolted
to the face-plate of this latter spun round at speed, while the tool he
had fixed in position shaved a neat ribbon of metal from it. Then the
lever swung back, the spindle of the lathe came to a rest, while the
shaft above ceased to rotate, leaving the engine still running.

"I know. We'll make a trap for the ass. Catch him as they catch elephant
and rhinoceros in Africa," he suddenly blurted out as he turned from the
lathe. As for his hearers, they received his suggestion with scant
sympathy.

"Trap! How? Where? Rot!" ejaculated Bert. "What's the good of trapping
an idiot?--unless, of course, you mean setting a thing like a
rabbit-trap. That'd fix him. Imagine the great and noble Rawlings,
fresh from a public school, lord of all he beholds, caught by the toe
and left singing!"

A wan smile wreathed his lips. Hugh giggled, and then looked serious. "A
precious row we'd get into, too," he cried. "Try again, Clive. Don't
talk rot; we're serious."

"So am I; we'll fix a trap for this bounder, a trap that'll not hurt
him, you understand, but one that'll make him look a fool and an ass,
and'll teach him not to interfere with his betters."

"Meaning us," grinned Bert.

"Of course! Who else? You don't imagine that an ass like that's on the
same plane, do you?" demanded Clive loftily. "Now I'll tell you how
we'll do it. There's the path down the spinney."

"Ah!" A frown crossed Bert's face. Hugh's ruddy cheeks grew redder. For
that path happened to be the bone of contention which had brought about
this meeting. But for that, Clive and Hugh and Bert would not have been
gathered in the workshop on this fine morning, cracking sundry nuts upon
a miniature anvil, and sucking sticky toffee. Bert, for instance, would
have been down at the one single store which Potters Camp, their local
village, boasted, where he would have painfully haggled for the stumps
and other goods he coveted. Then Clive and Hugh would have been
otherwise occupied. They had a big mechanical scheme on foot, no less an
undertaking than the manufacture of a motor-car, a real motor-car to run
upon the high-road. Morning and afternoon and evening they had been at
it through these holidays. And the scheme was so very simple, and
promised such certain success! To begin with, there was the petrol
engine at that moment puffing and rumbling in the shop. The framework
they had made was the precise thing for it. They had only to erect a
species of crane above the engine and they could lift it into the frame
and bolt it down. That was childishly easy. The rest was a triumph, or
almost so, inasmuch as it was on the high-road to completion. For the
front axle was already fitted. True, it was not quite up to modern form,
since stub axles at either end were missing. But then necessity is the
mother of invention, as Clive had told his chum often and often. That
axle was bored at the very centre and swivelled about a pin bolted to
the framework. As for springs, who wanted any!

"Tosh!" declared Clive.

"Meant for ladies and kids and invalids," said Hugh, equally emphatic.

"It'll shake about a bit, of course," admitted the former grudgingly. "I
reckon she'll do a good twenty miles an hour, and on the awful
apologies for roads round about here, why, naturally, she'll hop and
bump no end. But who cares so long as she goes? Not me. Only those
wheels look a bit rocky, eh?"

Hugh must have been an enthusiast, or else he would not have denied the
obvious fact to which his fellow inventor had drawn his attention. For
the wheels of this car-in-making were decidedly groggy, to use an
expression common to this mechanical couple. But then again, necessity
was here the mother of much inventive genius. Lack of funds could not
cripple the enthusiasm and ambition of our two mechanics. Wheels they
must have if they wished their car to run upon the road, while cash was
decidedly lacking. But both had a bicycle the back wheel of each of
which fitted with commendable niceness upon the spindle ends of the
steel bar which Clive had used for a front axle, while the back axle and
its wheels were supplied from the stable of no less a person than the
Rev. James Seymour, the respected parent of Bert and Hugh, Rector of the
parish, and owner of a tricycle.

"Fits rippingly! Just the thing!" commented Hugh, when he produced the
article for Clive's approval. "Only it'd be a bit unlucky if the
Governor wanted to trike just at this moment. Of course, he can't. Dare
say he'd be ratty, but then, think of how he's helping. It's just the
thing."

"Just!" Clive whetted his lips at the sight. The one great difficulty of
this ambitious undertaking was conquered, and, of course, they were only
borrowing the axle and wheels for a time. They'd have a run on the road
and then bolt them back into position. No one'd be the wiser, certainly
not Hugh's Governor. "But--just a trifle light for the job," he added.
"Still, you never can tell till you try. But it'd be mighty awkward if
there was a bust up. There'd be a ruction then."

Hugh had agreed to that point, and for a moment had repented his action.
But then, think of being beaten just for the want of a little courage!
After all, the wheels and axle of the tricycle might be the very thing.
They certainly looked it. And the Rector had not ridden his machine for
a month at least, and for all he knew might have discarded it
altogether. In any case, the parts had been borrowed, and as the trio
stood about the lathe Hugh's admiring eyes were upon it.

"Pity this cad's come along just now," he grumbled. "Everything's ready
and fitted. A morning's work would drop the engine in and connect up the
levers and the chain. That steering gear ain't too magnificent. But
then, if one manages the engine and the other steers her, it'll be as
right as anything. Hang this Rawlings!"

Others echoed the same malediction. For the Rawlings family were not
popular in the neighbourhood of Potters Camp. In the first place, they
were new-comers, and in the depths of the country that is sometimes a
sufficient offence. Then they were purse-proud and apparently rich, and
apt to patronise their country cousins. Mr. Rawlings was of decidedly
pompous appearance. Very stout and heavy, he had a way of lifting a
condescending stick when greeted by neighbours. And Albert, his son, was
a shining copy. He looked down upon the village youths from a lofty
pinnacle. He nodded, when he remembered to, to Hugh and Bert and Clive,
though to the latter he was not always so gracious. For Clive had once
been master where the pompous Rawlings now stepped. Once he and his
people had lived in the big house at the top of the hill, with its acres
of park land about it. But times had changed sadly. Perhaps his father
had been too immersed in his workshop, and had given little attention to
the more serious affairs of life. Whatever the reason, his riches had
left him, and here was his widow, with her only son, living in a small
house at the far corner of the park, and once occupied by a bailiff.
From the said house a path led through a long spinney to the high-road,
and made a short-cut for its inhabitants. Otherwise they must needs go a
long way round to get to the village.

"And the cad forbids us to use it!" ejaculated Clive, as he recollected
the occurrence. "Of course, the father's behind the business. He must
be. But the son does the talking. A precious nice business."

"Here, you get off! This isn't yours. Just cut it!" Hugh deliberately
mimicked the youth of whom they were talking. "A fine sort of fellow,"
he exclaimed. "So you'll set a trap for him, Clive?"

"Now. Without waiting. I'd fifty times rather stay along here and finish
this job. Just think, this evening we'd be ready for running. We'd have
a trial spin on our car, for there's certain to be things to adjust. But
we'd have her running top hole before it got dark. Then we'd make a trip
to London."

Hugh's eyes opened wide at the statement.

"It's seventy miles if it's an inch."

"Who cares? We can do it. But----"

"Eh?" asked Hugh, scenting another difficulty just at the moment when he
felt confident that all were overcome successfully.

"How long would it take? Let's see. We do twenty miles an hour."

"Hardly that all the way."

"Why not?" demanded Clive, in whose fertile brain the whole scheme had
originated, and who panted to be testing his first attempt at road
locomotion. "Why not?"

"Well, there's punctures," said Hugh lamely, and without thought of
grammar.

"Yes; possible."

"Then there's traffic. Besides, we've got to eat."

Yes, they had to do that, without a shadow of doubt. Seventy miles, with
sundry delays--which, however, were not likely, oh, certainly
not!--meant four hours on the road. A fellow couldn't hold out all that
time. Impossible!

"We'd have a blow-out before starting," declared Clive, his eyes on the
machine he and his chum had been so diligently building. "Then we'd be
off before nine. We'd get a real good feed at one. By then we'd be in
London. That means we'd have to go to rather a swagger sort of place. I
say, that's a bit awkward. How's the cash-box going?"

There wasn't a cash-box. Hugh was the treasurer, and he slowly and
somewhat sadly counted out three shillings and fourpence halfpenny. Not
a big sum, perhaps, but nearing the end of the holidays, and after
considerable expenditure already on their ambitious project it was
certainly a triumph of management.

"Bit short," said Hugh. "But it'll do. We must fill up well before we
start, and take things in our pockets. I dare say we'll be able to find
a place where you can get a feed for a shilling. Perhaps they'd take two
for less. Things like that are easy to arrange in London."

"Easy. But I was thinking of the return journey. There's a lamp wanted."

"And numbers, and a licence," said Hugh, aghast at the thought which had
never previously occurred to either of them. "My eye, that's a deuce of
a job. The police would be on to us."

Clive's was one of those jovial, optimistic natures which overrides all
difficulties. "Hang the police! We'll chance it. We'll stick up a number
of some sort. I'll ink one out on cardboard this evening. As for a lamp,
there's the gardener's. I'll borrow it. It'll do, hanging on in front.
It'll make us go slow, of course, but all the better. It'll be a joke to
be kept late on the road and have everyone in fits about us. But we
can't move to-morrow. It'll have to be the next day."

Ruefully Hugh agreed to the plan, for he would have loved to proceed
with the finishing of the car now so nearly ready. He sighed as he
looked at the framework at the end of the shop, with its somewhat flimsy
front axle and bicycle wheels, its borrowed back axle, its steering
gear, a complication of steel wires about a drum mounted on a raked
tubing, and surmounted by a cast-iron wheel at one time adorning the
overhead shaft which drove the lathe. What thought that gear had cost
them! What a triumph its construction had been, and how well it seemed
to act now that it was duly assembled and mounted on the wooden chassis
of the car! Only the engine needed now to be lifted into position, a
chain run from it to the sprocket on the back axle till a few days ago
part and parcel of his father's tricycle. There was the mere matter of a
lever or two to control the engine, that strip of cardboard, with a
number inked upon it, and they would be off. His imagination whirled him
to the giddy heights of enjoyment as he thought of the trip before them.

"But that cad's got to be dealt with," he agreed. "Right! What's the
particular movement?"

"A trap," interjected Bert. "A man-catcher. Go easy with the saw-edge of
the concern and the spring, or you'll break his legs. We don't want
that, even if he is a bounder. You'd have thought, considering Clive was
the owner of the spinney only a year ago, a fellow would have been
ashamed to order him off what had been his own property. But there's no
counting on what cads'll do, or won't do. He threatened to throw us out.
He's big, though only fifteen, they say. But if we tackled him together
we'd make mincemeat of him."

"Better make a fool of him, though," said Clive. "You come along with me
now to the spinney. We'll fix the thing so as to make as big an ass of
this Rawlings as possible. We'll rig a trap that'll hold him tight, and
yet not hurt him. It's near twelve now. By two hours after lunch we'll
have it finished. It'll be ready and working by to-morrow morning."

They shut off the engine destined on the morrow to be lifted into their
motor-car and provide the propelling force, and shutting the shop went
on their way to the spinney. And the same hour found them hard at work
upon another contrivance, conceived by Clive's inventive brain, and
prepared for the purpose of lowering the pride and dignity of one who
had given them mortal offence. Rawlings, the fifteen-year-old son of the
pompous new-comer to the parish of Potters Camp, little dreamed of the
consequences of his loftiness and of his churlish treatment of Clive
Darrell.




CHAPTER II

A BOOBY TRAP


"Five feet and a bit," announced Bert Seymour with gusto, measuring the
depth of the pit which he and Hugh and Clive had been digging in the
centre of the path leading down the much-discussed spinney. "Two feet
either way, and a precious job to dig it on that account. Jolly well too
narrow."

"For working in, rather," agreed his brother. "But about right size for
a trap. A bit big, if anything. Top edges nicely sloped off, so as to
give nothing for a fellow to cling on to."

"And a good foot of sticky clay pudding at the bottom," grinned Clive.
"That'll hold him like bird-lime. It'll be bad for his boots and his
pants. But, then, it can't be helped. He shouldn't be such a cad. It'll
help to teach him manners. I say, do you think a foot of pudding's
enough? Suppose we make it two. It'd make things certain."

A second foot of the sticky puddled clay was therefore added, and Hugh
tested its adhesiveness with a long stake he had discovered in the
forest.

"It'll hold him like wax, till he hollers for someone to help him," he
announced, with radiant face. "Of course, we ain't likely to hear him
for a goodish time, are we? and there's no one else who'll be about. Old
Tom knows what we're up to, of course, but he's a clever bird. He'll be
out of the way, or deaf or something. Tom don't like the Rawlings."

That was true enough. If Clive and his chums had suffered from the
loftiness and condescension of the new-comers to Potters Camp, Old Tom,
Mrs. Darrell's gardener, had likewise suffered. He'd been used to
quality.

"The folks up at the house was different to that," he had assured his
cronies in the village. "The old master'd never have thought of passing
without a nod and a smile, and most like he'd have pulled up his hoss
and had a chat about things in general. As for being proud, why he'd
have his hand out to shake whenever he came back home after a holiday;
while he'd come to the wedding of his gardener's daughter, and it was a
five-pound note, all clean and crisp, that he'd slipped into her
fingers. He was quality. These here Rawlings ain't the same product.
They're jest commoners. And I'll tell yer more," observed Tom, dragging
his clay from between a pair of fangless gums and looking round at the
company slyly and cautiously.

"More?" ejaculated one of his cronies, encouragingly. "More, Tom? Then
let's have it. We don't hold by new-comers."

"Then here it is. But no splitting, mind you. No going about and telling
others. Else the whole of Potters Camp and the neighbourhood'll have it
before evening."

He lifted an admonitory finger, and glanced sternly at his audience, a
collection of village gossips of the type usually to be met with. There
was Tom himself, tanned by exposure, his rugged face wreathed by a pair
of white whiskers of antique fashion. A bent but powerful figure was
his, while in spite of his stooping shoulders he stood half a head above
his companions. Then there was the publican himself, rubicund and round
and prosperous, his teeth gripping the stem of a favourite pipe. Mrs.
Piper also, the said publican's helpful wife, ensconced behind the bar,
clattering glasses and bottles and yet managing to hear all that was of
interest. Joe Swingler, groom at the Rectory, fondly imagined by his
employer never to frequent such a place as a public-house, was in a
corner, jauntily dressed, the fit of his gaiters being the despair of
Jack Plant, the bailiff's son. But the latter could at least display a
suit to attract the fancy of all in the village. There was enough
material in his riding-breeches to accommodate two of his size, while
the cut of his jacket was ultra-fashionable. The slit at the back
extended so high, and the tails were so long, that one wondered whether
the garment were actually divided into two portions. For the rest of the
audience, they were shepherds, pig men--for Potters Camp prided itself
on its pigs, while there was even a small bacon factory--cattle men,
carters and agricultural labourers, and all, without exception, agog to
hear news of the Rawlings. That caution which Old Tom had given was as
certain to have its effect as if he had gone upon the house-tops and
called therefrom the news he was about to give to his audience on the
promise of their secrecy. It was certain, in fact, that within a short
hour every inhabitant of Potters Camp of adult age would be possessed of
the information.

"It ain't to go further, mind that!" repeated Tom, wrinkling his face
and glaring round. "It's a secret; but it's got truth behind it, so I
tell ye. I ain't so sure that these here Rawlings come by the house and
the park in a square sort of way. You take it from me, I ain't so sure.
There was queer doings afore the old master died. He got to runnin' up
to Lunnon, which ain't no good for anyone, least of all for a squire as
has things to see to in the country. There was letters to this man
Rawlings. I knows that, 'cos I posted 'em, as I always posted all the
letters from the house. Then the master dies, and this here Rawlings
come down and takes the place and starts ordering people about."

"And he ain't got it fair?" asked one of the hearers.

"I ain't a-going to say that," nodded Tom cautiously. "But I kin think
as I like. You can't go and stop a man thinking, can yer? No. I thought
not. You can't. So I thinks what I like, and thinkin' with me's precious
nigh knowing."

The old fellow gave the company generally the benefit of a knowing wink,
and lapsed into silence. But from that moment all who had heard him
speaking thought as he thought, and were as equally certain. Such is the
unstable foundation of tales which at times go the round of the country.
Not that Tom was altogether wrong. There were others who might have said
more, others in the city of London. But Tom did not know that, nor any
of his audience. But the conversation at least gives one the impression
that if Clive and his chums were not enamoured of the new-comers, Tom
was even less so.

"It'll come to blows atween that ere son of Rawlings and Master Clive
and his friends," he observed to the company present. "There's been
words already, and ef Master Clive's like his father--which he is--why,
it's 'look out' fer this here Albert Rawlings."

That pit so craftily constructed would have made Tom even more emphatic.
For when all was ready, and Clive and his accomplices had completed
their work to their own satisfaction, even they could hardly say where
the pit existed.

"Of course," observed Hugh, with that grin to which his friends were
accustomed--"of course, if we were actually setting the proper sort of
trap we'd have to bait it, eh, and put sharpened stakes in it to kill
the game. But it isn't necessary here, eh?"

"To bait?--not a bit. This is a booby trap," laughed Bert. "It's meant
for an ass, and an ass is the one that'll fall into it."

It came as a shock, rather, to this lanky young hero that he himself was
trapped within the minute. For Bert was not too observant. That dreamy
eye was not meant for close watching, while here it wanted the eye of a
hawk to detect the presence of a pit. For Clive had been very thorough.
To the covering of reeds and light sticks laid across the pit mouth had
been added a thick sprinkling of leaves which were most bewildering.
Bert's description of the trap as a booby one carried him away into a
whirl of delight, during which he strutted aimlessly along the path. And
in an instant he was immersed. There was the sound of rending reeds, his
lanky figure disappeared as if by magic, and only the top of his cap
remained in view, frantically bobbing.

"Hi! Here! What's this?" he shouted, roused to a pitch of indignation.

"Booby trap. Well caught!" cried Clive, dancing with delight at this
unexpected demonstration of the successful working of his invention.

"And done without baiting," gibed Hugh, shaking with laughter. "Now,
Bert, you've spoiled the thing. Come along out. Don't stop hiding in
there."

That was an impossibility. Two feet of glutinous clay adhered to the
boy's boots and trousers and refused to be shaken off. He raised one leg
with an effort, gripped the sloping side of his prison, and endeavoured
to raise the other limb. The result was that he was dragged back into
the depths promptly.

"Well, it's a beauty," he grinned at last, beginning to relish the fun
of the scene himself. "Regularly tested the trap, eh? and been badly had
myself. But lend a hand. This stuff'd stick old Rawlings himself, let
alone his son. And it's beautifully hidden. I was never more surprised
in my life."

"Then it'll be ten times more of a jar to the fellow we're after,"
gurgled Clive. "My! You do look a beauty! And what a mess you've got
into!"

Bert was smothered in sticky clay from the knees downward, and had need
to stand in the stream adjacent and wash his boots and clothing.
Meanwhile Clive and Hugh completed their repairs to the covering of the
pit, scattered leaves about till the surroundings looked quite natural,
and having concluded matters to their satisfaction passed out of the
spinney.

To-morrow, they promised themselves retaliation. "And it's not been such
a long job as I thought," said Clive, as he put Old Tom's garden tools
back into the shed from which they had been taken. "Supposing we tackle
the car again. She'd be ready, perhaps, by the morning."

But tea was of almost equal importance. Hugh and his brother therefore
partook of Mrs. Darrell's hospitality, the state of Bert's trousers and
boots being skilfully concealed by that young gentleman by the simple
expedient of standing well in the background. But he left a stain here
and there. Peering through her spectacles on the following morning,
Clive's mother was astonished to find red lines of clay on the chintz
cover of one of her chairs.

And then the workshop claimed the three young fellows.

"Ready for dropping the engine in," declared Clive, surveying the
skeleton of his motor. "By the way, we've forgotten seats, haven't we?"

"That's a nuisance!" admitted Hugh. "But we'll not let that bother us.
We'll fix it by nailing boards across. I know. We'll get a box and make
that fast. That's what all the garage people do. A shop body, you know.
Smart! Eh? I rather think so."

Behold them, then, struggling with the sheer legs erected over the
petrol engine so nicely fitted in the workshop. Watch the pulley
contrivance secured to those legs above and the rope passing about it.
The slipping of the legs of this improvised crane was a distinct
nuisance at first, and made the lifting of the engine difficult, if not
impossible. But an iron peg driven in between the tiles of the floor put
an end to the trouble, while, once the bolts of the engine had been
freed, Bert and Hugh were easily able to haul the engine clear of its
foundation.

