Haviland's Chum Part 13

"My clothes all over blood!" said Anthony at last, when they were safe beyond pursuit. "What I do?"

Haviland examined him critically in the moonlight.

"So they are," he said. "Well, Cetchy, you must peel them off and stow them away in the ditch, and go in without them. You can think you're back in Zululand again."

"So I can. Yes," answered the other, showing his white rows of splendid teeth.

Half an hour later, two wearied perspiring figures shinned up the cord under the angle of the chapel wall at Saint Kirwin's, and so ended another night of excitement and adventure--as they thought.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE BOLT FALLS.

"I say, you fellows, there's no end of a row on," p.r.o.nounced Wood major, joining a group of others.

"No! Is there? What about? Who's in it?" were the eager inquiries which hailed the good news. For a row at Saint Kirwin's was, in its generation, akin to the Coliseum sports in theirs, inasmuch as it afforded pleasurable excitement to the mult.i.tude. To the small minority directly implicated it afforded excitement too, but the reverse of pleasurable. This particular group, however, being presumably clear of conscience, hailed the news with unfeigned satisfaction.

"Why, the small room at the end of Williams's dormitory are all in it, I believe," explained Wood major. "Cetchy's been caught getting out late at night."

"What, Cetchy? Haviland's chum?"

"Rather. We're going to see something, I can tell you."

"Then Haviland's in it too," said some one else.

"I expect so. I believe the whole room's in it."

"A case of Cetchy caught," remarked a puffy-faced fellow who set up for being a wag.

"Oh, shut up, Cross. We don't want Clay's second-hand wheezes," was all the appreciation he met with. "Why we've yelped at that in all its variations till I believe we'd sooner do his impos. than get off it by putting him in a good humour over that 'honk' any more. Go on, Wood.

What have you heard about it?"

"Why, Smithson minor told me. He's rather a chum of Cetchy's, you know.

The first he knew of it was seeing Cetchy come out of Nick's study looking precious puffy about the chops. Nick had been socking him all over the shop, he told Smithson; and then Nick came out himself, and maybe Smithson didn't slink off. Oh, no."

"Well, we shan't hear anything about it till to-morrow morning," said Cross. "Sure to come on at morning prep. Great Scott, but there'll be some swishing on!"

"Haviland won't take it, I expect."

"He'll be jolly well expelled then."

"He won't care. I know he won't take a swishing. I hated him when he was a prefect, but now I hope he'll score off Nick."

"P'raps he's not in it."

"Not in it? Why, the whole room's in it."

And so the discussion ran on; the while, however, the news had somehow leaked out, and the presage of a row--and a very big row at that--hung over the school like a thundercloud.

It will be necessary to go back.

For a day or two after the exploit chronicled in the last chapter our two midnight marauders plumed themselves on their feat of arms, and delighted to meet and fight their battle over again in a secluded corner of the playing fields, the only thorn in the rose being that they had lost the air-gun, abandoned during the precipitancy of their flight, and, of course, the pheasant. This, however, they decided was of small account compared with such a glorious experience as had been theirs, and they positively glowed over the recollection of their adventure. But they were a little premature in their elation. Retribution was at hand, and this is how the bolt fell.

To a group of boys strolling along a field-path not far from the school it was not strange that they should meet a keeper. What was strange to them was the gun in the hand of that worthy.

"That's a rum sort of gun you've got there," said one of them. "I say, let's have a look at it."

The keeper merely shook his head. Then an idea seemed to strike him, and he stopped.

"Yes, it be a rum gun, bean't it, young genelmen?" he said, extending it to them, but not loosing his hold of it. "That be one o' they new-fangled air-guns. They don't make no bang when they goes off."

The group gathered round interested. The keeper explained the working of the weapon, and from that got to talking on other matters--in fact, was extraordinarily chatty and affable, which was remarkable, because between gamekeepers and the Saint Kirwin's boys a state of natural hostility existed.

"I've heard tell," he went on at last, "that there's a black African young genelman up at the school there. If that's so, I'd like to make so bold as to see he. I 'ad a brother servin' in the wars again they Africans over yonder, and 'e told me a lot about 'em. Yes, I'd like to see he."

Now, under ordinary circ.u.mstances, this request would have caused them, in their own phraseology, to "smell a rat." Perhaps in this case it had that effect all the same; but then, as ill-luck would have it, the group the keeper had struck in this instance happened to be Jarnley and his gang. Here was a chance to pay off old scores. Here was a n.o.ble opportunity for revenge, and it would in all probability comprehend Haviland too. Jarnley, Perkins, and Co. were simply jubilant.

"There's no difficulty about that, keeper," said the former, genially.

"You go to the gate of the west field and ask any fellow to point you out Cetchy. I expect he'll be there now. Cetchy--mind, that's the name."

"I'll remember, sir, and thankee kindly. Mornin', young genelmen."

Three-quarters of an hour later our friend Anthony, having, in obedience to an urgent summons, hastened, though not without misgivings, to present himself in the Doctor's study, found himself confronted by a tall red-whiskered keeper, while on the table, exposed on a sheet of newspaper, lay his lost air-gun and the corpse of a fine c.o.c.k-pheasant.

Then he knew that the game was up.

"Yes, sir. That be he, right enough," said the keeper. "I saw him several times as I was a chevyin' of him. There was a good moon, and I'd swear to him anywhere, sir. There was another with him, sir, a tall young chap, but I never got a chance of seeing his face. But this one, I can swear to he."

"Very well," said the Doctor. "You had better go down to the porter's lodge, and wait there in case I should require to see you again."

The keeper saluted and retired.

"And now," went on the Doctor, in his most awe-inspiring tone, "what have you got to say? On the night of Tuesday, you and another--with whom I shall presently deal--were found by the man who has just gone out in one of Lord Hebron's coverts. That pheasant lying there was killed by you with that air-gun. Now, who was with you?"

"I don't know nothin' about it, sir."

"What?" thundered the Doctor, rising from his seat; and the next moment Anthony received a terrific box on the ear which sent him staggering against the table, followed up by another on the other side, the force of which wellnigh restored him to his original equilibrium. "So you would add lying to your other misconduct, would you? Now, answer my question. Who was with you?"

But the question was addressed seemingly to empty air. The Zulu boy, thinking to detect another hostile move, had incontinently dived under the table.

Here was a situation wholly outside the Doctor's experience. He was a violent-tempered man when roused, especially when his dignity had sustained, as he thought, any slight, but he had too much sense of that dignity to embark actively in the chase of a boy who had got under the table of his own study. Not for a moment, however, was he nonplussed.

"Come out and stand where you were before," he said, "and that at once, or I shall send for two prefects to drag you out, and shall cane you now as I have never caned a boy before, and that in addition to whatever punishment I shall decide to inflict upon you for your other offence.

Do you hear?"

Anthony did hear, and being, like most of his race, of a practical turn of mind, had rapidly decided that it was better to be thrashed once than twice; wherefore he emerged from under the table, and stood upright as before, but with a quick and watchful eye, ready to dodge any further hostile move on the part of the Doctor.