The Weathercock Part 1

The Weatherc.o.c.k.

by George Manville Fenn.

CHAPTER ONE.

TOADSTOOLS!

"Oh, I say, here's a game! What's he up to now?"

"Hi! Vane! Old weatherc.o.c.k! Hold hard!"

"Do you hear? Which way does the wind blow?"

Three salutations shouted at a lad of about sixteen, who had just shown himself at the edge of a wood on the sunny slope of the Southwolds, one glorious September morning, when the spider-webs were still glittering with iridescent colours, as if every tiny strand were strung with diamonds, emeralds and amethysts, and the thick green moss that clothed the nut stubbs was one glorious sheen of topaz, sapphire and gold. Down in the valley the mist still hung in thick patches, but the sun's rays were piercing it in many directions, and there was every promise of a hot day, such as would make the shade of the great forest with its acorn-laden oaks welcome, and the whole place tempting to one who cared to fill pocket or basket with the bearded hazelnuts, already beginning to show colour in the pale green husks, while the acorns, too, were changing tint slightly, and growing too big for their cups.

The boy, who stood with his feet deep in moss, was framed by the long lithe hazel stems, and his sun-browned face looked darker in the shade as, bareheaded, his cap being tucked in the band of his Norfolk jacket, he pa.s.sed one hand through his short curly hair, to remove a dead leaf or two, while the other held a little basket full of something of a bright orange gold; and as he glanced at the three youths in the road, he hurriedly bent down to rub a little loam from the knees of his knickerbockers--loam freshly gathered from some bank in the wood.

"Morning," he said, as the momentary annoyance caused by the encounter pa.s.sed off. "How is it you chaps are out so early?"

"Searching after you, of course," said the first speaker. "What have you got there?"

"These," said the lad, holding up his basket, as he stepped down amongst the dewy gra.s.s at the side of the road. "Have some?"

"Have some? Toadstools?"

"Toad's grandmothers!" cried the lad. "They're all chanterelles--for breakfast. Delicious."

The first of the three well-dressed youths, all pupils reading with the Reverend Morton Syme, at the Rectory, Mavis Greythorpe, Lincolnshire, gave a sidelong glance at his companions and advanced a step.

"Let's look," he said.

The bearer of the basket raised his left hand with his fungoid booty, frankly trusting, and his fellow-pupil delivered a sharp kick at the bottom of the wicker receptacle--a kick intended to send the golden chalice-like fungi flying scattered in the air. But George Vane Lee was as quick in defence as the other was in attack, and his parry was made in the easiest and most effortless way.

It was just this:--

He let the basket swing down and just pa.s.sed his right hand forward, seeming only to brush the a.s.sailant's ankle--in fact it was the merest touch, but sufficient to upset the equilibrium of a kicker on one leg, and the next moment Lance Distin was lying on his back in a perfect tangle of brambles, out of which he scrambled, scratched and furious, amidst a roar of laughter from his companions.

"You beggar!" he cried, with his dark eyes flashing, and a red spot in each of his sallow cheeks.

"Keep off!" cried the mushroom bearer, backing away. "Lay hold of him, Gilmore--Aleck!"

The lads addressed had already caught at the irate boy's arms.

"Let go, will you!" he yelled. "I'll let him know."

"Be quiet, or we'll all sit on you and make you."

"I'll half kill him--I'll nearly break his neck."

"No, don't," said the boy with the basket, laughing. "Do you want your leave stopped? Nice you'd look with a pair of black eyes."

"You can't give them to me," roared the lad, pa.s.sionately, as he still struggled with those who held him, but giving them little trouble in keeping him back.

"Don't want to. Served you right. Shouldn't have tried to kick over my basket. There, don't be in such a temper about that."

"I'll pay you for it, you miserable cad!"

"Don't call names, Distie," said the lad coolly. "Those who play at bowls must expect rubbers. Let him go, boys; he won't hurt me."

It was a mere form that holding; but as the detaining pair loosened their hold, Lance Distin gave himself a violent wrench, as if he were wresting himself free, and then coloured to the roots of his hair, as he saw the laugh in his adversary's eyes.

"Distie's got no end of Trinidad sun in him yet.--What a pa.s.sionate fellow you are, Cocoa. I say, these are good, really. Come home with me and have breakfast."

Lance Distin, son of a wealthy planter in the West Indies, turned away scornfully, and the others laughed.

"Likely," said Fred Gilmore, showing his white teeth. "Why, I wouldn't poison a cat with them."

"No," said Aleck Macey; "I know."

"Know what?"

"It's a dodge to make a job for his uncle, because the doctor can't get any practice."

"Don't want any," said the lad, good-humouredly. "If he did, he'd go back to Savile Row."

"Not he," snarled Distin, pausing in his occupation of removing thorns from his jacket. "Killed all his patients, and was obliged to run away into the country."

"That's it!" said Vane Lee, with a laugh. "What a clever chap you are, Distie; at least you would be if your tongue wasn't quite so sharp.

There, shake hands, I didn't mean to hurt you."

He stretched out rather a dirty hand, at which the young Creole gave a contemptuous glance, looked at his own white fingers, and thrust them into his pockets.

"Ah, well, they are dirty," said Vane, laughing. "No, they're not.

It's only good old English soil. Come on. Uncle will be glad to see you, and then we'll all walk up to the Rectory together."

_Crick_!

Distin struck a match, and, with a very haughty look on his thin face, began to puff at a cigarette which he had taken from a little silver case, Vane watching him scornfully the while, but only to explode with mirth the next moment, for the young West Indian, though he came from where his father's plantations produced acres of the pungent weed, was not to the manner born, and at the third draw inhaled so much acrid smoke that he choked, and stood coughing violently till Vane gave him a hearty slap on his back.

Down went the cigarette, as Distin made a bound forward.

"You boor!" he coughed out; and, giving the lad a malevolent look, he turned haughtily to the others.

"Are you fellows coming home to breakfast?"

He did not pause for an answer, but walked off sharply in the direction of the Rectory, a quarter of a mile from the little sleepy town.