"Hoist!" shouted Clive, "and stand clear. I'll shove the chassis beneath
the engine. Then lower gently. I don't want to have my fingers pinched
off, remember that; so slack an inch at a time, and be ready to haul
again."

Oh, the triumph of this final achievement! That engine went into
position with the docility of a lamb. The chassis framework might have
been its intended resting-place from the very commencement. It bedded
down on the wooden frame snugly, hugging the timber. The bolt holes
matched beautifully with those bored by Clive perhaps a week before,
calling shouts of approval from his comrades. And when the hoisting rope
was thrown off, and the sheer legs removed, there the engine was in
position.

"And the wheels don't even feel the weight. Look. See if they do," cried
Clive.

"A bit wobbly, eh?" suggested Hugh grudgingly, pushing the chassis from
side to side, when it certainly had what might be described as freedom
of movement. "Just a bit, eh? Still, that don't matter. Make her run all
the better. But I'm glad she hasn't springs. She'd fairly roll herself
over if she had them."

"But the back part's as steady as a rock," reported Clive
enthusiastically. "Don't rock. Not a bit. Anyway, she runs forward and
backward easily. By George! That's a bother!"

"What? You make a fellow ask such heaps of questions," grumbled Hugh,
dismayed himself at the sudden fall in Clive's features.

"We've forgotten something else, and the bally thing's frightfully
important."

Hugh gaped; Bert looked somewhat amused. To tell the truth, though glad
always to lend a helping hand, he looked upon all this unnecessary work
as a species of madness.

"You'll have to sweat at things like this when you're older," he
declared. "No one's going to let you live at home and walk about doing
nothing. You won't have time for games, and this sort of thing'll keep
you from morning to evening--that is, if you take up engineering. Then
why not make use of the good times and freedom now and play cricket?"

That had led to a somewhat animated discussion on the subject and
seriousness of games as compared with mechanics till Hugh and Bert were
within an inch of a struggle. But that was in the past. The plot they
had so recently discussed, and the pit they had dug for the downfall of
young Rawlings, had drawn the bonds of friendship more closely together.
So Bert changed his expression of amusement to one of concern.

"What's the jolly thing?" he asked. "It looks complete--in fact,
ripping. There's an engine and wheels and steering gear and frame. What
more do you want? Ah! Got it! There's nothing there with which to cool
the engine. Well, you two are precious mugs! Just fancy, taking all the
sweat to mount an engine and then forgetting such an important matter!"

Clive's eye kindled, while his cheeks reddened. He could afford to pity
a chap who showed such tremendous ignorance; only, coming as it did at a
moment when he himself was distinctly distressed, the idiotic
suggestions of this ignoramus made him angry.

"Hang it!" he growled. "Don't talk such rot! Cooling indeed! Why,
even--even Rawlings could tell you that the engine's air-cooled. There's
the fan, stupid! staring you right in the face. The thing that's
worrying me is the lever for chucking the concern out of gear."

Hugh gripped the side of the chassis as the secret was mentioned. It
made him shiver to think that just as every difficulty that could be
foreseen had been surmounted another had cropped up.

"And it's a beast," he groaned.

"A teaser," admitted Clive desperately.

"What's a gear lever?" asked Bert, with aggravating coolness and
flippancy.

"What's a gear lever!" growled Clive, regarding him with an eye that
positively glared.

"What's a mug?" shouted Hugh, ready almost to strike him.

"Someone who forgets that there is such a thing as a gear lever, and
then can't or won't explain," came the irritating, maddening answer.

"Look here," began Clive, flushing hotly, and stepping nearer to Bert,
"I've troubles enough already. I'll trouble you to----"

"He's punning," shouted Bert, seizing the angry Clive by the shoulders
and shaking him. And then, careless of the anger he had aroused, for
that was the way with him, he began to cross-examine the two mechanics
on the uses and abuses of every class of lever. The meeting, in fact,
was in grave danger of a sudden break-up. But a shout from Hugh helped
matters wonderfully.

"I've got it!" he bellowed.

"What? The lever or the measles?" asked Bert, still amused and
facetious.

"Shut up, you ass! The measles indeed! No, the bally difficulty. I've a
way in which to work it."

Clive agreed with the suggestion when it came to be put to him, agreed
with ungrudging enthusiasm. "It'll be as easy as walking," he said.

"Or falling," suggested Bert.

"You'll get your head punched yet," growled Clive. "But it's fine, this
idea. You see, we start our engine. That's easy enough."

"Well, it may be," from Bert. "I'll believe you."

"Then we take our seats."

"Don't see 'em," came from the critic.

"Ass! You've heard of the box we're going to fix."

"But that's a box. It's not a seat."

"Go on with it, Clive," urged Hugh, looking as if he would willingly
slay his brother. "Take no notice of the ass. We start her up, and then
get seated."

"On a box."

"Yes," agreed Clive, glaring at Bert, who had again interrupted. "The
engine's going. The chain's free-wheeling. We have a lever somewhere."

Hugh pointed out its position with triumph, and the two promptly
proceeded to fit the contrivance. But levers are not made in a moment.
It was, in fact, noon of the following day before they were ready for an
outing.

"You manage the steering, that's agreed?" asked Clive, when the
amateur-constructed motor-car had been pushed as far as the road.

"That's it. You control the engine. Don't let her race too much at
first. Remember I ain't used to steering. Besides, those front wheels
are frightfully groggy. She'll sway at corners, and if we put on the
pace I shall be piling the whole bag of tricks up on one of the banks.
Bert'll keep cave. There's no police about here to matter. Jimmy, the
local constable, 's a real good fellow. He'll see the thing from the
right point of view. He knows we're experimenting and'll sympathise."

"Particularly if he's called in at the inquest," gurgled Bert,
irrepressible when his chums desired to be so serious.

"Inquest. Eh?" asked Hugh. "What's that?"

"Enquiry held on the bodies of Clive Darrell and Hugh Seymour, late of
this parish, killed on the high-road. Died in the execution of their
duty'll be the verdict. Great inventors cut off in their prime!"

Bert had to run an instant later. For Clive came at him with a hammer,
while Hugh looked distinctly furious. However, the incident quieted
down, the inventors took their seats on this chassis of their own
making, while Bert, having seen that the coast was clear, listened to
the puff of the engine. Hugh gripped the steering gear. True, it was
somewhat flimsy, and bent easily from side to side. But nothing can be
perfected in a moment, he told himself. It would do for this first
experimental run, at any rate.

"Ready?" asked Clive deliberately.

"Let her go."

Clive did. There was a painful clattering of gears. The lever jerked
violently, while the engine almost came to a stop. However, a touch of
the throttle and ignition levers put that right, while the gear lever
behaved itself of a sudden. The chassis bounded forward, very nearly
hurling the box which acted as a seat from it. But for the steering
wheel Hugh would have been deposited in the gutter. But he clung
manfully to the frame, and in a moment was hurtling forward.

"Steady!" he called. "She don't steer so nicely."

She didn't. She--that is, the car--swerved frightfully. Those front
wheels had rather the appearance of wheels trying to twist round to look
at one another. Then the swivelling axle wasn't altogether a brilliant
success. It refused to swivel at inconvenient moments. The heroes of
this expedition were within an inch of the ditch lining the road.

"Near as a toucher," cried Clive. "Keep her up."

"Can't! The brute won't steer. She likes the ditch," came the answer.

"Then I'll stop her. Some of those wires want tightening. Then she'll
steer."

But that troublesome gear lever was determined to ruin the hopes of both
inventors. Perhaps it was because it had been forgotten till the very
end and felt neglected. In any case, it refused to disengage, while
owing to the awkward fact that the throttle and ignition levers had
dropped away and gone adrift, Clive could not control his engine. It
raced badly. It snorted as if it felt that it could do as it liked. It
sent the swaying car hurtling along like a bullet.

"Look out!" yelled Bert. "The bally thing's pitching like a ship at sea.
Stop her!"

"Can't! The brute's got the bit between her teeth badly," shrieked
Clive. "I can't quite reach the throttle, and till I do she'll go
plugging ahead. She runs like a demon."

"Top hole!" gurgled Hugh, whom it took a lot to frighten. "Ain't she got
pace? But she'd be better if she didn't rush so much from side to side.
Look out! There's a cart coming our way."

He set his teeth, endeavoured to make his figure adhere to the top of
that egg box which did duty as a seat, and braced himself for the
encounter. For encounter it seemed there was to be. The wondrous car
which he and Clive had called into being romped towards the unsuspecting
cart. It waltzed merrily from side to side of the road, seeming to take
an uncanny delight in racing within hair's breadth of the ditch on
either hand. It mounted the rough footpath with impunity, careless of
the law and of possible policemen, its springless axles bending and
bumping. It actually appeared to sight that approaching cart itself, and
as if filled with fiendish delight at its unaccustomed freedom, and
filled with knowledge of the helplessness of its inventors, it sped
toward the vehicle, pirouetted before it, skidded badly, removing in the
space of a bare five seconds one of the Rector's expensive back tyres,
and then, mounting the pathway again with startling abruptness, it
pitched its nose into the air, shuddered with positive glee, and having
thrown its drivers into the ditch subsided into match-wood and
scrap-iron. Those back wheels and their axle, borrowed for this
memorable occasion, had the appearance rather of a couple of inverted
umbrellas with the sticks tied together. The framework was torn asunder,
and only the engine remained in recognisable condition.

As Clive and Hugh picked themselves up from the ditch and surveyed the
wreck, with the driver of the cart and Bert giggling beside them, there
came a horrid shout from behind them.

"Eh? What's that?" demanded the baker, for he it was who had so
wonderfully escaped annihilation.

"Someone in trouble," said Bert. "Calling for help. Let's go."

"You ass!" grinned Hugh, gripping him by the sleeve. "Can't you guess?
It's that Rawlings cad. We've bagged him."

"It's someone as is in trouble," exclaimed the worthy baker, not hearing
the above. "Wonder if it's that Mr. Rawlings?"

"Young Rawlings?" asked Clive, with a horrible presentiment of coming
trouble.

"Mr. Rawlings," came the emphatic answer. "Him who's bought the house. I
seed him walking to the path through the spinney. He's been away up to
Lunnon."

Clive and his fellow conspirators looked at one another painfully. Then
they regarded the wreck of the motor. That was bad enough. Admission
must be made to the Rector, and his axle and back wheels brought for
inspection. Common honesty demanded that of them. It wouldn't be playing
the game to borrow and smash and then hide their guilt in some underhand
manner. And here was an addition.

"I'm a-going to see what's up," declared the baker. "You young gents had
best come along too."

They couldn't very well hang back, and had perforce to visit the scene
of their late labours. And there was the fat Mr. Rawlings, imprisoned in
a pit which needed no adhesive clay pudding to hold him. For this London
gentleman was of portly structure, and the narrow pit held him as if his
fat figure had been poured into it. He could hardly shout. Even
breathing was difficult, while his rage and mortification made him
dangerously purple. Then, when at length the efforts of the four had
released him, and he sat at the side of the pit besmirched with clay
from head to foot, his rage was almost appalling.

[Illustration: "HIS RAGE WAS ALMOST APPALLING."]

"You little hounds!" he stuttered. "You did it. Don't tell me you
didn't. I know you did. I'll set the police on you. You were
trespassing. This is my property. I'll send Albert down to give you a
hiding, and he'll be glad to do it. I'll--I'll----" His breath was gone
by now, and he sat back gasping. But his anger did not subside, and
Clive's prediction of coming evil was speedily realised.

"I shall send you off to school," said his mother. "You ought to have
gone long ago. I really do consider your conduct to have been
disgraceful."

"A piece of unmitigated mischief, and not of a harmless character,"
growled the Rector, who was given to choosing long words where possible.
"Unmitigated mischief, Bert and Hugh. First you have the temerity to
carry out something approaching a theft, a common and nefarious
business. Then you implicate a respected neighbour in a catastrophe
which might have terminated in his entire and total undoing. Bert, bend
over."

Dear! Dear! It was a painful and humiliating week which followed. Young
Rawlings up at the house giggled secretly at his father's discomfiture.
But he threatened openly when he happened to come across Clive one
morning. As for the three conspirators, they were not allowed to see one
another, nor to communicate.

"You'll go on Wednesday," said the Rector. "I've written about you."

That was ominous. "We'll catch it hot," said Hugh. "I don't care. I'm
jolly glad to be going. A chap ought to go to a big school, not stick
always at home. There'll be a workshop. That'll be ripping."

"And cricket. That's better. Wish Clive were coming to the same school.
Old Tom tells me he's led a dog's life these last few days."

Clive's existence had been wretched. He was glad, delighted in fact,
when the day for departure arrived, and he took his place in the train
for Ranleigh.

"That cad travelling too," he said, seeing Rawlings entering a distant
carriage. "Glad he's going to some other place than Ranleigh."

He saluted his mother, waved to Old Tom, and sank back on his seat as
the train started. If Bert and Hugh were glad to go to a public school,
so also was Clive. He had longed to see life outside the village of
Potters Camp with an intense longing. And here he was on his way. What
would it be like? Was there bullying? Would he have to fag? and what
sort of a place was Ranleigh?




CHAPTER III

OFF TO RANLEIGH


Going to school arouses a variety of emotions. In the case of Clive they
were decidedly confused and jumbled, happiness, however, at the prospect
before him predominating. For residence for a high-spirited lad at home,
tied to a somewhat doting mother's apron-strings, is somewhat dull, and
hardly conducive to good results, while the absence of a father had not
improved matters. Indeed, it may be agreed without debate that the
incident of that wonderful motor-car contrived by Clive and Hugh and the
ingenious trap they had set for Rawlings had not been entirely
mischievous. For here was Clive about to be launched on the schoolboy
world, while Hugh and Bert, having listened to a long and verbose
lecture from their father, hitherto their tutor at home, had entered a
train and gone off likewise.

"What'll this Ranleigh be like?" Clive asked himself again and again.
From taking an interest in passing scenery, he soon began to look
forward to another stop with eagerness. For at each station there were
boys. Some big, some small; some jolly and whistling, others glum and
thoughtful. Not that glumness was the order of the whole day. For at one
station Clive observed with some amusement one youngster under the
escort of a fond father and mother. The lad had much ado to keep the
tears back as the train departed, while his mother wept openly into a
handkerchief of diminutive proportions. Within a minute, however, there
came shouts of laughter from the next carriage into which this hopeful
youngster had stepped, and peering in at the next station, Clive found
the lad as merry as a cricket. He was beginning to wish that he could
join them.

"I say," he began, somewhat lamely, "going to Ranleigh?"

A fat youth, with a greasy, pallid face, pushed his head out of the
window and surveyed Clive as if he were an inferior beetle.

"Who on earth are you?" he asked, with some acerbity. "Who invited you
to speak? that's what I want to know. Jolly cheek, I call it!"

Clive was taken aback rather considerably. This was not the sort of
treatment to which he was accustomed. His gorge rose at it.

"Cheek yourself! Who are you, then?"

It seemed for a moment as if the fat youth would have an apoplectic
seizure. His pallid face became suffused a dull purplish red. His neck
swelled in fat folds over his collar. If looks could have killed, Clive
would certainly have been slain on the spot. But the engine shrieked
just then, while someone within the carriage seized the tails of the fat
youth, who disappeared precipitately.

"Come in, Trendall," he heard a voice shout. "One would think you were a
king, never to be spoken to. But who is he? My word, I got a glimpse of
his phiz, and he looked as if he'd hammer you with pleasure."

Another mile on this almost endless journey and the train again panted
into a station. Clive hung out of the window, and then became aware of
the fact that two individuals were approaching his carriage, while from
the one next door the youthful Trendall glared at him. Rawlings was one
of those approaching. He descended with majestic step from his own
compartment and hailed a porter.

"Hi! Portar!" he called. "Carry these things along heear. Someone's
wanted to keep ordar."

Tall for his age, decidedly podgy, and with a cast of countenance which
was not too attractive, Rawlings just lacked that brisk, clean
appearance belonging to young men who go to our public schools. Despite
expensive and well-fitting clothes, an immaculate tie and hat, and
socks of most becoming pattern, the fellow did not look a gentleman. His
air was pompous. His manner of addressing the porter ludicrous. He
stepped up to Clive's compartment, nodded grandly to Trendall, and
pulled the door open.

"He-e-ear, portar."

The magnificent one proffered a tip without looking at it, and Clive
noticed that the man took it with alacrity.

"All fer me, sir?" he grinned.

"Of course! I'm not a pauper."

Rawlings waved him away magnificently, flopped on to a seat, taking the
far corner, arranged his feet on the one opposite, and then began to
take close scrutiny of our friend Clive. Meanwhile, another individual
had entered the compartment. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, shambling
youth, of decidedly foreign appearance, with clothes which spoke of a
French provincial city. He stooped a little, was slow and ungainly in
his movements, while his powerful shoulders were bent forward. But the
face was striking and taking.

"Pardon," he said politely, lifting his hat as he entered. "This is for
Ranleigh, is it not so?"

Rawlings regarded him stonily. "The cheek!" he muttered. "Is one to
answer every bally foreigner? I'm not a portar!"

He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and glared at the intruder.
For the new-comer was an intruder. Rawlings had made his way to this
compartment with a view to discussing certain matters with Clive, and
letting that young gentleman thoroughly understand who was the master.
But that last movement was his undoing for the moment. The fingers deep
in one pocket struck upon certain loose cash, and withdrawing the same,
Rawlings was at once stricken with a terrible discovery. He had had
certain silver coins there before, and twopence in coppers. Those he had
intended to present to the porter. But they were still there, while two
half-crowns were missing. In fact, in his lordliness he had presented
the grinning fellow with five shillings! No wonder the man smirked and
touched his hat. That had pleased Rawlings at the time. Now, as the
train swung out of the station, he dashed to the window.

"Hi! Hi! Portar!" he bellowed. "Hi! You come back with those
half-crowns. It was a mistake."

But the whistle drowned the sound of his voice, while the porter, half
hidden behind a barrow, waved a farewell to him. Rawlings threw himself
back in his seat with a growl of anger.

"You're going to Ranleigh, aren't you?" he demanded fiercely of Clive.

"Yes."

"Then just you look out for squalls. What dormitory are you in?"

"Don't know," came Clive's sullen answer. This Rawlings was considerably
bigger, though little older, but still Clive was not going to be
bullied. "How should I?" he demanded. "What's the place like?"

"You'll find out in time. And don't you try any traps there, youngster.
See?"

Rawlings was determined to let there be no misunderstanding. He
stretched across the carriage and took Clive by the ear.

"None of your caddish games at Ranleigh," he said, "or you'll get
something worse than this, by a long way."

Clive beat him off with a well-directed blow on the arm. In fact, with
such heat and violence that Rawlings, still enraged at the loss he had
so stupidly made when tipping the porter, lost his temper, and it looked
as if he would at once take in hand the chastisement of the lad who was
such a near neighbour. But the third individual suddenly distracted his
attention. Could Rawlings really believe his eyes! This new chap,
whoever he might be, a froggy probably, had asked if the train went to
Ranleigh, and therefore, obviously, was bound for that destination, and
must be a new boy. He was actually stretching himself out across the
carriage, with one boot resting against Rawlings's immaculate trousers,
while--worse than all--he had a cigarette in his mouth and was setting a
match to it. It wasn't the fact of smoking that horrified Rawlings. He
had broken that rule himself, and been dreadfully ill, much to his
chagrin. But Rawlings was getting up in the school. He was in the lower
sixth, would probably be a prefect this term, and such an act was an
outrage to his dignity.

"Well, I'm hanged!" he spluttered. "What on earth do you mean by that?
Smoking! Here, stop it!"

But the one addressed merely viewed him mildly. His brows went up
questioningly, while he stretched himself a little more at his ease,
causing Rawlings to remove his immaculate trouser leg with swiftness.

"Do you hear?" he cried threateningly. "What's your name?"

"Richard Feofé."

"Hang the Richard! Feofé, then. Look here! Stop that smoking."

But Feofé still regarded Rawlings mildly, and taking a deep inspiration
filled the carriage with smoke.

"You do not like it, then?" he asked. "Monsieur can then get into
another carriage."

Rawlings went crimson with rage, and then pallid, while Clive began to
enjoy the joke immensely, for long ago he had sized his near neighbour
up, and knew him to be nothing more than a purse-proud bully. But for
the disparity in their two weights and heights he would have long since
openly defied the fellow. But it was better to see someone else do that.
And here was a hulking, good-natured Frenchman doing it splendidly.

"Where do you come from? Who's your father?" demanded Rawlings roughly,
as if to gain time in which to decide how to act.

