The Adventures of a Three-Guinea Watch Part 13

"But I do a.s.sure you, Tom--"

"That'll do," said Tom, snappishly; and Margetson did not go the length of saying what it was he was so ready to a.s.sure him of.

"Well," said Gus, "we'll meet you and the young cub at the cross roads by Sharle Bridge. The races don't begin till twelve, so we shall have lots of time. I mean to see if we can't get a trap at Gurley, and do the thing in style. What do you say? We could get one for about ten bob."

"All serene," said Margetson. "I'll fork out my share."

"You'll pay for me, Tom," said Shadbolt, "won't you?"

"I'll see," said Tom.

"All right, that's settled; and you are seeing about grub, Tom, aren't you? Don't forget the etceteras. What time have you told young mooney- face?"

"Nine. He's sure to be in time."

"Well, we'll start a little before, you know, and meet you quite by accident, and the young beggar won't smell a rat till we are safe in Gurley."

"And if he turns cantankerous?"

"Then we can put Shaddy to look after him."

"Who's going to win the Gulley Plate, Gus?"

And then the party fell to canva.s.sing the entries for the morrow's races, and making their bets, in which, of course, Tom stood almost bound to lose, whichever horse won.

Long ere they had parted company Charlie was sound asleep and dreaming, with me under his pillow.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

HOW MY MASTER DID NOT CATCH THE FISH HE EXPECTED.

About ten years before the time of my story it had happened that in a famous battle fought between her Majesty's troops and those of a hostile and savage king, the colours of the 300th Regiment were noticed to be in imminent peril of capture. The ensign who carried them was wounded, and already a score of the enemy were rushing forward to seize the prize and carry it off in triumph to their king. Suddenly, however, there dashed up to the spot a young cornet of dragoons, who, seeing the peril of his fellow-officer and the colours he carried, dragged him, flag and all, up nearly into his own saddle, and started off with his precious burden towards a place of shelter from the fire and spears of the savages.

Before, however, he had gone twenty yards the poor ensign tumbled to the ground, shot through the heart, yielding with his dying hands his colours to the dragoon. That plucky young soldier, wrapping the torn and stained flag round his body, set his teeth, stooped forward in his saddle, and, digging his spurs into his horse, galloped for his life.

He had a terrific gauntlet to run, and grandly he ran it. The friendly trench was in sight, the cheers of his comrades fell like music on his ears, a vision of glory and honour flashed through his mind, and then suddenly he reeled forward in his seat--a malignant shot had found him out at last, and, with the colours round him, he dropped from his horse into his comrades' arms a dead man.

This hero was an old Randlebury boy; and ever since that day, on every anniversary of his glorious death, Randlebury kept, and still keeps, holiday.

All this Charlie was informed of by his faithful chum, Jim Halliday, as the former was dressing himself on the morning of the eventful holiday in question.

What possessed him to get up at six, when he was not to start till nine, I cannot say. He even routed me from under his pillow at five, so fidgety was he, and as soon as ever I pointed to six he bounced out of bed as if he was shot.

"What are you up to, getting up at this time?" growled Jim, who, much to the mutual delight of the boys, slept in the same room with Charlie.

"Oh, you know; I don't want to be behindhand," replied Charlie.

"Behindhand! Why, do you know it's only just six?"

"I know that, and I mean to make the most of my holiday. I say, Jim, what do they want to give us a holiday for, do you know?"

"They don't want to at all; they've got to."

"Got to? What do you mean?" inquired Charlie, dragging on his boots.

And then Jim, with many yawns and growls, told him the story; and, without waiting for his comments thereon, rolled over and went off to sleep again.

Charlie spent his early hour in polishing up things generally. When he had polished up his rod with the lance-wood top, he polished up his green can and his hooks. Then he warmed me up with a piece of wash- leather, and then his many-fanged knife.

By the time these little jobs were accomplished, and Joe's study put in order, the breakfast bell sounded, and he went down with a mouth sore with whistling.

He caught sight of Tom Drift at another table, and nodded and waved his green can to him; he informed every boy within hearing distance that it was certain to be a fine day, whatever it looked like now; and he made the wildest and most indiscriminate promises to entertain his whole acquaintance at no end of a trout supper on the spoils of that day's sport. Twenty times during breakfast did he pull me out and look impatiently at my minute-hand slowly making its way from eight to nine; and as soon as ever the meal was over he rushed upstairs like mad for his rod and bag, and then tore down again four steps at a time, nearly knocking the head master over at the bottom.

"Gently, my man," said that gentleman, recognising in this cannon-ball of a young fellow his little travelling companion. "Why, what's the matter?"

"I beg your pardon, doctor," said Charlie; "did I hurt you?"

"Not a bit. So you are going to fish to-day?"

"Yes, sir," said the beaming Charlie. "I say, sir, do you think it'll be a fine day?"

"I hope so--good-bye. I suppose this can will be full when you come back?"

"Good-bye, sir," said Charlie, secretly resolving that if fortune favoured him he would present the two finest of his trout to the doctor.

He found Drift ready for him when he reached that young gentleman's study.

Besides his rod, Tom had a somewhat c.u.mbersome bag, which, as it carried most of the provisions for the whole party, he was not a little surly about being burdened with.

Charlie, of course, thought it was his and Tom's dinner.

"Is that the grub?" he cried. "Why, Tom Drift, you have been laying in a spread! What a brick you are! Look here, I'd carry it--isn't it a weight, though! If we get all this inside us two we shan't starve!"

And so they started, Charlie lugging along the bag and whistling like a lark.

"Looks cloudy," said Tom, who felt he must say something or other.

"Never mind, all the better for the trout, you know. I say, I wish I had my fly on the water this minute."

As Tom was silent, Charlie kept up the conversation by himself.

"I say, Tom Drift," said he, "if your mother could only see us two chaps going off for a day's fishing she--"

"Look here, draw it mild about my mother, young un. She can take care of herself well enough."

Charlie blushed to the roots of his hair at this rebuke, and for some time the flow of his conversation was arrested.

It was a good four miles from Randlebury to Sharle Bridge; and long ere they reached it Charlie's arm ached with the ponderous bag he was carrying. He did not, however, like to say anything, still less to ask Tom to take a turn at carrying it; so he plodded on, changing hands every few minutes, and buoying himself up with the prospect of the river and the trout.