Acton's Feud Part 18

"The business wants careful handling, remember. Young Bourne will think twice about borrowing, and, perhaps, if he could keep me out of it, would stand your racket, or Corker's either. So drive him lightly."

"You'll see him on the borrowing tack to-morrow, Mr. Acting."

"And the rest is my business."

"Where do I come in?"

"You can cleave to the seven guineas--if you earn 'em."

"Seven pounds ten, Mr. Acting."

"Seven pound seven, Mr. Raffles. Your own proposal."

"Orl right," said Raffles, resignedly. "I think I know them ropes."

"Good!" said Acton. "Then you can scuttle now to Rotherhithe, or where the deuce else you like. I'm off."

Acton wheeled out his bicycle and melted into the gathering dark, and his jackal lurched off to the station and reached Rotherhithe to dream of his seven guineas which he was going to get. Raffles felt sure of those seven guineas.

CHAPTER XV

GRIM'S SUSPICIONS

As I said before, Jack Bourne, after the first bloom of his forbidden pleasures had worn off, rather repented of the Raffles' connection, and would gladly have exchanged it for the old, easy, open, and above-board society of his chums. Grim, Rogers, Wilson, Poulett, etc., were, on their side, rather sore at Jack's continual desertion of them and their causes.

They had just seen him pedalling easily after Acton, throwing them a rather mirthless joke as he ran past, and they had, naturally, held a council to consider matters.

"Wherever can the beggar get to is what I want to know," said Wilson.

"Can any one tell me what he wants with Acton?" said Grim.

"I think that it's Acton that wants him," said Rogers. "Come to think of it, Grimmy, you're Acton's man. Why doesn't he lag you?"

"Grimmy's not to be trusted. He'd read the _billet-doux_"

"I don't believe that there's any notes, Wilson," said Grim, impressively, "in this business. It's something deeper than that."

"What's the mystery, Mr. Grimmy Sherlock Combs?"

"Poachin'," said Grim, solemnly.

"What!" exclaimed the other, with breathless interest.

"Dunno, quite," said Grim; "but that young a.s.s dropped a cartridge from his pocket the other day."

"There's nothing to poach here, Grimmy."

"There's Pettigrew's pheasants," said Grim, mysteriously.

"But you don't shoot them in March."

"_We_ don't, Poulett, but poachers do."

"Tisn't likely that Acton----"

"Well, don't know," said Rogers, reflectively. "He's lived so long in France, where they shoot robins and nightingales, that he'll not know."

"But Bourne would."

"That's why he looks so blue. He does know, and it preys on his mind."

W.E. Grim's pathetic picture of young Bourne turned out-of-season poacher against his will by an inexorable Acton didn't seem quite to fill the bill.

"Grimmy, you're an absolute idiot. That poachin' dodge won't do. Perhaps, after all, they only bike round generally."

"What about that cartridge?" said Grim.

The little knot of cronies discussed the matter for a good half-hour, Grim holding tenaciously to a poaching theory--pheasants or rabbits--the others scouting the idea as next door to the absurd.

"Look here," said Wilson, brilliantly, "we'll track the pair to their earth to-morrow. If they're after birds or bunnies I'll stand tea all round at Hooper's."

"All right," said Grim. "I'd like to know about that cartridge."

On the morrow the suspicious band quietly trotted out after dinner from St. Amory's, dressed ostensibly for a run down Westcote way. Once down the hill they lay well out in the fields, keeping a sharp watch through the hedges for their quarry. When they saw two well-known figures, feet on the rest, coasting merrily down and head for Westcote, they all drew a long breath and girded up their loins for the race.

"With luck and the short cuts," said Grim, stepping out, "we may just see 'em sneak into Pettigrew's woods."

"And we've got a mile in hand too," said Wilson.

The cronies ran tightly together, nursing their wind and keeping well screened from eyeshot from the road, not that either Acton, or Bourne dreamed that their afternoon's run was being dogged by anyone. From their numerous short cuts the scouts were necessarily out of view from the road, but they marked the two cyclists from point to point and themselves headed up hill and down dale straight for Westcote. They felt pretty well winded by now, as they stood panting in a breezy spinney, watching for the appearance of their quarry on the brown road beneath them.

"There they are," gasped Wilson, pretty blown.

"There's only one," said Rogers, "and it is that young owl Bourne, too.

He's shed Acton."

"Perhaps he's punctured," suggested Grim; "anyhow, we hang on to Jack."

Rather puzzled at the non-appearance of Acton, they kept the first-comer well in view as he pedalled hard for Westcote.

"That's Jack right enough," said Rogers; "and we'll have to leg it or he'll slip us. Jove! he's captured a wheel with a vengeance. Hear it hum."

The quartette strung down the hill full pelt, but when they got to the bottom the cyclist was a good hundred yards ahead. His pursuers came to a dead stop.

"May as well go home now," said Grim, in great disgust. "We can't dog him now, and anyhow it isn't Pettigrew's pheasants that Jack's after: he's gone past the woods. What a bone-shaker he's captured. Hear the spokes rattlin'."