The Cock-House at Fellsgarth Part 43

"No."

"Do you know that on the first half-holiday this term Rollitt nearly came to grief on the river?"

"What on earth has that to do with it?"

"Everything. You heard of it? Your young brother was with him, of course. And you heard that he lost Widow Wisdom's boat over the falls."

"Yes," said Fisher, suddenly beginning to see the drift of the cross- examination.

"And you heard that the very next day he bought her a new one for five pounds?"

"Yes, I did; but whatever right have you to connect that with the missing money?"

"Wait a bit. You were away all that afternoon, weren't you!"

"Yes."

"I wasn't. I happened to come over to look for you, and found you were out. The only fellow I met in the house was Rollitt. He'd just got back, and I met him at the door of this room. There, you can make what you like of it. Even a Cla.s.sic knows what twice two makes."

And he turned on his heel and left the room.

"There's goes a thoroughbred cad for you," said Denton.

"I don't know how we came to let him go without a kicking," said Fisher.

"Shall I call to him to come back?" asked Corder.

"Of course," said Fisher major, "it _is_ a curious coincidence about Rollitt. But I never thought of connecting the two things together before."

"No. It's utter guesswork on Dangle's part."

"If it comes to that," said Corder, "if Dangle was over here that afternoon, why shouldn't he have collared it as well as Rollitt?"

"He has any amount of money. He's not hard up, like Rollitt."

"All I can say is," said Denton, "I wish that cad had kept his suspicions to himself."

The object of these suspicions, meanwhile, blissfully unconscious of the interest with which he was being remembered at Fellsgarth, was utilising his holiday in the prosecution of his favourite sport.

This time he did not fish from a boat, nor did he affect the upper stream. He tried the lower reach; and not very successfully. For he had never been able to replace the tackle lost on the eventful afternoon when Widow Wisdom's boat had gone over the falls. He had his fly-book still, and had come across an old reel which, fitted to a makeshift rod with common twine, had to do duty until he could afford a regular new turnout. It was better than nothing, but the fish seemed somehow to get wind of the fact that they were not being treated with proper respect, and refused to have more to do than they could help with irregular- looking apparatus.

Rollitt put up with their unreasonableness for a long time that morning and afternoon. With infinite patience he tried one fly after another, and either bank in turn. He gave them a chance of being hooked under the falls, or right down on the flats by the lake. But it was no go.

They wouldn't be tempted.

At last, as it was growing dusk, he became conscious that it had been raining fast for half an hour, and that he was wet through. He looked up and saw a grim pall of wet lying over the lake and all up the side of Hawk's Pike, of which only the lower slope was distinguishable through the mist. It was not a promising evening; and Rollitt, now he came to think of it, might as well go back to Fellsgarth as stand about here.

So he collected his tackle and turned homeward. His path from the lake brought him across the track which leads round to the back of the mountain; and he was just turning in here when he heard what sounded like a halloo on the hill-side. It was probably only a shepherd calling his dog, but he waited to make sure.

Yes, it was a shout, but it sounded more like a sheep than a man.

Rollitt shouted back. A quick response came, and presently out of the mist a shadowy form emerged running down the slope, hopping over the boulders, and making for the lane.

A minute more and Wally presented himself.

"Hullo, is that you, Rollitt? I thought I was lost. I say, have you seen the others?"

Rollitt shook his head.

"Whew! I made sure they'd come down. I say, what a go if they're lost up there, a night like this?"

Rollitt looked up at the dim mountain-side and nodded again.

"I thought I was on a path, you know, and hallooed to them. They didn't hear, so I went back for them, and--so we've missed."

"Who!" said Rollitt.

"Do you know my young brother Percy, a Modern kid? He was one, and all our lot, you know, D'Arcy and Ashby and Fisher minor and--"

"Fisher minor," said Rollitt, suddenly becoming interested; "up there?"

"Yes--he's the lame horse of the party--not up to it. What's up, I say?"

Rollitt had suddenly deposited his rod under the wall, and quitting the path was beginning to strike up the base of the hill.

"Go, and bring guides," he growled.

"You'll get lost, to a dead certainty. I say, can't I come too?" said the boy, looking very miserable.

"No. Fetch guides. Come with them. Quick."

There were no guides to be had nearer than Penchurch, four miles off, and Wally, very cold and wet and hungry and footsore, with a big load on his heart as he thought of Percy, pulled himself together with an effort and stumped off.

Rollitt strode on up the slope in the gathering night. Cold and weather mattered little to him, still less did danger. But Fisher minor mattered very much. For Percy or any of the rest he might probably have stayed where he was; but for the one boy in Fellsgarth he oared about he would cheerfully go over a precipice.

Every now and again he stood still and shouted. But in the wind and rain it was impossible to say if any one heard him or called again.

After an hour or more he found himself on the first ridge, where for a few yards the ground is level before it rises again. Here he called again, once or twice. Once there came, as he thought, a faint distant whistle, but by no manner of calling could he get it to come again. He started off in the direction from which it seemed to come, calling all the way, but never a voice came out of the darkness. For a couple of hours he doggedly haunted the place, loth to leave it while a chance remained. Then he gave it up, and started once more up the steep slope.

He looked at his watch by the light of a match. It was eleven o'clock.

He shuddered, but not with the cold, and went on.

Something--who could say what?--told him that he must go higher yet.

Once last year, in company with Wisdom, he had been as far as the upper bog, and had wanted to go to the top. But Wisdom had dissuaded him.

Now, even in the darkness the ground seemed familiar, and he tramped on up the swampy steep till presently he found himself near the sound of rushing water at the foot of the great ravine.

The stream had grown so strong since the afternoon that to shout against it was more hopeless than ever. Yet Rollitt shouted. Had a voice replied, he felt sure he could have heard it. But none did.

Up the steep ravine he went, finding the going easier than through the spongy swamps below. About half-way up, just where the juniors ten hours ago had decided to turn back, as he looked up, he saw what seemed like clear sky through a frame in the mist. Was it clearing after all?

Yes. The higher he got the more the mist broke up into fleeting clouds, which swept aside every few moments and let in a dim glimmer of moonlight on the scene.