Feofé was not to be hurried. He had never been to a school of any sort
before, save the local one he attended in France. But he had met boys
and youths in plenty. And always this quiet, shambling boy, with his
broad shoulders and appearance of hidden power, had won respect without
recourse to violence. He took another puff at his cigarette, a habit, by
the way, rather more indulged in by boys in France, and regarded the
resulting smoke with something approaching affection. His eyes twinkled.
He shrugged his massive shoulders.

"Monsieur is somewhat curious," he said, using excellent English. "I am
from Lyons. My father, he is a banker. My mother, ah, she is his wife,
you understand. Then there is a sister. Susanne, Monsieur, younger by a
year than I am. That is the sum of the family, but I will tell you all.
There is a dog--yes, two--and a cat, and----"

Rawlings was purple. Beads of perspiration were breaking out on his
forehead. Catching a sight of Clive's grinning face he ground his teeth
with anger.

"Hang your family!" he shouted at Feofé. "Who wants to hear about
Susan?"

Feofé shrugged his shoulders. "You were so very curious," he said. "But
I will proceed. We live at Lyons, but sometimes we go to Paris. There I
have an aunt and two uncles, Monsieur. Ah! Yes, I must tell you all. The
aunt is Susanne also. A pretty name, Monsieur."

Rawlings was on the point of exploding. His dignity had long since gone
to the winds. If he dared he would have seized this Feofé by the neck
and shaken him. But the young fellow's broad shoulders and smiling, easy
assurance warned him that that might be dangerous. But he must assert
himself. He must show this Frenchman that he was a superior, and that
that must be the light in which he must view him.

"Look here," he said at length, smothering his anger, "no more of your
confounded cheek. Susanne's good enough for you, so just remember.
You're going to Ranleigh, and it's just as well to tell you that I
shall be a prefect. Know what that means?"

Even now he hoped to impress Feofé with his magnificence. But the lad
merely raised his brows enquiringly, and shrugged his shoulders still
lower against the upholstery of the carriage.

"A prefect. Someone in authority. Well?"

"And to be obeyed. Just chuck that smoking."

"But," began Susanne mildly--we call him Susanne at once, seeing that
that name stuck to him forthwith--"but, by the way, what's your name?"

Imagine the impertinence of such a request! A new boy actually having
the temerity to coolly ask the name of one who had been three years at
the school. Rawlings gasped; he mopped his damp forehead.

"Rawlings," he growled.

"Then, Rawlings, you're a prefect, yes?"

"Not yet," came the somewhat confused answer. "But I shall be this term.
It'd be a confounded shame if they passed me over."

"Quite so. A confounded shame. You would be a loss to the other
prefects."

Susanne took another appreciative suck at the weed, while Rawlings went
hot and cold. Satire went to the depths of his being. This Feofé was
covering him with derision.

"Look here," he began threateningly, "it's about time you understood who
you are and what I am."

"You're a prefect, yes?" answered Susanne, not the least distressed, his
little eyes twinkling, "or will be, at Ranleigh. But you are not one
here, in any case. Is it not so? Therefore, Rawlings, get into another
carriage if you don't like smoke, and do let us be pleasant."

Never was a man more demoralised than Rawlings. He had made an entry
into the carriage with the set purpose of bullying Clive, and of letting
that young gentleman see who was to be the master. The commencement of
the movement had cost him five precious shillings. That was sore enough.
And then, naturally enough, he had addressed himself to this new
boy--and had been worsted. It goaded him to madness to see Clive
grinning still.

"Well done, Susanne!" called out that worthy, delighted at the turn
events had taken. "Rawlings ain't a prefect yet, and in any case we're
not at Ranleigh. I say, I'm a new boy too. He lives quite close to me."

He pointed a deprecating finger at Rawlings, and crossed to join
Susanne. That young man welcomed him with open arms. The twinkle in his
eye brightened, while he eyed Rawlings in a manner which made that
individual squirm. In fact, never was the wind taken out of anyone's
sails more completely. Susanne had reduced him to silence. Thenceforth
Rawlings sat screwed into the corner, regarding the landscape with a
face which showed the severest displeasure, while his lips muttered and
twisted angrily.

"Wait till I get 'em to Ranleigh, that's all," he was promising himself.
"The first thing I do is to kick this Darrell fellow. Then Feofé shall
have a turn. I'll get my own back whatever happens."

Clive was no smoker. He was sensible enough to know that it would be
harmful to him just as it would be to any other fellow, and for that
reason refused the cigarette Susanne offered him. He wedged himself up
close to his new chum, and commenced a long and intimate conversation.
Meanwhile, other boys entered the train. Some in the next compartment,
from which howls of laughter sounded, some in their own. Fellows nodded
curtly to Rawlings. The fat Trendall came in at one station to have a
chat with him, and found his chum curiously glum and silent. He couldn't
understand him at all, nor fathom the movements of the two opposite. For
Susanne and Clive regarded Trendall with the smallest interest.
According to all the canons of school life they should have looked
askance at a fellow who had been at the school a couple of years or so.
In Clive's eyes Trendall should have appeared enormous. And, no doubt,
had Clive been alone in this adventure, he would have been far less
uppish. But Susanne was incorrigible. If he had never been to school
before, he was at least not to be frightened by what was before him. To
Clive, his easy, calm assurance was refreshing. To Trendall it was
inexplicable. Finding conversation lagging he took himself off at the
next station, his place being taken by two big fellows, who nodded
cheerfully to the occupants of the compartment.

"Hullo, Rawlings!" called one, a very tall, slim young man, on whose
upper lip there was a respectable growth of downy hair. "Not dead,
then?"

"No," answered that individual sourly.

"New youngsters, eh?" was the second question as the tall fellow turned
to Clive and Susanne.

"Yes," answered the former. Susanne took his hat off politely.

"Help!" called Harvey, for that was the name of the youth speaking,
grinning at this quaint exhibition. However, he returned the compliment
by lifting his own. "We don't do that sort of thing in England," he
said, quite kindly. "I shouldn't if I were you. Fellows would start
rotting. I say, can you play footer and cricket?"

Susanne's eyes sparkled. "I like them both tremendously. But play, ah,
that is another question. In England fellows get a chance. In France you
may say that games are only beginning."

"Book him for a trial next scratch footer," exclaimed Harvey, addressing
his comrade. "Look here, you two, I'm Harvey. This is Bagshaw, secretary
of our Games Committee, and of everything else that's useful. He's head
bottlewasher to every institution at the school, and don't you forget
it. I say, how do you call yourselves?"

How different was his manner from that of Rawlings. Feofé gave his at
once, while Clive was not backward. The latter took an instant liking
for Harvey. Of course, he must be a tremendous fellow at the school, top
of all probably. Or was he a master? He looked almost old enough.
Besides, he had a moustache, quite a decent affair. As to Bagshaw, he
was a delicate-looking fellow of eighteen, perhaps, with a kindly,
wizened face. A calm, studious man. The scholar of the school, no doubt,
but not a games player. Nor was Clive far out in his reckoning. For
Harvey was head scholar, a man head and shoulders above his comrades.
Good at work, keen on books and such things, a decided master at debate,
he was still a first-rate man at games, and perhaps shone still more as
a leader. His clean-cut figure was the observed of all observers in
School matches. His had been the fortune to listen to howls of
appreciation when he had carried off the hundred yards, the quarter mile
and the long jump at the School sports, while one and all, his football
team or his cricket eleven watched his every move and gesture, loyal
observers of all his wishes.

As to Bagshaw, he was almost as popular. No one expected him to play
games. It was well known that he had a weak heart, and with that, of
course, no fellow could play. But his Ranleighan Gazette was a
masterpiece. His poems were enthralling; while, strangely enough, this
delicate-looking fellow, a scholar also, could hold the boys spellbound.
When taking "prep." Bagshaw was not one to be trifled with. There was no
nonsense about this delicate, ascetic fellow. He was cool, calm and
commanding, and to those who had the sense, a real help in difficulties.

"Ranleigh. All change!"

The lamps at the station were lighted now. Clive tumbled out on to a
platform seething with boys of every age. Boys laden with footballs and
bags. Boys clad in warm overcoats, and others nobly discarding the same
for the walk up to the school. Caps were lifted in recognition of one of
the masters. Clive found himself doing likewise and wondering whether
all masters were the same. For this one, a fair giant, of ample
proportions, smiled down upon them all. He gripped Harvey's hand with a
vigour there was no denying, while still smiling round at the company.
And then in twos and threes, and here and there in forlorn ones, for
your new boy is not quick to discover chums, the contingent of Ranleigh
boys took the road for the school. Through a portion of the village they
went, leaving the Village Jubilee Memorial behind them. Up towards the
common, all railed in, where sports and cricket matches are held, up
past the butcher's shop, with its slaughter-house close handy, and so
onward through the tree-clad lane, past the master's entrance, giving
access to the Sanatorium also, past an even more important institution,
the tuck-shop to wit, and so to the gates of the school. Above, a third
way down the hill, myriad lights flashed from the building. Clive forged
his way up the front drive with Susanne beside him, up the steep slope
to the front doors, never entered except in the case of a few, save on
arriving or departing on the first or last days of the term. And so into
the wide space past the chapel entrance, between Middle and Second Form
rooms. And there, swept continuously by a seething mass of boys, stood a
short, bald-headed master, nodding here and there, smiling all the
time, evidently delighted to welcome everyone.

"Darrell!"

Clive heard his name and stopped. The lynx-eyes of the bald-headed
master had espied him.

"Sir," he gulped. He felt almost frightened. There were so many boys,
and there was such an uproar.

"One South, Darrell," he heard. "How are you, boy? Glad you've come. Hop
up the stairs there and you'll find One South dormitory. Your name's on
one of the beds. Put your bag down on it, and then go to hall. You'll
get tea there. Chapel'll be in ten minutes."

How did he know that this was Darrell? Clive found himself wondering
that. And what about Susanne?

"Feofé," he heard, as he ascended. And then less distinctly, "One
South," with the same instructions.

"I'm glad," he thought. "Susanne'll be with me. Wonder about that
howling cad Rawlings. What a downfall! He'll not meddle with Susanne
whatever happens. But he'll have his pound of flesh from me if the
chance comes. Wish Harvey was to be in One South also."

He clambered up the steps and turned into a dormitory but dimly
illuminated. But it was big and clean and airy, and bore an appearance
of comfort, some thirty beds being covered with cosy-looking red
coverlets.

Clive found his bed, deposited his bag, and then enquired his way to
hall. Thick slices of bread and butter--known colloquially as
"toke"--appeased a ravenous appetite. He had not even time to admire the
huge proportions of the Hall, the many long tables, the names of boys
long since departed who had won honours at the school, and the few
pictures and portraits. A clanging bell summoned him he knew not where.
He found himself processing with a number of others. Through that
gallery they passed, with Middle and Second Forms on either side; then
sharp to the left down a paved corridor, to a wide, arched entrance.
They were in the chapel. Clive passed through the handsome raised seats
of the choir, down the central aisle, and drifted aimlessly to one side.

"Here," someone whispered. "One South?"

"Yes."

"Then this'll do. Squat here."

The fellow made room for him. Clive squatted and listened. The organ was
filling the whole beautiful chapel with the sweetest sound. Boys had
ceased entering. He raised his eyes to the entrance through which he had
come, just to be seen above the choir. "Be sure your sin will find you
out," he read above the doorway. The bell ceased ringing, the notes of
the organ were hushed, a low "Amen" came from the vestry. And then the
choir processed to their seats. Harvey was amongst them, and Trendall,
his fat cheeks shaking. There was a string of masters, of all ages
almost, all appearances and all sizes, looking somewhat out of their
element. And last of all came the Head. Not so very tall, not big, not
imposing, there was yet something about him which called for another
look. But the organ was pealing again, filling this magnificent
building, with its high arched roof, to the depths of every crevice.

Clive cast his eyes aloft over the screen--in itself a thing of
surpassing beauty--to the curtains about the organ loft, above which
showed the foreheads and eyes of two of the school. And then the notes
died away in a sob, which somehow seemed to have a welcome in it. The
congregation kneeled. Then the voice of the Head broke the silence with
the opening of the evening service, calm and dignified and musical. His
eyes wandered round the assembled boys, not curiously, not with
recognition in them, but with a welcome for all.

Ah! Clive shivered just a little. Of a sudden it had come to him that he
was one of them, that he was a Ranleighan, that the school honour was
his honour, its prowess his, its victories his to boast of. And then the
singing of the choir thrilled him as he had never been thrilled before.
He felt as do those old, loyal Ranleighans who visit their Old School
after the lapse of years. The music, the lighting of the chapel, the
very scent of the stone and bricks awake old memories, sweet memories
and thrill them. So with Clive. He sang lustily with the rest, and then
sank to his seat to listen to the lesson. There was Harvey at the
lectern. Harvey the hero of the school, looking magnificent in his
simple surplice. Harvey with head erect, his fair moustache curling,
reading to them in a voice that showed no sign of trembling. How Clive
would have shrunk from such a task! He shivered again at the thought of
such a possibility.

Then came a hymn, the last prayers, and the thunder of the organ
following. The choir filed away as they had come, the school remaining
motionless till they heard the last "Amen" from the vestry. Then came
movement. The boys were beginning to file out of the chapel and Clive
prepared to follow. His eyes strayed this way and that, as he waited for
his turn. All of a sudden he received something in the nature of a
shock, something which set his heart thumping. For opposite him, waiting
also to take their place in the procession of slippered boys, were two
with familiar faces. Clive could have shouted their names. He almost did
in his excitement and delight. For within a short dozen yards of him, as
yet unconscious of his presence, were Hugh and Bert, his fellow
conspirators, sent from their home as a direct result of that booby trap
prepared for the unpopular Rawlings.




CHAPTER IV

SOME INTRODUCTIONS


"At last! Got you, you little demon! I'll teach you to laugh when a
beggarly froggy gives me sauce. This'll help to make you remember
manners, and is just a sample of what's to follow."

The amiable Rawlings, still smarting after his downfall in the train,
had waylaid Clive Darrell. He pounced upon that youngster just as he
issued from the chapel corridor, and with a heave and a jerk forced him
through the narrow entrance into Middle School. A dim gas jet only
served to show the immensity of the place, and its uncomfortable
bareness. It was tenantless, save for the two who had now entered.

"No use your howling, my son," exclaimed the brutal Rawlings sneeringly,
twisting Clive's arm till it was a wonder it did not break, and holding
it so firmly behind his back that the lad could not move. "We'll
commence with your lessons now, before school begins to-morrow."

He kneed the youngster unmercifully, shaking his whole body till it was
a wonder his teeth were not jerked down his throat, and repeated the
dose promptly. Clive shouted and kicked. His face was pale with pain,
for his arm was terribly twisted. And yet he was powerless to get free.
He wondered if he were going to faint. He certainly felt very giddy.
Beads of perspiration were rolling down his forehead, and no doubt, in a
little while, had the torture been continued, he would have actually
fainted. But there came a sudden interruption. A stout, square figure
lounged into the class-room, while a head appeared at the door behind.
The figure belonged to Susanne.

"Pardon," he began, with that peculiar politeness for which, in the
course of a few days, he became notorious, "but you are hurting
Darrell."

Rawlings swung round on him, thereby nearly completing the fracturing of
Clive's arm.

"You get off," he cried angrily. "You've nothing to do with this affair,
and if there's any more of your sauce I'll serve you likewise. Hear
that?"

Susanne seemed to be completely deaf. Not for one second did he forget
his politeness. Indeed, it came to be said of Susanne, the good-natured,
stolid Frenchman, that nothing ever put him out, and that even in the
heat of footer he was always himself, the essence of politeness. But he
could be deaf to threats. Moreover, such a thing as temper seemed to be
foreign to him. He strolled up to Rawlings, took him by the nose and
pinched that organ very thoroughly--pinched it, in fact, till Rawlings
holloed. He let go his hold of Clive instantly, and clung to the injured
organ, while his vengeful eyes flashed over the edge of his hands at
Susanne. What precisely would have happened next it is impossible to
state, for there came now a second interruption. Harvey's voice was
heard. He had entered the class-room and was just behind the three.

"Serve you right," he said bluntly; "and look here, Rawlings, understand
this from me: while I'm Head Scholar and Captain of the School this sort
of thing's got to be put a stop to. I'll have no bullying, mind that.
And have the goodness to remember that Darrell's a new boy. Now,
youngster, cut. It's time you were upstairs in your dormitory. Same in
your case, Feofé. Rawlings, you can come along to the scholars' room. I
want a chat with you."

Clive clambered briskly to One South. True, he became a little muddled
between the passages and the staircases, and found himself in the wrong
dormitory. But a howl from a fellow hardly as big as himself sent him
running like a rabbit.

"Here! Who's this kid?" he heard, while a youth with red hair sticking
up abruptly from his forehead, as if he had received a severe fright
when very young and had never recovered from it, stretched out and
snatched at his collar. "What dormitory?" came the curt question.

"One South."

"Then out you go. We don't have One South kids fooling about in Two
South, I can tell you. Clear off!"

Clive was actually staggered by the insolent arrogance of this
youngster. He bolted, whereas, with all his wits about him, it is
probable that there would have been at least a wordy warfare for some
few minutes. And then he dived into his own abode, and made for his own
particular bed. The dormitory was almost full now. That is to say, there
was a boy to every bed save one. Clive sat down on the box placed
between his bed and the next, and looked curiously round. There was
silence in the place. There came to his ears merely the pattering of
many restless heels upon the floor, while from the other three
dormitories which went to make up the four in the south of the school
buildings there came not so much as a sound.

Was Rawlings in the place? Thank goodness, no! Then Harvey? Of course,
he'd gone off with the bully to the scholars' room. So there was still
the chance that ill luck might put Rawlings in One South. Opposite,
smiling at him, was Susanne, his peace of mind apparently unruffled by
the scuffle in which he had so recently taken a part. As for the rest of
the thirty odd fellows, they were large and small and medium,
shock-headed, sunburned after their holidays, rather clean and well
groomed for schoolboys, but then they were fresh from home, and as jolly
looking as one could wish for. Compulsory silence, however, muzzled them
for the moment. At the call of "speak" within ten minutes such a babel
of voices arose that Clive was almost deafened. Susanne grinned now and
crossed to speak to him.

"I say," he began, "who's that fellow I caught twisting your arm?"

"Rawlings; he lives near us at home. He's an out-and-out bounder."

"Ah! And a bully. He'll not try again when I'm near. But when he catches
you alone, then there'll be trouble. I say, er----"

"Darrell."

"Then, Darrell, pity we're not next to one another here. Wonder if it
could be managed?"

The suggestion was hardly made before a hand was placed on Susanne's
shoulder.

"Look here, you're a new boy, aren't you?" asked a voice. "Well, I'm
Sturton, you know, prefect of One South, and chaps aren't allowed to
move over and speak to one another without getting leave. Now you know,
eh?"

Susanne apologised in his best manner, while Clive inspected the one who
had spoken. He hadn't seen him before, for the simple reason that
Sturton was one of those who ascended to the organ loft at chapel time,
and was there invisible. He had come up to the dormitory after "speak,"
and here he was, admonishing and advising Susanne as if he were another
Harvey. Clive liked Sturton at once, liked his clean-cut figure and
features, his bold brown eyes, his crisp and yet friendly way of
talking.

"I say, please----" he began, and then became somewhat abashed.

"Eh? Fire away! You say----"

"I was wondering, sir, if----"

"Oh, come now, none of your 'sirs.' What is it?" asked Sturton, thinking
that Clive was quite a decent little fellow, an acquisition to the
dormitory.

"Well--er--oh, I don't know."

Sturton laughed outright. Susanne grinned. If Clive suffered from
bashfulness, at least he didn't.

"He doesn't like to say it; but we're chums--isn't that the word?" he
asked. "You see, I got into the same carriage with him. There was
another chap there, and he'd come to make himself disagreeable to
Darrell. So I--er, chipped in, eh?"

"Got it right--chipped in's the word," admitted Sturton, looking
interested, while Clive nodded vigorously.

"Chipped in, and together Darrell and I made him look foolish. Darrell's
wondering whether we could have our beds close together, then I needn't
bother to ask leave."

"Why, of course! Bring your bag over. Change places with one of these
fellows on either side. I dare say they won't mind."

The exchange was made promptly, and Clive found himself chatting away
with his new friend. He was half undressed when that fair giant whom he
had first seen at the station, and then again amongst the masters
processing into chapel, entered the dormitory. He went from boy to boy,
shaking hands heavily but with sincerity and friendship.

"Well, Darrell," he began, accosting our young friend, and speaking in
so gentle and subdued a voice that Clive wondered if he had a bad cold,
or if the voice really belonged to him, "been digging any more pits of
late, eh? Or making motor-cars? Tell me all about them."

There was such genuine interest in this master that Clive told the
tale, till Mr. Branson--for that was this master's name--wiped tears of
enjoyment from his eyes. Also the same eyes sparkled when the boy spoke
of his motor-car, and forgetting all else in the depths of his interest
plunged into a description of levers and gears, of throttle and ignition
apparatus, of lubrication and cooling. Was Branson--Old B., as fellows
spoke of him usually--was he a fellow enthusiast?

"So you like engineering things, then, Darrell?" he said in his
sing-song drawl, "and digging pits too? Well, so do I. Er--that is, I
like the first. You'd like to join the carpenter's shop, eh? and the
smith's shop? But no motor-cars. Ranleigh can't afford to have its boys
rushing about the roads. And there are the police to be considered.
Well, boy, I'm your dormitory master; I hope you'll like Ranleigh."

It was Susanne's turn next. Clive watched the slouching figure of the
young fellow bend politely, and marvelled as he discussed his coming
with Old B. as if he were his grown-up equal. But that was the
peculiarity about Susanne. Perhaps he had mixed more with men than with
boys. Certainly he had an old-fashioned manner about him, while his
self-assurance was far in excess of that usually displayed by one of
school age. Then came the turn of other new boys, while the place of
the master was taken by Sturton armed with pencil and paper, and
rattling silver in his pocket. There were silver coins to be paid for
the support of the football club run by One and Four South, a request to
which Clive assented readily enough, though it depleted his purse sadly.

It was striking half-past nine when at length all had turned in save
Sturton and Massey, the other prefect. They sat on the edge of the table
occupying the centre of the dormitory, on a line with the two rows of
basins running down the middle. Snuggled down on his pillow Clive
watched them debating in animated manner, and rose on his elbow as a
pair of heavy feet came thundering into the dormitory. A young man
dressed in a blue cotton jacket hurried from jet to jet of the gas
pipes, and with the help of a notched stick extinguished all but one. He
was gone in a moment, his thunder resounding from the other dormitories.

"Good night, Darrell," called Susanne.

"Good night, Susanne."

Darrell dropped asleep feeling happy and entirely peaceful. He liked
Ranleigh so far, liked it immensely. If there was a great drawback to
the place, if Rawlings did happen to be there, and to have shown the
most unfriendly intentions, at least there were good fellows enough.
Bert and Hugh, for example. What luck their being at the school! And
Susanne too, and Sturton, and Harvey. Yes, Harvey held pride of place.
He was Captain, lord of all he surveyed, immeasurably above the head of
the humble Clive Darrell.

The violent ringing of a bell awakened Clive. He started up in bed to
find daylight streaming in through the high-placed dormer windows. That
same youth who had operated the gas taps on the previous night was
thundering through the dormitory with his hobnailed boots, swinging a
bell of generous proportions. Later, Clive gathered that he was known as
a "beaky." He crossed to a door at the near end of the place and tapped
heavily upon it. Then he disappeared as if in a perpetual hurry, and the
ringing of the bell resounded from the other dormitories. Clive hopped
out of bed, thereby arousing the inmate of the next bed. That young
gentleman raised a very sleepy face from his pillow, hit rather
snappishly at the hand which Clive had laid on his bed thereby to steady
himself, and dropped back on his pillow.

"Hang you, waking me!" he grumbled, his eyes half shut, as if, too,
there had been no such thing as a bellman. "It's always the same with
new kids. Get funked when they hear a bell. Want to hop up at once.
Here, you Darrell, call me when it's twenty past the hour. I give
myself ten minutes the first morning, afterwards just five. Any decent
fellow can wash and dress in that time."

Clive followed Sturton and a few of the others out of the dormitory,
slippers on his feet and a towel about his waist.

"Swim, eh?" asked Sturton, giving him an encouraging nod.

"Rather!"

"You're the sort of chap we want then. Hullo! Masters still fugging.
None of those old games, Masters," sang out Sturton, whose manner of
addressing the one in question showed that he meant to be head of his
dormitory whatever happened. "Here, out you come! Fugging may be allowed
at home, but at Ranleigh, never!"

The unfortunate individual who lay next to Clive, and who had declared
his intention of sparing a bare ten minutes on this, the first morning,
for the purpose of ablution and dressing, was dragged out of bed without
ceremony.

"Hop into your shoes and no skulking," said Sturton, standing over him.
"I've had enough of your slackness, Masters. Every chap over twelve in
this dormitory goes down for a dip every morning. The kids can, too, if
they like. Same with those in Four South. I tell you One and Four are
going to come out cock dormitory in footer this term if I can manage
it."

Grumbling was of no use. Indeed, Masters showed no great inclination
that way. Clive found him, after a while, when they had become more
intimate, a merry, contented fellow, but dreadfully lazy.

"A regular slacker," Sturton declared on more than one occasion.
"There's a cart-load of sisters at his home, and they molly-coddle the
fellow. If he imagines an ache or a pain, even in his toe, he lies abed
in the morning and is fed by one of the many sisters. But there's no
bringing chaps up here on the spoon. No hand-rearing at Ranleigh if I
know it. When a chap's ill, he can go to the sick-room. That's right
enough. Or to the 'sanny' if he's really bad. Otherwise he's got to be
fit--fit as a fiddle, Darrell."

Sturton was nothing if not open and straight-forward. Clive found in him
something strangely akin to Harvey, the idol of the lower school, the
man admired and envied by all the seniors. For Sturton was fresh and
breezy in his ways. He addressed the juniors, not as if they were so
many nuisances, or as individuals vastly beneath his notice--a manner
much resorted to by Rawlings and the fat-faced Trendall--but as equals,
cheerily; but always in a way that showed that he expected instant
obedience.

His motto was perfection. He set an example of the strenuous life, and
allowed no shirking where games were concerned. Nor was he backward
where work came into account. His figure, dressed in an overcoat over
his pyjamas, often with a towel about his curly head, was familiar to
all in the dormitory who happened to open their sleepy eyes in the early
morning. For Sturton was "swatting." He had some examination in view,
and since the rules of Ranleigh forbade the burning of the candle at
both ends, and indeed compelled the shutting down of all lights by ten
o'clock at night, Sturton perforce had to burn the candle at one end
only, and that the daylight one. Five o'clock found him poring over his
books at the dormitory table.

And now he was ready to lead his juniors for the morning plunge. His
conquering eyes viewed every bed in the place. Peremptorily he called to
certain fellows. And then the procession set out for the bath, not
sedately following Sturton, but in a rushing crowd, which went like an
avalanche down the stairs, out of the wide passage between Middle and
Second Schools, and then into the corridor about the quad. Clive peeped
through the open windows, innocent of glass till the coming of December,
when the school carpenter would put the frames into position. He saw a
wide quad, smoothly asphalted, and rising by steps on the north side to
a central doorway. Those open windows ran round it on three sides, and
doubtless there were corridors within them. But he had little time for
observation, for as part of that scampering throng he went pell-mell
down the corridor, swung sharply to the left, and then along the east
side of the quad. Up a short flight of steps, worn into deep hollows by
the shoe-leather of many a Ranleighan, to the right abruptly, and so
down a whitewashed passage with an abrupt turn at the far end, and then
through a doorway into the dressing-room of the bath. A stretch of water
lay between concreted walls.

"Cold as ice," shivered Masters, still begrudging the comfort of his
bed. "Sturton's a demon for hardening fellows. All the same, a fellow
feels frightfully fit when he's had a dip in the early morning. But a
bed pulls; I could always do two hours longer any morning."

What fellow in his schooldays couldn't? A cosy bed pulls very hard on a
cold, dark morning; but, with a peremptory Sturton about, there was no
shirking. One and Four South boys mingled with others from West, a
single, large dormitory, with those from North and East, and splashed
into the bath. Sturton had his own ideas as to how the plunge should be
taken.

"Can't stand a chap who walks in," he said. "Might just as well have
three inches of water in a tub in one's room. A fellow ought to dive,
and he can go in off the board if he wishes. For me, there's no place
like the shallow end. You've got to be canny when you dive, for there's
not three feet of water, and if you scrape the bottom, why, concrete on
a naked chest acts like a rough file on soft wood. It draws blood every
time. So you've got to remember that. Now, young Darrell, show Susanne
the way. Follow me to the deep end. The first plunge'll freeze you to
the marrow. The swim down will warm your blood. You'll come out again
with your skin on fire, feeling as fresh as a daisy."

Off he went, cutting the water obliquely. Indeed, the dive was bound to
be almost a flat one. Sturton did not appear again till he rose at the
far end of the bath. Down he sank again, pushed off from the far wall
under water and came up under Clive's nose, to that young gentleman's
wonder and admiration. Then Clive attempted the same thing, flopped
badly, stinging his hide severely. The ice-cold water sent a chill to
his very marrow as he entered it. And then, as Sturton had said, his
blood seemed to boil up as he took a first stroke. He was in a beautiful
heat when at length he returned to the shallow end and clambered out to
watch Susanne. That young man--known already to his dormitory by the
name Clive had given him--looked somewhat doubtfully at the bath.

"Swim?" asked Sturton, who had not yet got his measure, and who with
insular pride and prejudice was apt to look down upon a foreigner. "Eh?"

"Yes, but----"

"What? Funk the dive?"

"Yes," admitted Susanne frankly. "But I'll do it if it kills me."

He went souse into the water, sending a huge wave before him, and rising
a moment later to rub his knees and elbows.

"Come to ground?" asked Sturton sympathetically. "Well, you won't
to-morrow. Nothing like having one jar to teach you to be careful. Off
you go. We'll all of us have to be nippy."

Clive had never before had much need to practise haste, for at home
breakfast had not been an early function, while the school he attended
was within easy distance. But at Ranleigh he soon learned what it was to
be something of a speed merchant where dressing was concerned. He could
scrub his skin dry after his morning bath in a mere jiffy. The rush back
to One South dried all the parts he had missed in his hurry. To dive
into his clothing was a process facilitated by many an artful dodge.
Masters, in fact, was a promising instructor.

"Stick your things overnight so as you can hop into 'em all together,"
he advised. "Vest and shirt always as one, mind you, and tie still on
the collar. Of course, any juggins knows the dodge of getting into pants
and socks at one operation, while if you don't bother to undo your
shoes, you can push your feet into 'em in a jiffy. Five minutes is my
time for washing and dressing."

"Was," corrected Sturton, who happened to overhear this edifying
conversation. "Was, Masters. I've been doubtful about the efficacy of
the washing part. Chaps in One South have got to be known as fresh-water
fellows, and a piece out of your short allowance won't help us. Besides,
you're over twelve. Don't you let me catch you missing your dip in the
morning."

Once dressed on that first morning Clive drifted down the stairs to
Middle School. There was no particular reason why he should go there.
But numbers of the school were entering the narrow doors, and he
followed. Bert was just within, looking thinner than ever, his eyes
still more dreamy. And Hugh was beside him, vivacious and very wide
awake.

"I say, how ripping!" he exclaimed. "But wouldn't the Governor be riled
if he knew what had happened? It was the last thing he wanted to do to
send us to the same school. What about that beast Rawlings? Thought I
saw him in chapel last evening."

"Impossible! The lordly Rawlings go to Ranleigh!" exclaimed Bert.
"Nothing less than Eton'd suit him."

"All the same, he's here. I travelled a part of the way down with him,"
said Clive. "I say, I'll tell you all about him later. He's a beast, and
no mistake. But I want to get hold of that fellow. Hi, Susanne," he
called.

The Frenchman shambled awkwardly towards them. His provincial clothes
were in marked contrast to those of the other fellows. Not that that
fact seemed to distress him. Susanne cared not a rap for popular
opinion. Half-way towards Clive a big fellow jostled against him while
deep in conversation with another, and jarred by the contact turned
angrily upon him. It was Rawlings, with the oily, fat Trendall beside
him. At once the bully's face reddened. He looked threateningly at
Susanne, while the Frenchman regarded him with something approaching
amusement.

"Pardon," he began, for he deemed himself the cause of the collision.

"Hang your pardon! Look here, you Frenchman, there's just one thing
you've got to understand. I'm a prefect, and----"

"You're a new kid," chimed in Trendall, looking distinctly unamiable.
In fact, this greasy, fat fellow had thrown in his lot with Rawlings
since the previous evening. There had always been some sort of
attraction between them. But Rawlings was to be a prefect. To the
self-seeking Trendall that was sufficient, a friendship with him
promised many advantages, and here was an opportunity to cement that
friendship.

"Precisely," said Rawlings, "and the sooner you get to know it the
better. You'll do well to sheer clear of this Darrell."

There was surprise in his eyes as he saw Bert and Hugh. A sneer gathered
on his face, and then a scowl of anger. For Hugh grinned a grin of
recognition. He remembered the pit, and the manner in which it had
captured the wrong individual.

"You're here too; then you'll catch it," growled Rawlings, moving on
with Trendall.

"Pleasant," smiled Hugh, when he had gone.

"A gentleman, eh?" asked Susanne, with a lift of his dark eyebrows.
"But----"

"My friends, Bert and Hugh Seymour," introduced Clive. "That Rawlings is
an out-and-outer. With Trendall as his toady, and perhaps another crony,
they can make life unbearable here for us. That is, for Bert and Hugh
and I."

"And Susanne," said that worthy, smiling. "Remember that I have been
dragged into this matter."

"Tell you," cried Bert suddenly, "we'll send the beast an ultimatum.
Tell him we'll hammer him if he interferes with one or any of us."

That scheme had to be put aside for the moment, for there came a clamour
at the door. There arose a shout of "_Cave!_ Old B.," and an instant
later that fair giant entered the form room, obviously having easily
overheard the warning. Boys ranged themselves up into line, and there
began Call Over, Clive's and other new boys' names being tacked on at
the end.

"'Sum, 'sum, 'sum," the answers sounded, and then were punctuated by the
ringing of the chapel bell. The door, shut a few moments before on those
who were late, was swung open, and they processed to the chapel. After
that there was breakfast in the Hall, and, later, form work began with a
vengeance, Clive being placed in the Lower Third, while Bert attained to
the Upper; Hugh ascended only as high as Upper Middle, while, to the
surprise of all, Susanne romped into the Upper Fourth. It followed,
therefore, that some time elapsed before the little quartette met again.
But when they did, Clive drew up a letter, which, having received the
signatures of all concerned, was duly posted to "Albert Rawlings,
Ranleigh, Local."

"This is to inform you," it ran, "that we, the undersigned, have decided
to lick you every time you touch one of our band. We refrain from giving
you our private and confidential opinion of you. As gentlemen, we feel
that we have no right unduly to hurt your feelings. And also, this
opinion of ours must be very well known to you. Just sheer off and leave
us alone is the sincere advice of

    CLIVE DARRELL,
    BERT SEYMOUR,
    HUGH SEYMOUR,
    RICHARD FEOFÉ (SUSANNE)."




CHAPTER V

AN ULTIMATUM


"What'll you do?" asked Trendall, breathing heavily as he leaned over
Rawlings' shoulder in Lower Sixth Form room and perused the ultimatum
which Clive and his chums had sent. "Lick 'em all straight off, eh? But,
of course, you'd have to catch 'em singly. That Feofé cad is as strong
as a horse, and though he can't fight as an Englishman can, he'd kick
like a horse."

It seemed likely enough that the lordly Rawlings had considered that
side of the question, or perhaps was even then considering it. For he
turned a furrowed brow to his comrade.

"I'm going to lie low," he said. "One thing's certain, the first chance
I get I turn the Darrells away from our place. Of course, you know,
Trendall, that we own the whole show that Darrell's father had. He made
a mess of things, and my father came in and bought. That's why he hates
me so much. As to this letter, pooh! I'll get even with 'em all before
I've done. Feofé doesn't frighten me, not a bit."

Certainly not. Yet Susanne had pulled the great Rawlings' nose, and that
brilliant and magnificent bully had not retaliated. But he would, some
day, when the moment was propitious. For the time being he left the
little quartette alone, and Clive and his fellows were therefore at
liberty to forget the feud; which they did promptly. In the meanwhile,
Ranleigh had many things of interest to show them.

"Look here, Darrell kid," observed Masters one day, presuming on his two
months' seniority of Clive, and on the fact that he had been two terms
at the school, "I don't mind taking you along to show you the sights.
Been to the tuck?"

"What's that? Oh, tuck-shop, I suppose?"

"Of course, booby! You don't suppose it's a sort of place where they do
the washing! Well, suppose we go there and introduce you? Eh?"

Clive agreed readily enough. He was beginning to find that life at
Ranleigh opened up a wider prospect for him. At home he and Hugh and
Bert had been the best of chums, and no one had been admitted into their
close friendship. But here the matter was different, and better. For the
difference in forms separated the chums often enough. True, Bert and
Hugh were in the same class-room as Clive, for it accommodated the two
Middle and the two Third Forms. But at Ranleigh every hour saw a change
in the class-rooms occupied by the various forms. Sometimes Clive was in
Middle class-room, a little later he'd be in the Lower Fifth, and yet
again in the "Stinks" room, a department that began soon to fascinate
him, and which proved to be the one particular attraction to Susanne.

Circumstances, therefore, separated the chums often enough, for Bert and
Hugh were in Four South Dormitory. Not that that prevented communication
when in their respective dormitories, for the inventive Clive soon had a
species of life-line manufactured, and this, when Sturton's attention
was occupied elsewhere, could be tossed over the partition right on to
Hugh's bed. Notes could thus be dragged backwards and forwards, and
continuous communication kept up.

"But it can be improved, of course," said Clive, to which Hugh readily
assented. "We'll make a telephone, nail the wires up the walls of the
partition so that no one can see 'em, and then we can talk just as much
as we want."

It never occurred to either of them that they might get all their
chattering over in the daytime. But that is just the little point which
people sometimes fail to comprehend. It was the novelty of clandestine
conversation which attracted, and set these two inventors to work to
construct a telephone from plans and descriptions given in a book they
had managed to borrow.

In One South itself, Clive had Susanne always beside him, and very soon
a firm friendship grew up between them. While on his other side lay
Masters, the slug, as Sturton called him, a decent fellow, nevertheless,
and now anxious to act as guide and faithful friend to our hero.

They passed along those endless corridors to the back doors, through
which law compels the boys to emerge, and sauntered down between the
Fives Courts. On the left lay the Gym, where Hugh had already been
practising. Then beside the Tennis Courts, and away across the field
which fronts the school. And who could wish for a better place? What
father or mother or fond uncle or guardian could hope to find a
healthier, better spot than Ranleigh? The world has heard of the school.
It has made its mark in many a walk of life, so that there is no great
need to describe it minutely or to mention its precise position. Suffice
to say that it is situated in Surrey, that it projects three parts of
the way up a sloping hill, which is bathed by the sun on every side.
There is not a musty spot about it, not a corner nor a crevice in which
injurious germs may hide. See it, then, a red-brick pile, clad with
creeper, with its clock tower and its chimneys and pinnacles. Cast your
eyes upon the surrounding country, and admit, as admit you must, that
never was there a more ideal position. For the village is a mile away.
The school stands beautifully isolated. Fresh breezes sweep direct from
pine tree and heather across its roofs and into its windows. Add to
these charms playing fields which vie with those of schools of greater
antiquity, and you have a description of Ranleigh.

But we are forced to admit that Clive gave not a thought to it. He
scudded across the field with Masters, dashed through the front gates
and away down the road till they came to the tuck. It is a fascinating
little shop, and here again we must admit that its contents appealed
more strongly to Clive than did the surroundings.

"Never been in before, eh?" asked Masters slyly, well knowing the fact
that Clive had not.

"Never; wish I had. Rippin', ain't it?"

"Not half bad," admitted Masters casually. "A chap can stuff himself
full here for next to nothing. By the way----"

"Eh?" asked Clive, who was regarding a pile of apple tarts with close
attention. "How much, please?" he asked the attendant.

"A penny each, sir."

"Cheap!" murmured Clive. "Oh, what where you saying, Masters?"

He was carefully inspecting the contents of his purse by then, and not
looking particularly at Masters. It was not precisely what that young
gentleman wanted. He coughed loudly. "Oh, never mind," he said lamely.
"I--I didn't say anything."

It was such an obvious fib that Clive stared at him.

"Oh, did I?" then remarked Masters. "Oh, yes, I remember. But it doesn't
matter."

He thrust his hands into his pockets, turned to the door, and beckoned
to Clive. "Come on," he said, somewhat sadly. "Let's clear. I'll take
you in some other time."

That was just the very thing that Clive could not agree to. He had been
thick-headed before. But now he was beginning to grasp the situation. It
was awfully nice of Masters, too, he thought, though, to be sure, he
didn't see the smile on the face of the attendant.

"What's up?" he demanded. "You're never going to leave the tuck without
eating something?"

"Must," came the answer.

"Why?"

"Oh, never mind." Masters shrugged his shoulders, and went from the
cottage, Clive following. "Fact is," he admitted, once they were
outside, "I've forgotten to bring money with me. It's a beastly
nuisance."

"But it don't matter," cried Clive. "I'll lend you some."

"And then, of course," Masters hurriedly interjected, "it's a sort of
custom here, you know, for new kids to--oh, never mind, let's clear."

"To what?" demanded Clive, beginning to fathom the mystery.

"Well, if you must know, it's a sort of custom at Ranleigh for new kids
to stand treat the first time they enter the tuck. But it don't matter,
as I said. Let's clear. I never borrow money."

The generous-minded Clive could see only one way out of the difficulty.
Indeed, he was eager to show his hospitality. And so five minutes later
found the two youngsters securely seated in the little room beyond the
tuck, their feet over a gas fire, their teeth busily engaged with apple
tarts, while steaming cups of cocoa stood beside them. By then, Masters'
modesty had entirely departed. It had been a wrench, of course, to allow
a new kid to treat him! But in for a penny in for a pound wasn't a bad
motto.

"Tried those big chaps?" he asked, pointing to a box of squares of
chocolate. "Ripping! They're only a penny, and there's different colours
all the way through. Tony--met Tony yet? He's a fellow with red hair in
Two South--well, Tony swears that there's regular pictures worked up in
those squares, and that if you bite carefully you can see 'em. I don't
believe it myself, but it's a joke trying."

Clive did know Tony. He was the red-headed fellow who had shouted at him
and been so very pugnacious on the first night of the term when Clive
had entered the wrong dormitory. As to the squares, well, it would be
rather a joke to test this theory of Tony's.

"We'll test 'em, then," he said. "How many, eh?"

"Well, of course," said Masters guardedly, "a fellow could do it with
one, I suppose. But he'd have to be clever. Two'd give a chap a better
chance, while----"

"Sixpenn'o'th of those square things, please," demanded Clive, who was
warming to Masters, and who happened to have received a useful present
from a distant uncle that very morning. "You try first, Masters."

"And those brandy balls are just the things for prep.," remarked
Masters, some little time later, as if it were an afterthought and he
had not meant Clive to hear. "They're hot with peppermint, and you can
smell 'em all over the class-room. It makes the chaps look round and
long for some themselves, while the prefect who's in charge of the room
gets raging. Come on, Darrell."

It was perhaps a fortunate thing that Clive's stock of sixpennies was
becoming small, or he would have listened further to the blandishments
of the crafty Masters. As it was, he purchased a liberal quantity of
brandy balls, divided them with his friend, and then went off to other
fields.

"Sundy tuck's there," Masters informed him as they skirted the common,
where cricket matches are played. "Of course, the Head knows that there
is one, and would give his ears to catch chaps there. My word, they
would get a licking! But he can't succeed, and for a very good reason.
You see, a chap can slip in without being seen, and if the Head or any
other inquisitive master happens to come along and suspect, why, you can
bolt from the back door, up the garden and over the wall at the end.
I've done it. So have other chaps."

Before three weeks of his first term had passed Clive had a nodding
acquaintance with all the surroundings of the school, and with most of
the fellows. Moreover, he had witnessed the first great footer match of
the season, and his youthful chest had swelled with pride because of the
prowess of Harvey and other men. In fact, he was slowly and steadily
imbibing that spirit of _esprit de corps_ which helps a school along. He
was beginning to understand that self-effacement is a good thing at
times, and that the good of the school as a whole is what should be
considered. Else, why did Harvey work so hard to train the team while
still doing his best in school time? Why also did Sturton work so
loyally to support him, and still rise at cock-crow every morning so as
to prepare his own tasks?

But early frosts somewhat upset the plans of the Captain, and saw
letters innumerable despatched to some three hundred homes, demanding
that skates should be sent immediately.

"Another day's frost and we'll be able to go anywhere. They say the
canal's good," said Hugh, who had been making diligent enquiries. "But
my mark is the lake at Ditton."

"Private, isn't it?" asked Masters, who had joined the little band of
friends, and who, in fact, was often with them.

"Yes. But what's it matter? The Delarths are away from home. They'd
never want to keep good ice all to themselves. We'll take french leave."

"Or write and ask. Why not?" ventured Bert mildly.

"Why not?" repeated Susanne, with sparkling eyes. "It will make the fun
better. Besides, it is rude, is it not, to trespass on private
property?"

They scoffed at him promptly, and the very mention of rudeness put
aside the intention to write.

"It'll be part of the lark to go without being invited," said Hugh. "I
know the place already, for I've been skirmishing round to discover
likely spots for nesting. In the spring I'll be there. And if this frost
continues, I mean to try what it's like on the ice. So there, Susanne."

Two days later, after an intervening thaw of some five hours' duration,
whereat the hopes and the faces of every member of the school, save the
Captain and the footer team, fell dismally, the ice was reported to be
bearing on neighbouring ponds, and particularly on that one down by the
common in front of the butcher's shop. It had frozen very hard
overnight, and the ground was as hard as a stone. After dinner,
therefore, Bert and Hugh and Clive set out, Susanne being in their
company also, with Masters following behind as soon as he could get
away, an "impot" of some length having detained him. Indeed, the
self-same Masters had made a valiant attempt to complete the task during
dinner-hour in Hall. A pen of Clive's own invention had been brought
into request. Thereon were fixed no fewer than three nibs, all of which
would write at the same moment.

"You see, it's not one of those clumsy things one's heard of," said the
lordly inventor when he produced this wonderful time-saving implement.
"Anyone can tie three nibs on to one holder and try to write with 'em
all. But the blots he makes, my word! One nib rests nicely, but has too
much ink. A second is too short to reach the paper, while the third
sticks the point through and tears a hole. This pen gets over all three
difficulties. So long as you dip her carefully, she'll write, for all
the nibs are carried on spring holders. It's a champion. I'm going to
bring out a self-filling six-line automatic writer before I've ended.
I'll sell 'em by the ton to chaps at school."

No doubt he might if he were fortunate, and if all "impots" were of the
same character as that given to Masters. That worthy having incurred the
displeasure of his form master had been very politely and in dulcet
tones requested to deliver five hundred repetitions of the following
statement. "There's a time and a place for everything."

"And all because he scented peppermint," declared Masters hotly, when he
reported the matter to his cronies. "That chap Canning's a bounder. He's
always finding fault somewhere."

"But," ventured Bert cynically, "perhaps he doesn't like peppermint."

"Doesn't like peppermint! Rot!" cried Masters. "Who doesn't?"

"Well, you do," grinned Susanne.

"And so does any decent fellow. But that's where it is. Canning isn't a
decent fellow. He's always grousing. Masters, you're talking. Masters,
you don't answer. Masters, you're a fool. Masters----"

"You're a glutton," grinned Hugh, enjoying the indignation of that
individual, and receiving a buffet for his pains. "Well, he cobbed you
sucking brandy balls, given you by Clive."

"And told me that they were beastly, that I was making a beast of myself
to suck 'em in class time, and that there was a time and a place for
everything. Then gave me an impot."

"Which has to be done."

"That's it, and there's skating this afternoon. I'm going."

It followed that Clive's inventive genius was called in to help, and
that day at dinner, Masters, having gobbled up his meal, spent the rest
of his time crouching over a book resting on his knee, on which was
stretched the paper on which he was operating. And all would have been
well, for he was making amazing progress with that patent pen, but for
the fact that a sudden and unforeseen difficulty had arisen. The penny
bottle of ink he had requisitioned had the most idiotically narrow neck.

"Asses!" he growled, showing the difficulty to Clive, who sat next him.
"What makes 'em turn out bottles like that? How's a chap to get to
work?"

Clive had many brilliant ideas constantly occurring to him.

"Shove it into a spoon," he urged. "A tablespoon. Empty the bottle in,
and then you can dip easy. It'll prevent you dipping too deep. Get on
with it."

Masters realised the brilliance of the suggestion, and at once put it
into practice. He took the biggest spoon to be had, buttressed it around
with bread-crumbs, and then emptied his ink from the bottle. That was
famous.

"One gets along like a house on fire," he told Clive triumphantly. "And
the writing's ripping. Old Canning'll remark on it. George! Darrell, you
might sell him one of your pens. Look! There's fifty of the beastly
lines written. Here we go again. 'There's a time and a place for
everything.' So there is, my boy. Hall's the place for writing rotten
impots, specially when there's skating."

Hall, no doubt, was an excellent place. But accidents will happen, and
here with the most surprising result. For Masters, after much diligence,
had actually managed to complete three hundred lines when his sleeve got
anchored in the handle of the spoon filled with ink. It jerked over,
and in one brief instant the writer of the "impot" had the contents of
the spoon in his lap, while some of the inky mess flowed over the table,
making an excellent black map on the cloth.

"What a mess!" he groaned, when he had vainly mopped at his trousers
with his handkerchief. "I'm sopping wet, and as black as a hat. And look
at that beastly tablecloth. Here, Darrell, suggest something."

The best that Clive could do was to propose a covering of bread-crumbs
and salt, with which the huge stain was promptly covered. But all to no
purpose. The eagle eye of the Captain of the School going the round of
the tables in Hall after "knock up," when there was compulsory silence,
discovered the map which Masters had painted so unwittingly.

"Whose is that?" he demanded.

"Masters'."

"Ah! Writing at table. An hour's drill to-morrow, Masters. And that
mess'll cost half a crown. Perhaps more. Why, your seat is smothered
also. You're wet to the skin. Report to the matron afterwards, and get a
change. I'll talk to you this evening."

There was Masters in trouble with a vengeance. His "impot" had to be
commenced again, for ink had flown liberally over it. His trousers were
ruined, and doubtless his under garments. There was half a crown at
least to pay, and a visit to Harvey into the bargain.

"When there'll be a whacking," grinned Bert, always the cynic. "That'll
be merely as a precaution. He'll lay it on hot so as to warm you and
drive off the chill you'll be sure to have contracted."

Masters was not in sufficiently good frame of mind to trust himself to
answer. But skate he meant to. So at the moment when Clive and his
friends left the building, he was seeking new raiment in his dormitory,
having already obtained fresh underclothing from the matron. Then, by
dint of running, he caught up the little band who were bent on trespass,
just before they reached the ring fence that surrounded the property of
the Delarths.

"Just look round and make sure there's no one about," cautioned Clive,
glancing over his shoulder. "Now, Hugh, you've been here before. You
lead the way."

"Then over the fence. Into that copse at once, and then bang straight
ahead. The only fellows we have to look out for are the keepers. Of
course, they'll hate our going through their covers. But then,
something's got to give way when there's skating. Over we go. Last man
take a look round when he's joined us."

It took them perhaps half an hour to creep through the wood into which
Hugh led them. Sometimes they imagined they heard voices, and when that
was the case they cast themselves flat on the frozen ground and listened
with bated breath. But there was nothing else to alarm them, and pushing
on they arrived at length--after much exertion, for the cover was thick
and brambles had a peculiar fascination for their persons--at the edge
of the lake on which they proposed to skate.

"Well, I'm jiggered!" declared Hugh, his face flushing, his steaming
breath a cloud all round him. "There's someone on the place already."

"Someone? A dozen people," Bert corrected him.

"And--I wouldn't like to swear to it, but I do believe that that's old
Canning," said Masters, glowering on an individual who suddenly came
into view from the misty distance and swept across the smooth sheet of
ice towards them. "Just like him to set a fellow an impot so as to
prevent his skating, and then, when that chap had taken no end of pains
to get finished and----"

"Including half drowning himself with ink," grinned Bert, as a gentle
reminder.

"And getting a half-crown fine marked up against him," laughed Clive,
giggling at his friend's misadventure.

"And," proceeded Masters severely, ignoring the interruption, "and was
working like a nigger, it's just like this cad Canning to turn up at the
very spot and spoil fun entirely."

That was where the sight of this master affected the whole party. His
imposition was merely a matter between himself and Masters. Of course,
they were all awfully sorry for Masters, though his getting soaked with
ink was a jolly old joke, whatever he thought of it--but Canning was a
cad, all the same.

"What's he want to come along here trespassing on our property?"
demanded Hugh hotly.

"But--it isn't ours, is it?" asked Bert dryly, whereat Susanne
threatened him with violence.

"Of course it's not," the slouching Frenchman answered. "Not actually,
you know. But we thought of the place first. We've the most right to it.
What's Canning want hanging round the ice we've selected?"

"Cheek! Beastly impudence!" declared Clive grandly, while Masters still
glowered on the unconscious master. For it was Mr. Canning without a
doubt, a kill-joy on this occasion. For, having gained the lake after
such great trouble, Clive and his friends dared not venture upon the ice
they coveted.

"There's that cad Rawlings," suddenly whispered Bert, for Mr. Canning
was close to them, and had sat down to smoke a cigarette.

"And the greasy Trendall. He's always sure to be somewhere within
distance," growled Masters.

"And if that isn't Harvey, with Sturton near him, I'm not worth
listening to," observed Clive, as if he were speaking of a certainty.
"Yes, there's Harvey, hand in hand with Miss Withers."

"But--I don't understand," said Bert, smiling grimly when some few
minutes had passed. "There are hundreds of our fellows. They're arriving
every minute. Surely----"

Slowly it began to dawn upon the little band that perhaps all their
secrecy and all their effort had been wasted.

"Supposing leave was given for the school to skate here," suggested
Hugh, aghast at the thought.

"There's Smith Primus. Let's ask him," cried Clive, catching sight of a
fellow of his acquaintance.

"But there's Canning still there," said Masters, with something
approaching a groan. "Supposing leave's been given for the school to
skate here----"

"And supposing--which seems a moral certainty--that we've made
out-and-out fools of ourselves," interjected Bert satirically.

"Oh, shut up, do!" growled Masters, while Hugh caught his brother by the
collar. "Supposing that's the case----"

"What?" demanded the incorrigible Bert. "That we've made asses of
ourselves? That's dead certain."

Masters looked as if he would gladly slay him. But he was determined to
continue. Moments were flying as they discussed matters, and if they
were to skate at all they must clear up this mystery.

"Supposing that's so. Well, in any case, these woods are out of bounds
and we're trespassing. Unless we can slip out on to the ice without that
cad Canning seeing us, why----"

"Skating's out of the question," groaned Clive. "Look here, you fellows.
I'll slip on my skates, wait for Canning to turn his head, and then go
swinging past him. If I signal you on, you'll know skating's allowed,
and can slip on to the ice one by one as I've done. Eh?"

They agreed to the proposition. Clive, moreover, was successful, and in
a little while was diligently waving them on. And then his chums
followed, all contriving to escape the eye of the smoking Canning,
except Masters.

"Oh, Masters, that you?" he demanded, swinging his head as that young
hopeful happened to emerge from the wood and approach the ice. "Been
trespassing, eh? Been into the wood?"

There could be no denial. Masters could merely glance at Mr. Canning as
if he wished the most dreadful thing to happen to him.

"Yes, sir," he said curtly.

"Then you've forgotten our little conversation, and the lines you've no
doubt waiting at the school to give to me. Let me see. Yes. 'There's a
time and a place for everything.' Those were the words. Well, they're
true of this occasion. This isn't the time for trespassing when Mr.
Delarth has so kindly given the school permission to skate on his lake.
He particularly wished that there should be no disturbance of the
covers. Masters, you must have sadly forgotten the lesson I attempted to
teach you. Let me have those words written an additional five hundred
times by to-morrow afternoon."

"There's a beast!" said the unfortunate delinquent, when he rejoined his
friends. "I'd fifty times rather be sent to the Head with a note and
take a whacking. This impot business is breaking my spirit."

But you wouldn't have thought so had you seen him ten minutes later. He
was hurtling over the surface of the lake at lightning speed, with a
string of boys on either side of him. It was an hour later when there
came a shout from a far corner. Clive, dashing in that direction, saw
that the white surface of the ice was broken and flooded. There were
dark heads floating above the water. One was that of a girl. Susanne's
face was amongst them. Trendall's, too, fat and oily.

"Help!" shouted Clive, and at once set about a rescue.




CHAPTER VI

CLIVE AND HIS FRIENDS TRIUMPHANT


That shout for help brought a scurrying crowd swooping over the frozen
surface of the lake toward the spot where the ice had broken. It was
taken up by more than a hundred. Small boys--kids, as Masters scoffingly
designated them--gave voice to the call in high-pitched falsettos. Those
of the senior school gave ear to the calls, and bore down upon the spot
in silence. Canning--Masters' _bête noire_--threw away his cigarette and
scuttled over the ice at a rate which was marvellous. But Clive was
there first, and we speak the truth when we say that he was
flabbergasted. Talk about a fellow being trained to be ready to meet any
emergency! Clive was out of the running. He hadn't an idea. For at least
twenty seconds he stared at Susanne's face, peeping out of the water, as
if the sight robbed him of reason. And then his inventive brain set to
work.

"Hold on to the edge of the ice," he bellowed. "There's a ladder back
over there. We'll send for it. Look out, I'm coming."

Susanne nodded cheerfully. He had his arm round the waist of the lady
who had been immersed, and grinned at Clive.

"Hurry up, then," he bellowed. "Don't mind myself, you know, but there's
the lady."

What was Trendall doing? Clive saw him grip in frenzied fashion at the
ice and slip off. He made another effort, and then stretched his arms
over his head. Was he sinking? wondered Clive.

"Look out," he yelled, slipping to his knees and crawling toward the
dark and jagged-edged hole. "Look out for Trendall."

Susanne cast his eye over his shoulder, hitched the elbow about the lady
on the edge of the ice and gripped Trendall. He pushed him against the
edge of the ice, and then finding his own grip slipping, he let go his
hold.

"Hold tight there," he shouted.

"Hold to the ice," bellowed Clive, sliding nearer and now flat on his
face. "Hold to the ice, Trendall. Get away from Susanne."

But Trendall was not only exhausted; he was in a panic. Slipping from
the ice again, he touched Susanne's shoulder, and then gripped it. Out
shot the other hand and fastened about him. The three--Trendall,
Susanne, and the lady--bobbed down beneath the water.

"Let go! Let go, Trendall, you idiot!" shouted Clive, and then glanced
over his shoulder. There was a ring of fellows round the gap in the
ice, kept at a respectful distance by two of the prefects. Behind them
again were some dozen of the seniors scudding away for the ladder for
which Clive now shouted. Harvey was coming in Clive's wake, very
cautiously, but not for fear of his own safety, while Rawlings stood
irresolute, and when he saw that he was attracting attention, slunk to
the rear of the gathering.

"Go quietly there, Darrell," Harvey called. "The ice is awfully rotten
and will let you in if you're rash. I'll be as near as possible, and as
soon as the ladder comes I'll push it right out to you. Ah! That chap
Trendall will drown the lot of them. Leave go there, Trendall!" he
shouted peremptorily.

But the fat and greasy senior who had toadied to Rawlings, and who had
taken his part against Bert and Hugh and Clive, may be said at the
moment to have been completely out of his element. Such a catastrophe as
this was just the thing to test a fellow's courage, and Trendall did not
shine at all. Susanne, on the contrary, might, but for the awkward turn
events had now taken, have been merely enjoying a bath. But matters were
too desperate for enjoyment. Trendall had firm hold of him, and though
Susanne made a valiant effort, the hulking senior was dragging him down
and the lady also. It was then that Clive acted. The crowd gathered
behind first held their breath and then cheered him. In his enthusiasm
Masters dashed forward, and throwing himself on his face wriggled
towards him; while Hugh skated over the ice reckless of the
consequences, till a stern command from Mr. Canning caused both to halt.
For Clive had plunged forward.

"Look out, Susanne!" he called. "I'm coming in to help. You hand the
lady over to me and then tackle Trendall. The fellow's gone stark,
staring mad."

[Illustration: "'LOOK OUT, SUSANNE! I'M COMING IN TO HELP'"]

Wriggling his way rapidly forward he was near the broken edge within a
few seconds, when, as was to be expected, the ice broke with a soft,
grating sound, letting him into the freezing water. And it was high time
that someone came to Susanne's help, for that young fellow had more to
fight against than he had strength for. He struck savagely at Trendall,
but without result. He was dragged under by the combined weight of the
lady and the lout who had now seized him. Clive even noticed that his
face had gone a purply red colour, while when he came to the surface
Susanne gasped for breath frantically, showing how immersion was telling
upon him.

"Hand over the lady. Beat that cad off," bellowed Clive, striking out
for the trio. "Now Susanne, hand over."

Fellows would have laughed at Clive at any other time, for it was
ludicrous to see one of his small stature grasping the waist of a lady
decidedly bigger than he. But the event was too serious. Also there was
so much movement. For there were others bent on rescue. Harvey was
there, and with one glance over his shoulder, and a caution to the
prefects to keep the crowd back, he floundered across the ice and broke
his way into the dark fluid in which the four were now floating.

"Push that ladder out quick," he shouted, as he sank into the water.
"Send young Seymour and Masters forward. They can both swim and are
light weights. Ah! Sturton, get together one or two of the senior
fellows, and if things get worse come in in a body."

Then he left the edge of the ice and struck out. As for Sturton, if
Harvey had not already gone to the rescue, he would have done so most
certainly. But as we have said before, he could be counted on always to
back up his senior loyally. He swung round on the crowd of boys
instantly.

"Newman, you'll do," he said, beckoning a stoutly built fellow to him.
"Collins Primus too. There's Jimmy Pritchard. Coming, eh?"

"Rather. Ready for anything," was the quick answer as the young men
selected skated forward.

"Then Gaspard also. He's a swimmer, and you, Rawlings."

All came to the front. All? No. Rawlings seemed to be deaf. Sturton had
recognised him standing at the back of the crowd, and at the summons
Rawlings had sidled away. In the distance, coming towards him at a fast
pace, he espied a group of fellows bearing the ladder for which Clive
had shouted. In a second he seized upon the opportunity and turned away.
But Sturton knew his man, and summoned him again in a voice there was no
denying.

"Rawlings," he called. "I shouted for you. You're either deaf and did
not hear, or--coming?"

There was no way out of it. The lordly youth who had made matters so
disagreeable both at home and at the school for Clive and his friends
turned with as good a grace as he could summon, and pushed his way
through the crowd.

"Did you call?" he asked lamely.

"Did he call?" echoed one of the prefects satirically, a chum of
Sturton's, one, too, who had taken Rawlings' measure long ago. "Every
man in the school heard your name."

"But you," interjected Barrold, a puny Sixth Form fellow, who made up
for lack of inches by inordinate go and good spirits.

"Perhaps he didn't though," broke in Bagshaw, the scribe of Ranleigh,
the scholar who was most often to be seen arm in arm with Harvey.
Everyone knew that Bagshaw was the prince of good fellows, always
anxious to save a row. They knew, too, that footer and cricket and
swimming were forbidden to him. And yet Bagshaw pushed himself forward.

"Here, Sturton," he said brusquely, "let me come. I'm always put in the
background. Rawlings is a strong chap and can help to manage the
ladder."

And thus the incident was passed over. In the heat and excitement of the
moment, too, there was every opportunity for fellows to forget it. Few,
indeed, had overheard the satirical words uttered by Barrold and the
other prefect. Still fewer had noticed the flush which came to Rawlings'
face to hide the pallor with which it had been covered a moment before.
And none were witness of the mutterings he gave vent to as he turned to
meet the bearers of the ladder. But Sturton knew, the delicate Bagshaw
also, that Rawlings had funked. Hugh Seymour learned of it, too, on the
morrow.

Meanwhile, all eyes were fixed on the figures struggling in the water.
Clive had relieved Susanne of his burden, and clung with his free hand
to the ice. As to the jovial Susanne, things were going hard with him.
Had he been called upon some three minutes earlier to free himself of
the fellow clinging like a limpet to him, he would doubtless have
succeeded, though not with ease, for the arms and grip of a drowning man
are not quickly to be thrown off. But the young chap had been pulled
beneath the surface of the water so often that he was already exhausted.
Trendall still clung firmly to him. Even Clive could make no impression
on those clawing hands, though he made an attempt to do so, hooking his
elbow on the ice as Susanne had done. He was feeling desperate indeed,
in his helplessness; for Susanne was more often under the water than
above it.

"Supposing he gets under the ice! That chap's drowning him. Hi! Help!"
he bellowed.

And then Harvey came into view. The Captain of the School cleft the ice
debris and the water with lusty strokes, and was soon close to Susanne.
He tugged, too, at those encircling arms, but they defied him. Then,
while the crowd watching held their breath, he lifted one arm, doubled
his fist, and brought it crash down on the head of Trendall. And that
had the desired effect. The grip slackened. The two drowning lads
separated. A second or so later there was a loud splash near at hand,
and Sturton plunged into the icy water.

"Saw you'd more than you could manage, old chap," he said curtly to
Harvey. "So came along to help. You fix that chap Trendall. I'll manage
Feofé. Well done, Darrell! One South's looking up, eh? How's the lady?"

"Insensible, I think. She's very heavy. But I can manage. Ah! I'm
awfully glad you've got him."

Sturton had gripped Susanne by then, and now had his head clear of the
water. The big head of the Frenchman, with its dripping, tousled mat of
hair, lay on his shoulder. The face was deadly pale, as pale as that of
the lady he had been supporting, as white and blanched as that even of
Rawlings as he heard Sturton's summons. His eyes were tightly closed.
The cheeks seemed to have fallen in. A frightful feeling of despair
assailed Clive Darrell. At that instant he seemed to be able for the
first time to measure his friendship for Susanne.

"Hooray for Ranleigh! Hold on to them, you chaps! Well done, Darrell!
Three cheers for Harvey and Sturton!"

The crowd went frantic and delirious with delight at the dash and
success of their comrades. Now that Harvey and Sturton had gone to help,
not one but deemed the rescue certain, if not quite complete. The boys
yelled themselves hoarse. Some danced on their skates with excitement.
Mr. Canning alone seemed to retain his self-possession. Dodging from
side to side all this while, anxiously watching what was passing, he had
long ago slipped off coat and waistcoat. Perhaps he was fifty years of
age. At any rate, his hair was white at the temples, and from the point
of view of the fellows at Ranleigh that stamped him as an old man. But
he was active enough, though not so much so as Harvey. Still, he was
ready himself to plunge to the rescue should more help be needed, and
for the moment he kept the boys back, and kept his head, which was,
after all, a more important undertaking.

"Ah! There's the ladder," he exclaimed in tones of relief, as Rawlings
and a number of others appeared. "Hand it to me. That's right, slide it
flat over the surface. Now, keep that crowd well back. Well done, young
Seymour! Hullo, that you, Masters?"

This latter individual gave his form master a curt nod. There was no
rudeness meant. Only Masters was intensely excited, intensely eager to
see his chum Clive in safety. He answered Mr. Canning just as he would
have answered any other fellow at the moment.

"Gently does it. I'm too big a weight to go too far forward. Seymour,
you're light enough. If the ice gives and lets you in I'll come after
you. Now, on we go. As quick as we can."

Hugh made up his mind how to act in a moment. He stepped on to the rungs
of the ladder, lay flat down on it as if it were a sledge, and then
called back to Masters and to Mr. Canning.

"Push her along," he said, unwinding the long scarf he had wrapped round
his neck. "The ice is cracking a little, but I think it'll bear.
Farther. A little farther."

Thrusting the ladder before them, the two behind soon had the
satisfaction of seeing Hugh within reach almost of Clive. Then there was
an ominous cracking. The surface of the ice sank beneath Hugh and was
swamped with water. A moment or two later it gave way, letting him into
the lake. Then a coil of rope swished across Masters' shoulder, tossed
by a keeper who had suddenly come upon the scene.

"Shunt the ladder round to the far side, sir," he called. "There's a
spring over here, and that makes the ice rotten. Shunt it round, then
tie the rope and go ahead. You'll have to be quick. Them chaps is more'n
half frozen."

Clive felt numbed through already. He could see Harvey's lips shivering,
and his teeth chattering. Sturton, too, looked blue, while Hugh, who had
swum over to join him, looked pinched and desperately cold. Anxiously
they watched as Masters tied the rope to the end of the ladder, and
then with Mr. Canning's help changed its position. Once more it was
thrust forward, this time with Masters flat upon the narrow end.

"Heave!" shouted the keeper. Masters took the coil and sent it twirling
over the group in the water. Harvey caught it.

"Here," he gasped, nodding to Clive. "Take it. Seymour'll help you with
the lady."

They made a turn round her waist, and then as Masters drew upon the rope
they pushed and helped the body of the unconscious lady on to the ice. A
terrific cheer greeted this successful operation. Masters drew the lady
toward him, swiftly threw off the rope and tossed it back to his
comrades, and then backed with his burden.

"Well done! Well done, indeed!" cried Mr. Canning. "Here, Bagshaw and
some of you others, carry her away to safety. Ah, they're sending Feofé
next."

The ungainly form of the gallant Susanne was slowly hoisted on to the
ice and dragged towards the crowd. Bert was the first to make his way to
the front to receive him, and once with Bagshaw's help having carried
him to the rear of the crowd, he set about reviving him in a manner
quite scientific. He rolled and squeezed Susanne till one might have
accused him of positive roughness. He worked till his breath came in
gasps, and until another of the fellows came in to assist him.

Meanwhile, there remained in the water Trendall and four others, and
soon enough the former was sent to safety.

"Now," said Harvey, when the rope came swishing over them again,
"Darrell." But Clive showed no keenness.

"Quick!" commanded Harvey. "Off you go."

"Please," began Clive, for to argue with the great Harvey seemed a
sacrilege--"please, Harvey----"

"Eh? What on earth's the matter with the kid?" demanded that latter.
"Look here, we're all of us jolly well frozen. I am, at any rate.
Ranleigh don't want to have to record a death on this occasion. So out
you go."

But again Clive objected. "Oh, I say, Harvey, please----" he began.
"I--you know----"

Harvey scowled. The pleasant-faced captain of the school actually
scowled. Had he been on terra firma and this Darrell dared to disobey
his glance even, Harvey would have booted him.

"Yes, I'd boot the little beggar," he said angrily, for he was still
fearful of what might happen. But Sturton knew his man to a T. He leaned
over, all dripping as he was, and whispered to Harvey.

"Leave the kid," he said. "He was first here, and he makes it a sort of
point of honour. Leave the kid, Harvey."

Thereat the Captain grunted. He looked closely at Clive, and then
motioned to Sturton.

"You go, then," he said. "But you'll explain. It's the place of the
captain of anything, whether ship or school, to go last out of danger.
But, dash it, this kid's worth making an exception for. Heave up,
Sturton. I'm keen to get out of this water."

And that was how it happened that Clive left the hole in the ice last.
The cheers which greeted the coming of each one of them were thunderous.
They even brought a chilly blush to Clive's cheeks. But he was given
very little time in which to listen.

"Get off back to the school," commanded Sturton. "Here, you Hugh Seymour
and Darrell, cut quick. Report to the matron when you're back. Run all
the way. I'll boot you if you don't. Do you hear? Skip, then."

"And ask Mrs. Tyndal to have hot bottles and blankets ready," shouted
Mr. Canning, who was bustling from Feofé to Trendall, and back to the
still unconscious lady. "We'll get some sort of conveyance and send them
up. Now, you boys, strip off your skates and help to carry our
patients."

Thanks to the fact that the Headmaster of Ranleigh was an enlightened
individual and believed in teaching his scholars other things than
merely Greek, Latin, and Mathematics, there were numbers of the fellows
who, like Bert, had more than a smattering of the art of First-Aid.
Still, the surface of a frozen lake is not the best of places on which
to revive semi-drowned individuals. And then, unconsciousness in all
three cases was due perhaps in great degree to cold and exposure. There
were not wanting willing hands to carry Susanne, the lady, and Trendall
to the big house adjacent to the lake, where hot baths administered by
the housekeeper and her attendants soon helped matters wonderfully. But
it was late in the evening before Mr. Canning set out with two blanketed
figures. By then Clive and Hugh had put in an appearance, glowing from
head to foot after their sharp run up to the school. Sturton and Harvey
were not long in following, and by tea time a hot bath had made the glow
about their bodies permanent. They descended to the Hall in a body, the
school being already assembled, and we record only the truth when we say
that their appearance was the signal for an outburst of enthusiasm
entirely unprecedented. Never before had Ranleigh been so stirred. Never
before had there been an event quite so exciting. Ranleigh was known far
and wide for the strength of its lungs, for the liberality and
genuineness of its applause. But now the school went mad. Defying fines,
boys stood on the tables and cheered as Clive and Hugh and Sturton and
Harvey went to their places. The fellows cheered themselves hoarse, and
called for speeches. Then the sudden appearance of the Headmaster put a
damper for the moment on their enthusiasm.

Let us more fully describe the one who held in his hands the
administration of Ranleigh. Not tall, as we have said already, not
perhaps very striking in appearance, Dr. Layman yet attracted and held
the interest and sympathy of any body of people he cared to address.
Clean-shaven, save for a pair of whiskers, grey-headed, he presented a
face which was the essence of kindness. A pair of twinkling eyes were
wont to look down upon the school, whether from his seat in Chapel, or
from the dais in Hall. Austere some would have called him, those who
looked but once at his face. A jolly, rollicking fellow the boys knew
him to be, save when there was occasion for severity. And now he stood
of a sudden before them. Did he notice those who, contrary to all
regulations, contrary, indeed, to all precedent, had mounted the tables
in their enthusiasm? If he did, he showed no sign of having done so,
while they slunk back to a more decorous position.

"Boys," he began, shutting his eyes as was his wont when addressing an
audience, "boys of Ranleigh, to-day I am a proud man."

They made the old Hall ring with their cheers and shouts. Evans Tertius
even, the smallest of all there, raised a shrill voice to swell the
cheering of his comrades. And then silence fell again, a silence that
was trying.

"Boys of Ranleigh, I feel that I have reason to be proud of this school
to-day. For some of your comrades have behaved with heroism, while all
have shown coolness in time of danger. I need mention no names. Those
who have done best of all are well known to you. I congratulate them,
and I congratulate the school on having them amongst us. That is all.
Trendall and Feofé and the lady are now recovered, I am glad to say.
Boys, there will be no preparation this evening."

Yes, Ranleigh cheered again. The boys shouted themselves hoarse, even
when the Doctor had left them. And then, Nature asserting herself, they
sat down to discuss the meal, for appetites were keen after the skating.
We can believe, too, that the affair was discussed threadbare before
evening was ended, while glances turned frequently towards Clive and the
others. Some, too, were turned in Rawlings' direction.

"The fellow funked," said Barford deliberately.

"No," corrected Bagshaw politely. "Look here, Barford, don't say that.
I'm not too fond of Rawlings, I own. But if the school got to think a
thing like that he'd never have another decent minute. Let him have the
benefit of the doubt. The thing'll be a lesson to him."

As for Masters, delighted with the ending of such an adventure, and
forgetful for the moment of his ill luck when at dinner, he sat down
after tea with that wonderful pen of Clive's invention and began upon
the task which Mr. Canning had set him.

"Beastly cad," he told himself, but with far less bitterness than on
that same afternoon. "But he bucked up awfully well to-day. You could
see he was ready to go in and help the others. All the same, what's he
want to give me such an impot for? Beast, I call him."

"Oh, hullo," called a voice at the doorway. "That you, Masters?"

The owner of the name admitted the fact with reddened face. "Yes, sir,"
he said lamely.

"Writing?"

"Yes, sir."

"Home?"

"No, sir."

"Or doing impots?"

Mr. Canning grinned. It was like the cad, thought Masters for a moment.
Then, catching something out of the usual in the master's smile, he
permitted himself to smile back in return.

"Impots, sir," he said.

"Ah! There's a time and a place for everything, eh, Masters?"

What could the young fellow do but grin? Mr. Canning looked absolutely
genial. Now that Masters came to look at him more closely and less
severely he was bound to admit that he wasn't a bad sort of fellow.

"Though beastly fond of giving impots," he thought.

"Doing it now, sir," he said.

"But there's no prep.," suggested Mr. Canning.

"Impots aren't prep., sir," came the answer.

"No, but there's a time and a place for everything, and to-night's the
time for enjoyment. Leave that impot, boy. I'll take it as presented."

He was gone in a moment, leaving Masters with a very red face indeed.
"Well, I'm jiggered!" that young hopeful exclaimed, when at length he
had recovered his balance. "I say, Seymour, Canning isn't a bad sort, is
he? Did rather well to-day, eh? Not half a bad fellow. Think I shall
patronise him in the future."

The climax of all came when they were ranged in order for Chapel. The
great Harvey, smiling and serene as ever, passed down the lines of
boys, and happened to hit on Masters.

"Hullo," he called. "I say, Masters, thanks."

The words almost caused another paroxysm of cheering. Masters went the
colour of a beetroot.

"And, by the way," added Harvey, "about that ink stain. Expect it was an
accident. I'll see the right people. Half a crown's too big a fine.
Supposing we forget it?"




CHAPTER VII

PLANS FOR AN OUTING


Round about the "tortoise" stove in the workshop at Ranleigh the tongues
of certain of the boys wagged with a vigour there was no denying and no
checking. Susanne held the post of honour, seated on an up-turned box in
front of the stove, his feet on the high, bent-iron fender which kept
the hot cinders from coming into contact with the piles of shavings
littering the floor. Clive lolled back, his shoulders against the corner
of the nearest bench, while Masters occupied a place on the same form.

"My! They don't smell half good," reflected Hugh, sniffing with decided
appreciation at the roasting apples placed on top of the stove. "There's
apples and apples."

"And orchards and orchards," chipped in Masters.

"And some of them are easier to get at than others, eh?" smiled Bert,
prodding a baking potato with the broken prongs of an old fork. "There
never was a place such as this is for a wet day. Of course, when one's
a senior it's easy enough to bag one of the Fives Courts and have a
game. But not being a senior, of course----"

"You have to descend to the workshop," laughed Susanne. "It's good
enough for me, anyway. I suppose if we all did as you'd have us, you'd
be at Fives, Hugh in the Gym, and Clive hammering iron in the forge. As
to Masters----"

"Ah!" grinned that unabashed youth, "I know what you're going to say. Of
course, I'd be sweating at impots for that cad Canning. Now, would you
believe it? after letting me off the one about a time and a place, the
very day after he set me another. That's Canning all over."

There was a grimace as he ended. Masters had found Mr. Canning a strange
mixture indeed, for whereas he had experienced his benevolence on the
night after the rescue of those who had been plunged into the water, the
master had been down upon him like a ton of bricks on the following day.

"Masters, you're not attending. What was the passage we were then
construing?"

Masters made a wild shot, one which went very wide of the mark too.

"And that's what we were doing, then?" asked Mr. Canning sweetly.

"Yes, sir--at least, that's the best I can remember."

"Indeed. Your memory is very defective. We were not even dealing with
the page in which that passage occurs. As I said, you were not
attending, and as you have thereby lost the benefit of the excellent
rendering given us by Martin Secundus, you had better write me out page
46, both in Latin and English."

"The beast!" Masters had muttered. "Always down on me! Wish I'd never
come to Ranleigh. Talk about freedom and fair treatment! A fellow's
down-trodden at this place. That Canning's a tyrant."

But he was whistling within a few minutes, at the end of the lesson, and
would have forgotten the "impot" but for a reminder addressed by one of
his fellows. That sent him post-haste to discover Martin Secundus.

"What did you want to give that Canning a rendering for?" he demanded
roughly, for Martin was of the small order. "See what you've let me in
for, too! I've got to write out page 46 in Latin and English."

"Sorry, but your own fault," was the retort, small comfort for Masters.

"Oh, my own fault, eh? Look here, Martin, you've landed me into this
impot and will have to help."

"Have?" smiled the other. "I like that!"

"Like it or not, you'll help," came the answer. "Or----"

"Or what?" demanded Martin, not in the least put out. He wasn't afraid
of Masters, not in the least, for they had had many a scuffle. He rather
liked the fellow, as a matter of fact. But "have"--that was a large
order.

"Or----" began the desperate Masters, and then relapsed into a smile.
"Oh, look here, Martin, you can do these things standing on your head. I
hate Latin. It gives me a headache. Come along to my tuck-box. I had a
hamper arrive last week, and we can talk about the impot while we're
feeding."

Wise Masters! More than one at Ranleigh had found their way to his
notice, if not to his friendship, by offering food. And here he was
using the same method of persuasion. However, the "old firm," as Clive,
Bert and Hugh, Masters and Susanne had designated themselves, were
engaged in discussion round the workshop stove, and we must not forget
them.

"As to Masters," declared Susanne, having been interrupted by that young
fellow, "as to our friend Masters, he'd probably be found asleep, or at
the tuck, or washing himself in ink."

The sally brought a howl from the others. Masters was not likely soon to
be allowed to forget that incident. The mere mention of it roused him
to a fury. He shot up as if he had been kicked and leaned across to
strike at Susanne. But Clive cocked a leg on to the top of the stove and
thereby intercepted him.

"Look here," he began, "do let's talk sense."

"Then you shut up altogether. That's the only way to make it possible,"
retorted the angered Masters, sitting down with a bang.

"And decide what we're going to do and how it's to be done," went on
Clive, without notice of the interruption.

"We've decided to go, then?" demanded Bert.

"Rather!" cried Hugh.

"I wouldn't miss the show for worlds," declared Clive.

"There'll be heaps of Frenchmen there," suggested Susanne, with a cool
shake of his head. "I'm nearly sure to know some of them. That'd mean a
feed, eh?"

The idea was wonderfully attractive. "Of course," suggested Masters,
with furrowed brow, "if you didn't know any of them it wouldn't make any
great difference. They'd be awfully glad to see you, and----"

"Me, yes," agreed Susanne. "But my friends--well, that's a tall order."

There were signs of dissension at once. "But you'd never be such a sneak
as to accept a feed and leave us in the lurch," blurted out Hugh. "If
we go, we all go together. If there's a feed----"

"We all feed together," grinned Masters.

"But we aren't there yet," Clive reminded them. "Now, do let's get to
business. There's to be a meeting of aeroplanists at Guildford. That's
settled."

They all nodded their agreement. Hugh interrupted further conversation
for the moment to lift the frizzling apples from the stove and hand one
to each of the gathering. "Can't talk without eating," he said. "Now
let's get on with it. There's an aeroplane meeting."

"The old firm's going, lock, stock and barrel," interjected Masters,
with decision.

"If it can be arranged."

"It can," Clive corrected Bert. "What's to prevent us?"

"The Head! Guildford's out of bounds, in any case. There'd be ructions
if a Ranleigh boy were found there."

"But one won't, that's just it," asserted Clive. What "it" was exactly
he failed to explain. However, he soon cleared up the resulting mystery.

"Who's going to be such an ass as to go in a school cap?" he asked
haughtily. "We'll sneak our bowlers out of store and no one'll be the
wiser."

"But how are we to get there?" asked Bert. "That's the question we
started with. Everyone knows there's to be such a show. Guildford's a
long step away, and the train's out of the question."

"Ah, but you've forgotten Higgins. There's Higgins," Clive reminded
them.

Yes, there was Higgins, one of those artful, ingratiating scoundrels
ever the dread of a Headmaster, ever the attraction of fellows at
school. For this man in question, like many another at other schools
than Ranleigh, stocked articles contraband at the school but much sought
after by boys. The master of a sweet-stuff shop, wherein was combined a
tobacconist business, he could be visited by those who had obtained a
pass to the village. Stores of cigarettes were obtained from him.
Susanne, whose bad habits had commenced with a somewhat liberal or free
education in France prior to coming to England, had no difficulty in
purchasing there what smokes he required; while one boy of Clive's
acquaintance had even bought a revolver, though for what purpose even he
could not say.

"There's Higgins, yes," reflected Clive.

"Who's all serene. He's offered to take us in a brake he can hire. We
can join him up at the back of the school and none be the wiser. Call
the trip ten miles there, and the same back. Well, we're on the spot in
a little more than an hour."

Masters turned a glowing countenance to his friends. But Clive showed
disapproval.

"An hour or more. What's the use of wasting all that time on the road?
Let's do the thing in style or not at all. Let's go by motor. Higgins
can manage that just as easily."

"At a price! He don't forget to open his mouth too."

"Well, what price?"

Clive dragged out all his available coins and counted them carefully.

"Three bob a head by trap. Five, if there's a motor," said Masters. "I
talked it over with him. Not a bad chap, Higgins. He knows how to keep
his mouth shut too, which is something."

The discussion waned for a while, for each one of the group was busy
with his finances. Then all eyes went to Susanne. He was the Croesus
of the party. Never a day but he had money in abundance, the reason
being perhaps that his father was a banker.

"Wish mine were," Masters had groaned on more than one occasion. "Then
I'd have a few coppers to spend now and again, instead of a beggarly
allowance. My Governor seems to think that a chap hasn't need of cash.
He rams thrift and economy down my throat till I'm almost afraid to buy
even a biscuit."

"Five bob a head," said Bert reflectively. "Is it worth it?"

"Is it worth it?" they shouted derisively at him.

"Ever seen an aeroplane?" asked Clive hotly. "Think of being able to say
we'd watched fellows flying. Besides, we might get up in one ourselves.
I mean to try."

"And there's the feed," Hugh reminded them.

"Feed? What feed?" demanded Masters eagerly. "Higgins don't include it
in his price. I tried to make him. Where's the feed?"

"Susanne's, duffer!"

"Mine?" asked the astounded Frenchman. "It's the first I've heard of
it."

"There's a oner. Never heard of it, when only a minute ago he was
telling us of his friends and how they'd ask us to lunch with 'em,"
shouted Masters. "Don't tell us you've forgotten, Susanne."

"Ask _me_ to lunch. I never said a word about you fellows. It was you
who suggested the thing. Oh, yes, I dare say there'll be a blow-out for
_me_," said Susanne complacently. "But for you, doubtful. You fellows
had better sneak some bread and cheese at supper the night before and
carry a store with you."

He grinned provocatively at them, and then calmly tackled a roasted
apple. "Yes," he reflected, "I've no doubt I shall meet one friend at
least. There's Levallois, a flyer. My word, he can fly! He comes from
Lyons, and'll be awfully glad to see me."

"Us," suggested Masters desperately.

"Me. What's he want to know you for? I shall go off to lunch with him as
a matter of course. It'll be sickening to leave you fellows, naturally,
and no one'll be more sorry than I, er--er--or you--but then, there it
is."

So saying he buried his teeth in the apple, taking not the smallest
notice of the glaring eyes of his comrades.

"Of all the selfish beggars!" began Masters, whose energy was always
pronounced when there was a question of food. "Susanne don't deserve to
come with us. It's sickening to hear him jaw about a feed all for
himself, and to listen to him advising us to take chunks of bread as
hard as bricks, and cheese that's only fit for use as cart grease. It's
simply sickening."

His disgust was great--so great, in fact, that he might have pressed the
question still further, thereby bringing about a termination of the
hitherto comparatively pleasant nature of the meeting. But the practical
Bert intervened.

"What's the use of grousing," he asked, "and gassing about a feed that's
never been offered? Why, Susanne's friend mayn't be there. He may find
no one to invite him."

"I shall. Certain," declared that individual, grinning. "If there's one
Frenchman there, he is my countryman. He pays toll. That's quite
regular. He'll be awfully glad to meet me."

"Oh, well, then you get an invite. What's it matter? Bread's good enough
for me so long as I see the fun. Let's settle the matter. Five bob's a
heap. That Higgins is a Shylock. He'll take every cent from me."

"Same here," asserted Hugh, pulling a face. "I shall be short for the
rest of the term."

Susanne produced a sovereign. "How much for the lot?" he asked.

"Twenty shillings, and five extra for you," cried Masters.

"Then take it as settled. I'll write home to the people and tell 'em
I've had heavy calls. A motor's a call, isn't it?" he asked naïvely,
seeing his friends smile. "I pay the motor. If there isn't a feed, then
we've something left to buy grub with. How's that? Pass another apple,
Clive. You hang over them as if the store belonged to you."

It got dusk before they had finished talking. The far ends of the
workshop were hidden in gloom before they rose from their places about
the stove. And then there came the sound of a scraping match. A flare
lit the gloom in the distance. A tall figure stretched upward to a
swinging lamp and lit the wick. It was Hole, the school's carpentry
instructor, unchanged after years of service, with an eagle eye for old
faces and a keen recollection of incidents gone and forgotten by the
majority. If only every school existing had such a workshop, and made
attendance there almost compulsory, instead of an extra to be paid for
by parents! For there, in the workshop provided by Ranleigh, boys
learned a thousand and one things. Handiness came quickly to them, and
better than all, perhaps, here was at hand a means to fill many an hour
which might otherwise have been idle.

Benches down the centre bore a host of tools, while the special property
of individuals was housed in lockers near the entrance. The stove was
placed half-way along the shop, and beyond, one entered a second shop
provided with turning lathes. See Clive there, with the faithful and
interested Hugh in attendance, both lads working the foot pedal with
might and main, while dust and shavings whirled about them. Or follow
them to the blacksmith's shop, an adjacent institution. There, dressed
in leather aprons, with sleeves tucked to the shoulder, they might be
seen many and many a time beating out some piece of spluttering metal on
the anvil. Or the metal-turning lathe held their attention, and they
slowly and laboriously pounded at the pedal while the hardened tool
took off shavings at a pace which was slow to the point of exasperation.

But there were days also in this shop when flames and sparks flew up the
chimney wildly, when either Hugh or Clive, or even Susanne on occasion,
turned the handle of the mechanical blower. Coke heaped high on the
hearth glowed redly, while the heat within the shop was stifling.
Perhaps these conditions existed for an hour; perhaps for longer, Clive
or the shop instructor ever and again lifting the lid of a crucible
buried in the glowing coke. And then, with a joyful shout, it was
announced that the brass was molten. Think, then, of the joy these young
mechanics experienced. The boxes placed so carefully over in the corner
had cost them many an hour's labour. Packed with sand, and divided at
the commencement, the two halves of the moulds fashioned from their own
patterns were now assembled, and the moment had arrived to pour the
molten brass into the narrow openings left for that purpose. And imagine
the impatience of these model-makers awaiting the setting of their
castings.

Those were the days which Clive enjoyed most. It was after a bout of
casting that his lessons were worse prepared than on other occasions,
while drills and "impots" showered upon him.

"Darrell, inattentive again," Old B. would exclaim sadly, as if the
matter were a personal grief to him. "Half an hour's drill to-morrow."

Or Harvey, the great Harvey, would rouse his curly, shapely head from
his desk in the middle of prep., strange sounds having disturbed him.

"If that isn't young Darrell again," he'd exclaim testily. "Come here,
Darrell."

Fearful of the consequences, but unlikely to be robbed of his love of
mechanics by any amount of punishment, Clive would leave his seat and
come to the front.

"Well?"

"I--er----"

"What's it this time?"

"Only a wheel. I was just filing it so as to be ready for after school."

The culprit would hand forth a file of gigantic size, and a casting of
his own making. Prep., Clive had found, was an excellent time for the
doing of such little jobs. But there was the difficulty of drowning
noise. Harvey had been annoyed on more than one occasion.

"Oh, only a wheel! Let's see, what was it last time?"

"Another wheel. You see, there are two, and----"

"There generally are two. Look here, Darrell, I'm sick of this nonsense.
You not only shirk your own work, and get into trouble with your form
master, but you disturb the other fellows and keep them from work. Come
along to the Scholars' room after supper. I shall give you a whacking."

And, as a matter of course, Masters would be grinning delightedly as
Clive went back to his seat, while Hugh or Bert or Susanne would pass
short notes of compassion to him. Sometimes they were shot over the
heads of the others in the form of darts, duly labelled with the name of
Darrell. Or they were passed from hand to hand, or better still, the
wily Susanne's invention, they were rolled into the shape of a fine
pencil, inserted in a pea-shooter, and sent hurtling at the head of the
one for whom the correspondence was intended. Let us record, too, that
Susanne became an expert with this instrument. Such was his dexterity,
and such his strength of lung, that with the aid of wet blotting-paper
rolled into balls, and essentially of red colour, he could actually
eject them at the high ceilings of the form rooms, where the moist
condition of the shot caused it to adhere, and--so good was the aim
after long practice--that with patience and a sufficiency of these moist
pellets Susanne could write his name on the ceiling. That term many a
form room ceiling bore in thin lines of red dots the letters Feofé, with
"Susanne" close alongside in brackets.

But there was the question of the aeroplane meeting to be settled.

"Masters will see Higgins and fix it," Clive explained to Hugh in a
hoarse whisper, when they were seated at prep. that evening. "It's lucky
that to-morrow's a saint's day. That'll give us heaps of time, for the
meeting don't begin till after midday."

Numerous were the notes which passed between Clive and Masters and Hugh
during that hour and a half's prep. The many items to be settled caused
the exchange of missives even when they had reached their dormitories,
and that fascinating, home-made telephone being as yet incomplete, and,
in fact, stubbornly refusing to work in spite of the scientific aid and
knowledge of Susanne, they had recourse yet again to the weird series of
wheels and strings passing over the partition. And, of course, as fate
would have it on this the most important of occasions, Sturton
discovered what was happening.

"What the dickens----" he suddenly demanded, swinging round in the chair
in which he was seated at the dormitory table. "Here, Darrell, up to
something more? I told you last week I wouldn't have any further
chucking of notes over the partition. Suppose it's to young Seymour
again? Bring that note here."

It was a desperate moment. Clive clambered out of bed and stepped
across to the prefect, the note in his hand.

"Here it is," he said grudgingly, eyeing Sturton askance, for that note
contained a résumé of the details of their escapade of the morrow.
Dished up in finished style, as it were, were full particulars of their
intended movements. Anyone glancing through the scrawly and badly
spelled lines could not fail but discover the depths of the conspiracy.

     "Higgins is a brick," the words went. "Masters saw him to-night
     after prep and just before chapel and Higgins said he was reddy and
     didn't want twenty five bob but twenty and that's awfully decent of
     him and the car's going to be wating over by the windmil at twelve.
     Won't it be ripping, eh. There's heaps of room for the lot of us
     and Higgins'll have smokes. Susanne says they're nesessary to him
     and'll make him look like a blud, and Higgins knows a shop where we
     can get a blow out for next to nothing. There a bob each to pay to
     go into the plais where the aroplaynes fly, but Higgins can manage
     to pass us in free as his frend's the gatekeeper. So all's serene
     and to-morrow'll be ripping.

     "THE FIRM."

That was the communication. Sturton handled it and turned it over
curiously. As a matter of fact, he was rather amused at these notes so
constantly passing. It not being so very long since he himself was a
youngster, he had a friendly recollection of his own eccentricities.

"What's this?" he asked sternly, causing the pyjamaed Clive to quake.
"One would think you young donkeys hadn't a chance for gassing during
the daytime. As it is, I know this sort of thing goes on the whole of
prep. time. Look here, Darrell, an hour's drill to-morrow."

An hour's drill. Why, that meant that Clive, with a number of other
forlorn individuals subjected to the same punishment for their various
crimes, would have to assemble in the quad after dinner, and there be
marched to and fro and round and round by a prefect as weary of the task
as they were. At least, that was the general rule. Sometimes the
commander of this squad was a martinet. Sometimes the master for the
week wreaked his vengeance on boys in general and these unhappy wights
in particular by taking the quad himself, or standing at the entrance to
the quad, his mere presence stimulating the prefect till the boys
undergoing punishment groaned at the numerous orders to "right wheel,"
"left wheel," "form line," "form fours." Form every sort of formation
that the drill-book allows for or the fertile mind of an ingenious
prefect can devise. And Canning was the master for the week, and
Rawlings the brute of a prefect who would be on duty on the morrow.

Clive groaned and shivered.

"But to-morrow's a saint's day, Sturton," he ventured in tones of
protest.

"All the better. You'll want something to do. Time hangs heavy with you
youngsters on saints' days. A drill'll keep you out of mischief."

"But----"

"What's in this precious note?" asked Sturton, holding it up to the
gaslight. "Secrets? Let's see 'em."

He handed the note to Clive and invited him to open the folded paper.
That young fellow went a sickly yellow colour. The drill could be got
over, he reflected. He could miss it. He'd have to do it every day
after, that was certain, and Sturton might invite Harvey to give him a
slogging. But the cause was worth this sacrifice. But to open the note
and show Sturton the contents meant wrecking the whole affair.

"It's private," he managed to say at length.

"Oh, private, and awfully important. Let's see."

In one second Sturton fell in Clive's eyes from the giddy pinnacle on
which he had been placed. "Never thought he could be such a cad. Opening
fellows' letters. Beastly dodge!" thought Clive, glowering on him.

"Here, open it and read," said Sturton severely.

"It's private."

"Can't help that. Read it."

"It's private, I tell you."

Clive was distinctly angry and stubborn.

"Oh!" Sturton looked him up and down, his brow furrowed. He had not the
smallest intention of opening the note himself, nor even of listening to
its contents. He was merely gauging Clive's character. "Then you won't?"
he asked coolly.

"No, I won't."

"You know what to expect, eh?"

"Yes. I don't care."

"Look here, Darrell, don't be a donkey. Fellows don't look at other
chaps' notes, or listen to secrets. You're right not to split. Get back
to bed. Promise not to send any more and I'll let you off the drill."

"Not after this one," said Clive. "It's important."

Sturton grinned. He could thoroughly sympathise, and he rather liked
Clive for his show of obstinacy.

"Pitch it over then," he said, "and let it be the last. I'll whack you
if you break your promise."

"But a chap can telephone, and we'll have to work like niggers to get
that thing going," said Clive, when he had whispered to Susanne.

"That won't be sending notes. I wouldn't break a promise to anyone,
least of all to Sturton. He's a decent fellow."

The morrow found the Old Firm jubilant and expectant. They slipped off
after Chapel, raced down to the common and espied a panting car over by
the windmill. All together they changed their school caps for bowlers
and donned their overcoats. Susanne and Masters, who always did these
things in superior style, had donned the tallest of tall collars, while
the former had blossomed forth with an eyeglass. And we are bound to
confess that Susanne thus decked out made quite a handsome and
impressive foreigner. Masters had the appearance of a third-rate actor,
for, as we have said, his collar was of the highest, while his fancy
waistcoat would have roused the envy of a Cockney. Patent leather boots,
spats, and a cane of huge proportions completed a turn-out which was
distinctly startling. However, who thought of that, for were they not
off on an expedition which promised huge excitement?

"I mean to get a lift in one of the machines," said Clive deliberately.

"While Susanne ain't forgot his promise," interjected Masters.

"Promise!" exclaimed the gallant Frenchman.

"A blow-out," Masters reminded him.

"For me--yes. Rather!" came the tantalising answer.

"All aboard!" cried the rascal who was to drive them. "Ready? Then off
we go!"

The engine roared. The clutch went in with a jerk. The car bounded off
for Guildford and the long-anticipated flying meeting which the Old Firm
had determined to patronise.




CHAPTER VIII

BREAKING BOUNDS


Never before did a distinguished party of strangers come to the ancient
town of Guildford more jubilant. Heads were craned over the side of the
car which the ruffian Higgins had provided, staring eyes looked in all
directions, but mainly skyward.

"Perhaps we'll see 'em flying," suggested Clive breathlessly, for his
mechanical mind was stirred to the highest pitch by the thought of
seeing men launched into the air.

"Hold hard!" shouted Masters, whose quick eye had lighted on something
decidedly alluring, and who was ever alert to make the very utmost of
the smallest opportunity. "Hold hard!" he almost shouted as the car
crawled jerkily along the high street and past a pastry-cook's window,
in which were displayed a tempting mass of tarts and cakes. It was like
this greedy fellow. When food was about, when it happened to be anywhere
within sight or scent, he had not a soul above eating. What mattered it
if there were an aeroplane meeting? What did he care if men were to
fly? Food was food, and Masters had always a healthy hunger.

"You chaps," he began, "here's our chance. If we miss it, ten to one
we'll be hanging about without so much as a crumb, and I'm jolly empty."

"But--but, Susanne's friend is going to stand a feed," Hugh reminded
them. "Don't forget that."

Masters pooh-poohed the suggestion, though on the previous day he had
waxed indignant at the thought that such a treat could not be in store.
He had called Susanne a sneak. Now, with those alluring cakes within his
ken, he chose to forget what had happened. Also there was such a thing
as remembering the saying, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the
bush." Masters had coins in his pocket, thanks again to Susanne, and, as
we have said, he had a perennial appetite.

"Blow Susanne's feed!" he declared. "If it comes off, all the better. I
for one'll be ready. But I'm famishing now. So stop her."

The band descended straightway, and without much need for further
persuasion. When they mounted the car again sundry well-filled bags
accompanied them. Then on to the field. Crowds were making their way
thither on foot, others in motors and traps. Outside the gates there
was a seething mass of people, through whom Higgins drove the car at
reckless speed. And then the gates opened. They were passed in after a
nod and a few words between Higgins and the gatekeeper.

"Look out! Duck!" whispered Bert, suddenly, in hoarse tones of alarm.
"Bothered if that isn't Old B. Duck, I tell you."

With one accord the car load bent their heads till it appeared as if one
and all were engaged with their boot laces. Clive glanced askance into
the crowd, and there beheld the tall, bulky form of Mr. Branson, his
dormitory master. The sight of that tall, genial giant set him quaking.
Not that Mr. Branson was at all of the fierce order. Rather, he was an
easy-going fellow, who had as perfect an understanding of boys as ever
master had. But he could be roused to anger--anger which as a rule
resulted in the bestowal of a cuff, for Mr. Branson took the law into
his own hands as a rule, and did not favour sending boys to the
Headmaster with one of those short, explanatory notes which resulted in
a caning. No, Old B. was a good, slow, well-meaning giant whom all
adored, and none more so than Clive. But he feared him also.

"Old B.," he murmured. "Old B. right enough, and looking this way."

"Seen us?" asked Bert desperately.

"Never!" declared Masters. "He's too sleepy for that."

"Then he's spotted the car," suggested Susanne. "He'd know it, as he and
others of the masters use it at times. What's he doing?"

"Gone off into the crowd. Looked awfully hard at this car," said Clive,
suppressing a shiver. "Smiled, that tired sort of smile of his, and then
cut off in the opposite direction."

The statement brought all heads to their normal elevation again, while
questioning glances were cast first at the crowd, now left behind, and
then at one another.

"What did Old B. mean by that, then?" asked Bert, after a painful pause.
"Stared awfully hard, and then sloped off."

"As if to avoid us. As if he guessed there were Ranleigh boys in the car
and didn't want to spot 'em," suggested Clive.

"Good Old B.! Just like him," cried Masters, regaining his composure,
for the sudden information that Mr. Branson was in the neighbourhood and
eyeing them had thrown him into a flutter.

"More impots," he had groaned inwardly. "More drills, and a whacking as
a matter of course. Ranleigh's an awful place for a fellow to be sent
to. Tyrants, the whole lot of 'em!"

"In any case, he's here, and means to watch the flying. A beastly
nuisance," reflected Susanne. "Of course, we shall have to keep our eyes
open. But I know a dodge to beat him. I'll look out for Levallois, and
if he's here, why, he'll invite us to his hangar. Old B.'ll never dare
to enter."

Thus relieved for the time being of their fears the party tumbled out of
the car, and having agreed with Higgins to meet him precisely two and a
half hours later, struck across the huge field in which the meeting was
taking place toward the half-dozen hangars in which the flying machines
were housed.

"That's Levallois'," said Susanne, pointing to one over which the flag
of France flew. "I'll cross direct."

"But--but you can't," Bert told him, for Bert was one of those youths
who somewhat lack assurance. He had a huge respect for authority and
order. He often envied Masters his cheek, and Clive and Hugh the dash
and persistence which carried them through difficulties. "You can't,
Susanne. The place is roped off, and there are scores of police."

"Can't! You wait," laughed the Frenchman. "See that bobby. Looks a good
chap, eh? See me get round him."

They allowed the voluble Frenchman to go ahead of them a few paces, as
if he were not attached to the party, and watched with breathless
interest as he nonchalantly ducked under the ropes which kept the crowd
back. Susanne, his monocle in position, strolled away across the
enclosure.

"Hi! You stand back there!" came the summons from the nearest constable.
"Get out of the enclosure, please."

Susanne might have been deaf. It was not until the officer of the law
actually had his hand upon his shoulder that the young fellow showed the
smallest attention to his order. And then, in the inimitable style of
Feofé, a style somewhat spoiled by the jeers and laughter of his
schoolfellows, but nevertheless a style which was part and parcel of the
young fellow, Susanne raised his hat and swept it from his head. In
wonder and amazement his comrades heard him addressing the constable in
French, speaking volubly, waving his arms, pointing to the hangars
opposite. And then he dived into a waistcoat pocket and produced a card.

"What's this?" demanded the constable, a young man, evidently puzzled.
"Can't read it. You're French, eh?"

Susanne nodded energetically. He beckoned to Masters, and at the signal
that young fellow dived beneath the rope and ran to join him. At once
Susanne fired off a string of words, totally unintelligible to the
constable, and mostly so to Masters, who was no great French scholar.
But he knew what Susanne wanted, and knew also what he and his friends
required. Also Masters was just the youth to carry a matter like this
through in splendid style. He had cheek enough for a dozen.

"It's like this, don't you see, constable," he said, smiling sweetly at
the officer. "Monsieur Feofé--that's French, you know--Monsieur Feofé
comes from France, where all the flying's done, and Monsieur Levallois's
one of the flyers. That's his shed over there, with the French flag over
it. Well, of course, Monsieur Levallois expects Monsieur Feofé and his
friends. We've come here to see him. He wants us over at his place, you
see. I'm sorry you can't understand Monsieur Feofé. But that's the worst
of these fellows who can't speak English."

An older constable might even have been taken in, though to be sure he
might have noticed the half-suppressed grins on the faces of the party
of young fellows stationed by the ropes. Also he would certainly have
been surprised at the youth of these visitors. But he was a young man,
on duty almost for the first time, and somewhat confused.

"I've got my orders, strict," he began.

"Of course, of course!" interjected Masters hurriedly. "Of course,
constable, orders to keep the crowd back. Quite right for you to obey
'em. But we're not the crowd. You see, Monsieur Feofé's a swell sort of
fellow. It'd be rude to refuse to pass him and his friends through. He
wouldn't understand it. Monsieur Levallois would be furious, and I dare
say the inspector in charge of the police'd get a wiggin'. So it'll be
all right, see?"

That young constable wasn't by any means too sure. But Susanne's
apparent ignorance of English, his obvious impatience at this delay, his
embarrassing politeness, for he continued to sweep his hat from his head
on occasion, while firing off a long string of unintelligible words at
Masters, all had their effect. The man wavered.

"My orders is to pass no one----" he began again.

"Come on, you chaps," sang out Masters, whose cheek was tremendous. "The
constable understands. We'd best hurry, for Monsieur Levallois is
waiting. Thanks, constable. If there's any trouble refer the inspector
to me. Sorry to have bothered you."

The arm of the law passed them through, reluctantly and doubtfully. It
was as much as Hugh and Clive could do to suppress their mirth till out
of hearing of the policeman, and Susanne's behaviour made the task even
more difficult. For that young fellow heartily enjoyed every item in
this manoeuvre. He bowed low to the constable, covering that unhappy
and uncomfortable young fellow with blushes. He swept his hat from his
head for perhaps the twentieth time, and rattled off his thanks in
French. And then, following sedately across the field, he looked about
him with inimitable coolness, and turned to survey the gathering crowds
through his monocle, which was still screwed into his eye.

"Of all the cheek!" gasped Bert, to whom such an adventure was a
revelation. "Come on, Susanne. Old B.'ll spot you the instant his eyes
fall on you. Do stop fooling and come along!"

"Grand!" declared Clive, thoroughly enjoying the entertainment. "That
bobby was finely flustered. But, I say, supposing Levallois won't have
anything to say to us. I've heard that lots of these flying fellows get
pestered with people in their hangars and throw them all out. Supposing
Levallois don't want us."

"Supposing he ain't there," grinned Hugh, bringing up another
difficulty.

The suggestions caused the little band to close in as if for mutual
protection.

"Well?" asked Bert desperately. "Supposing Levallois isn't over there,
or don't want us?"

Susanne's serenity was undisturbed.

"There's some sort of a Frenchman, anyway," he observed. "He'll be glad
to see me in any case. Of course, if he don't want you fellows, it'll
be awkward--for you."

He grinned openly at them till Masters could have struck him. It was
perhaps just as well that a stop was put to the argument at that moment
by the wheeling out of an aeroplane from one of the hangars. That set
the party hurrying till they arrived at the line of sheds. Here there
was much movement. Officials came and went, more than one eyeing the
boys with evident suspicion. An important-looking inspector of police
was posted adjacent to the very hangar over which the French flag flew,
and promptly pounced upon them.

"What's this?" he asked severely. "No one but gentlemen flying, their
mechanics and managers are allowed here. What fool's broken orders by
passing you in?"

But again Susanne and Masters saved the situation, the one by his
embarrassing politeness and his volubility, the other by his specious
explanation.

"Oh, Levallois, that's the French gentleman's name, is it?" asked the
inspector, mollified, but not entirely convinced. "Well, if he says that
he's asked you here, suppose you must stay. But none of the other flying
gents are having friends, least of all youngsters. Still, we don't want
to be rough on a foreigner. He might not understand. Here, sir," he
called, putting his head into the hangar over which the French flag
flew, "here's a parcel of young gents come to see you; and some of
them's out for a lark, I'll bet."

A smile stole across his face. Masters' get-up was perfectly ludicrous.
As to his fellows, not one but wore his obvious youth in awkward manner,
save and excepting Susanne. The composure of that young fellow was
wonderful. He stepped into the hangar, leaving his comrades outside to
listen in trepidation to his conversation with its invisible owner. It
was with a sigh of relief that they saw him appear at the door and
beckon.

"It isn't Levallois, after all," he grinned, "but Dubonnet. But it's all
right and square, Monsieur Dubonnet's a sportsman. Come into the place
and feed. He's going to have a meal now, for the wind's too high as yet
for flying."

Masters' eyes were wide open with amazement. Bert could hardly believe
his ears. As for Hugh and Clive they were bubbling over with excitement.
Nor were they intensely astonished. The latter, at any rate, had seen so
much of Susanne as to convince him that what that young fellow took in
hand he accomplished. For Feofé had that happy knack of winning
friendship, a knack which it behoves all to acquire. Also he was far
more at his ease with his elders than any of the others. It seemed
almost natural, therefore, to Clive that he should have brought about
this introduction. Clive bobbed to the young fellow whom Susanne
presented, and then, forgetting all else, stepped up to the aeroplane
and began with Hugh's help a close and critical examination. Then a call
from the smiling owner sent the two of them to the far corner where a
board table was erected, with a ham and a joint of beef upon it,
together with other items.

"Help yourselves, gentlemen," said Monsieur Dubonnet. "Accident has
given me friends to-day, and I needed them. Now, let's get the meal
started and then tell me how you managed this business. I suppose you're
from Ranleigh?"

"Yes," admitted Masters, his mouth already half filled with ham, his
eyes protruding at the directness of the question.

"Know it?" asked Clive.

"Rather! There myself, you see. Breaking bounds, eh? Well, I don't blame
you. But, by the way, I'm expecting one of the masters. My old dormitory
master, you know--Old B. Know him? Of course you do."

The bombshell produced an impressive and painful silence. Masters looked
desperately across at the door. Even Susanne reddened, and then Monsieur
Dubonnet relieved the tension by laughing uproariously.

"Had you all badly," he grinned. "All the same, Old B.'ll be paying me
a visit. But we'll make that right. There's a place screened off at the
back of the hangar and you can get cover there. I'll post one of you
fellows to watch at the door."

And so for the following hour they took it in turn to watch.
The meal finished, Clive and Hugh plied Monsieur Dubonnet with
questions--questions, too, of such an intelligent nature that they
aroused his interest. Indeed, the enthusiasm of these young fellows
gained for them an invitation to try a flight.

"You'll like it awfully," declared Monsieur Dubonnet. "Of course, one
feels scared at first, but that's natural. Accidents do happen at times,
I know, but I don't think you need be fearful."

It was with beating hearts that our two young friends, half an hour
later, smuggled themselves into the cab mounted on the machine. Two
mechanics appeared and wheeled it from the shed, while Susanne and the
others kept carefully in the background.

"See you later," sang out Bert.

"Alive or dead," grinned Masters, who was envying Hugh and Clive
greatly. "Think of me, Darrell, when you're falling."

But no amount of chaff had any effect on our two amateur flyers. The
starting of the engine brought the red to their cheeks. The rush of air
over their heads sent their pulses dancing. The roar of the exhaust
passed almost unnoticed as the machine started forward. And then up they
went, swooping over the heads of the people gathered to watch the
flying. We need not record here their impressions. Suffice it to say
that a very proud and gratified couple at length descended from the
machine and joined their comrades.

"Time to be off," Masters reminded them. "Higgins'll be wondering what's
happened. And besides, if we don't move soon we shall be late for
call-over."

Taking care to view their surroundings before issuing from the hangar,
and having volubly thanked the great Dubonnet for his kindness, the
little party made their way across the enclosure, under the ropes, and
so to the spot where the car was to await them. There was no Higgins
there on their arrival, but a search discovered him in an adjacent booth
where refreshments were provided.

"Looks as if he'd had his full share too," Hugh whispered to Clive.
"Suppose he can drive?"

"Hope so," was the laconic answer, though there was doubt in the tones.
For Higgins had been refreshing himself with a vengeance. He was none
too steady as he issued from the booth and leered at his passengers.
However, there was no doing anything in the matter.

"The beast!" growled Bert in tones of disgust. "I've always disliked
Higgins, and I hate him now. If it hadn't been for the fact that he
could get the use of the car and so make it possible for us to come to
this meeting, I'd never have consented. The brute's drunk."

"No, not quite," corrected Susanne. "But the drive home'll be exciting."

It proved to be filled to repletion with excitement, for Higgins scooped
through the town of Guildford as if police did not exist and pedestrians
had no right to the pavements. His course was followed by howls of rage
from passers-by, to all of which he paid no notice. He sent the car
whizzing out into the country, and dashed along the high-road at giddy
speed, while Clive and his fellows clung to their seats as best they
could.

"Settling down nicely to it," reflected Susanne, after a while, for it
took a great deal to shake the coolness of the French youth. Indeed, he
seemed rather to have enjoyed the recklessness of the driver. "He don't
steer into the footpath quite so often, and he isn't going so fast. In
another twenty minutes we ought to be back near the common."

"And mighty glad I'll be too," admitted Bert. "Of all the brutes, this
Higgins is the biggest. But he does seem to be settling down. No, he
doesn't. He's putting on the pace again."

"Racing," ejaculated Masters, as if the admission pained him. "Look,
there's a car ahead and Higgins means to pass it."

Perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead they could see the back of another
car, one, too, with which the boys of Ranleigh were familiar. For they
knew it to be one of the three which plied for hire in the
neighbourhood.

"Slow as a beetle. We'll beat 'em easy," declared Hugh, stimulated by
the thought of a race.

"Walk past it if Higgins can manage to steer decently," agreed Clive.

"Shove her ahead," cried Susanne, springing to his feet and leaning over
the driver. "Keep her straight, Higgins. Now, let her go. We'll beat
those other fellows into a cocked hat. Hullo, they're looking back."

There were two passengers in the vehicle in front, and at this moment
they looked behind them, and then turned to urge their own driver to
greater speed.

"Whew! Did you recognise 'em?" asked Hugh, staring after the other car.

"Who?" demanded Clive.

"Those fellows?"

"No. Why?"

"Ranleighans," said Hugh with conviction. "Spotted them at once."

"Rawlings and Trendall," declared Susanne. "I knew that it was they all
along. Just fancy catching a prefect breaking bounds! Saw 'em at the
flying meeting. They were in that booth with Higgins, and slipped out
when I went in to fetch him. Anyway, they can't give us away. We're all
in the same boat this time, though if it had been different, and
Rawlings could have caught us out, there'd have been trouble. We've got
him nicely this time."

If it were in fact the two mentioned in the car ahead, then Clive and
his friends need have no fear of the consequences of recognition. For
what a prefect can do, that also can smaller fry. Also, if Rawlings had
broken bounds with Trendall, then his lips were sealed.

"Hooray! He's bound to hold his tongue," cried Masters; "and if he tries
it on with any of us after this, why, we've only to rake this matter up.
Now let's whop his car, and pass 'em. Go ahead, Higgins."

Higgins needed no encouragement, and to speak the truth the cold air
seemed to have steadied him. There were now few of those frightful
swervings to which he had treated his passengers earlier on. He kept the
centre of the road, and accelerated his engine till the car dithered and
vibrated from end to end. As to the driver of the car ahead, he jerked
at sundry levers, opened his throttle and tried to make the best of
what was a hopeless case. Gradually he was being overhauled. He cast a
glance desperately over his shoulder and again jerked at his levers. But
all to no purpose. Higgins' car drew abreast, then level, in which
position the two cars thundered along for a while, the two sets of
passengers glaring at one another.

"Hooray! We win!" shouted Masters, half standing and grimacing at
Trendall.

"Pass them! Pass them!" bellowed Susanne, waving his arms in truly
French style. And then he must needs lift his hat. The action set
Rawlings scowling. He was angry enough already at the thought that he, a
prefect, had been discovered in the act of breaking bounds, discovered
too by a group of boys who held him as an enemy. And now to be passed by
them in a race was more than he could put up with.

"Stop that racing!" he shouted. "There'll be an accident. Order your
fellow to slack down and let us go ahead."

"Order your own," responded Masters, careless of the consequences.
"We've as much right to go fast as you have. Fall behind. You're the
slower car."

Rawlings shook a big fist at them. Susanne acknowledged the threat by
once more ironically lifting his hat. Masters grimaced at his
seniors. And Higgins stirred his car to even greater efforts. They
shot ahead, leaving the occupants of the rival car fuming with rage. All
heads were turned to watch them. Faces were reddened with excitement,
and eyes shone at the thought of such a brilliant victory. A hoarse
cheer was even uttered by Clive and his friends, a reckless cheer, just
to let Rawlings know what they thought of him and how little they
feared. And then all gave vent to a howl of dismay. For, of a sudden,
something went wrong with the following car. It swerved to one side,
recovered a straight line, and then turned into the pathway. A moment
later the rear end had risen into the air, and as Clive and the others
watched, first Rawlings, then Trendall were tossed out into a dense mass
of bushes lining the path. The driver followed them, smashing his way
through the glass wind screen. They heard his body thud to the ground,
while the up-turned car fell on him. Their shouts and shrieks caused
Higgins to cram his brakes on and bring their own vehicle to a
standstill. A minute later they were gathered about the up-turned car.

[Illustration: "FIRST RAWLINGS THEN TRENDALL WERE TOSSED OUT INTO A
DENSE MASS OF BUSHES."]

"Quick! Pull it off him," commanded Susanne, seemingly as cool as a
cucumber. "Now, all together. Ah! He's killed."

"Killed?" It was Rawlings who asked the question, his lips bloodless,
his knees almost knocking. "Killed? Then--then what happens? Do we have
to appear?"

It was like him to think first of himself, and not of the unfortunate
man. But the question he had asked was one which was bound to be asked.
It was one which intimately concerned one and all of the boys of
Ranleigh who had broken bounds. They turned from the body of the man to
one another.

"I'm awfully sorry for that poor chap," said Susanne at last. "As for
us, we're in for it, eh?"

"Absolutely," agreed Masters. "Right in the soup."

"Unless----" began Rawlings.

"Unless what?" asked Clive curtly.

"Unless we can get out of the mess by----"

"Telling lies?" asked Hugh, backing Clive up swiftly.

Rawlings nodded ever so little.

"Thanks, Rawlings," said Susanne coldly. "You and Trendall do as you
like. We'll be getting onward."




CHAPTER IX

HONESTY'S THE BEST POLICY


The short run from the spot where the poor fellow driving the rival car
in which Rawlings and Trendall had been passengers had met with his
death was anything but a pleasant experience for Clive and his comrades.
In the first place, Higgins, hitherto reckless as to his driving, now
went at a snail's pace, as if he were in a funeral procession. And then
there were two additional passengers in the car. The boys eyed one
another in silence. Susanne, as if to break the spell, and careless now,
as ever, of the lost authority of Rawlings, fixed his monocle upon that
worthy reflectively.

"Best 'op as soon as we gets to the common," suddenly cried Higgins over
his shoulder. They heard the brake grind. The car came to a standstill.
Then the rascally driver turned upon them, thrust his cap to the back of
his head and invited all to listen.

"See 'ere, young gents," he began. "Just at this point you gets off and
'ops it up to the school."

"Yes." Susanne answered him in a mono-syllable, though his brows were
furrowed and his eyes scowling. Rawlings slid from the car, and Trendall
likewise. Then the others followed, till they were gathered around the
bonnet.

"Well?" demanded Susanne curtly.

"And jest at this 'ere point I goes right off to the village. See?"

"No," declared Susanne and Clive together, obstinately determined to
give the fellow no encouragement, for they guessed at what was coming.

"There isn't anything to see," said Bert coldly. "The thing's plain.
You're

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