THE BULLY-KILLER
Salmon's House, to which division of Deepwater College Jack Symonds
and his study-mates belonged, was famous for its exclusive set of
youngsters--a band who had clubbed together for their own advancement,
and the confusion of everybody else, and had named themselves the
Crees. It amounted in the long run to a sort of secret society; it had
its president, but no one outside its numbers knew who he was. It was
never known for certain who the members were, either; and that gave a
delightful uncertainty to everything connected with it.
It so happened that both Jack and his friend Billy Faraday were
members. With the others, they were notified that on a certain
afternoon a special meeting would be held. They knew well enough the
object of the meeting. Dick Richard, the founder of the Crees, and the
society's first president, had left at the end of the previous term,
and there would be some hot contention for his position.
"Do you mean to go for the job, Jack?" asked Billy, as they strolled
across the fields to the appointed spot--a secluded position in the
rear of a waste of scrub-land.
"Why not? It'd give me a bit of a pull, and there's no end of fun to be
got out of it," returned Jack, in his practical manner. "I don't see
anyone to give me much of a run for it."
"Except Cummles."
"Except Cummy, of course. And he can't do anything but bluster and kick
up a dickens of a row. What sort of a time would we have under him?"
"No sort of a time at all. The man's got no initiative."
"No--but any amount of push and brute strength!" Jack laughed.
When they arrived at Three Skull Hollow--an entirely fanciful name
bestowed upon it by the Crees--they discovered that most of the
Crees were already assembled, and the loud voice of Les Cummles was
dominating the assembly.
"Of course," he was saying, "there's absolutely no question--I'm
putting in for the job, and if anyone else thinks he'd like it, let him
say so." He stared round with a somewhat truculent expression. "Here's
Symonds and Faraday--they'll bear me out in this, I know."
It was a direct challenge.
"Bear you out in what?" asked Symonds quietly.
"Why, my filling Dick's place as president--you're agreeable, aren't
you?"
"I don't know so much about that, I was thinking of taking it over
myself."
"Hear, hear!" said an invisible Cree, behind Cummy's back. He wheeled
round and frowned upon the party.
"Now, what are the laws of electing the president?" he asked.
"Nominations first, and then a show of hands--that's all we've got to
do. It's quite simple." He took a seat and addressed the assembled
Crees. "I'm in the chair--any nominations for Chief Cree?"
"I propose Les Cummles," said one of the bully's toadies, with
clockwork readiness.
"Good--seconded? Thank you. Now, anybody else?"
He looked round fiercely, as if defying anybody else to speak. But,
finally, it was shown that he could not carry off the bluff. Billy
Faraday spoke in his quiet voice.
"Jack Symonds--my nomination," he said.
"I second that," another Cree spoke quickly, and there was a murmur of
approval.
"Anybody else?" Cummles's tone was distinctly nasty by now, and he
glared at Bill savagely. "No--well, we'll have a show of hands."
This time he frowned round on the Crees with real anger. He was not
a bad general, and he thought that by this show of force he would
intimidate any wavering members, and make them feel that it was perhaps
better to vote for him and feel safe.
The upraised hands for Cummles were counted slowly; there were
twenty-one. And then the Symonds vote was counted.
"Twenty-one also," said the Cree deputed to tell the votes.
"Dead heat!"
"Wait a moment," said Cummles. "As chairman, I have right to a casting
vote, and I--"
"Rot--it's a swindle!"
"All right, Moore--I'll settle with you afterwards," said Cummles
wickedly. "I've every right to settle--"
"You're a big bluff!"
Feeling was certainly running very high. Lots of the fellows who
had timidly voted for Cummles now regretted their action. Moore was
an excitable little fellow, and Cummles's threats had roused him to
defiance.
"Enough said. I--"
"Yah! Who do we want?"
"Symonds!" There was no mistaking the volume of the shout.
"Casting vote--" roared Cummles.
"Bluffer! Another counting! Another counting!"
"--chairman's right--"
"It's a swindle!"
"--therefore declare that--"
"Symonds, Chief Cree!"
"--I am elected to the position--"
A tremendous hullaboloo arose from the Cree meeting, and about a dozen
free fights between heated partisans were taking place. Upright on a
raised spot Cummles was endeavouring to state that, giving his casting
vote to himself, he was elected Chief Cree. Jack and Billy were more
like amused spectators, than anything else. The furious Crees were
not anxious to be ruled by the heavy hand of Cummles, but many sought
favour in his eyes by endeavouring to quell the insurgents.
There is no saying what might not have followed, but for the fact that
a strange diversion had been preparing itself, and now burst upon
the meeting of the Crees with no sort of warning. There was not even
any preliminary noise; but even if there had been, the uproar in the
meeting would have sufficed to drown it. Something darkened the sky
with startling abruptness; then, there was an immense crackling and
crashing in the scrub near by.
"Look out--coming over!" yelled a voice.
Only one or two heard the cry; Cummles, who was raging like a bull,
certainly did not. So that, when some weighty object smashed into
his back and hurled him to the ground with violence, he was taken
completely by surprise. He was precipitated into the waistcoats of a
couple of fellow-Crees who were seated upon the ground.
"Here--help!" shouted the assaulted ones, taking his action for one of
personal violence. "What have we--"
"Ouch!" bellowed Cummles, struggling in vain to free himself from the
tangle of arms and legs into which he had been so rudely thrown.
"Ha, ha, ha!" When the amazed Crees had collected their wits
sufficiently to be able to take in what was happening, the humour of
the situation was apparent. The object that had collided with Cummles
tugged and clung on to a rope--and at the other end of the rope was an
immense kite-like affair that flapped and ducked in the air twenty feet
above them. The plight of the astounded Cummles and the dangling and
racing legs was farcical in the extreme.
"Help!" came the cry of the aviator. "Grab the rope--she's getting
away. Catch hold, quickly!"
Several of the Crees flung themselves on the rope, and, hauling
manfully, brought the big kite to the ground. It was tugging with the
strength of several bulls, and it required all their strength to
bring it to earth. It was quite a big affair, of weird construction,
something along the lines of a box-kite, and Septimus Patch himself was
seated in a light saddle in the centre of it.
"Patch!" exclaimed Jack Symonds in astonishment.
"That same, comrade! I fear I startled you somewhat--eh? But the
machine would not behave."
His assistant, the boy who had been swinging on the rope in an
endeavour to hold the kite down was discovered to be Fane, the shy New
Zealander. Evidently he and Patch had struck up a friendship.
"Yes," he said, mopping his forehead, "I had my work cut out to keep
her down--I've been dragged over a mile and a half of scrub. The
blessed thing rises quicker than the price of eggs. Old Septimus nearly
had a wetting--didn't you, Patchie, old boy?"
"It looked like it for quite a while," admitted the inventor modestly.
"I must allow that I'd forgotten to provide for coming down again,
once I'd got up. In the future, I'll have to have about twenty juniors
hanging on to the rope. Or I might remedy that before the next ascent."
The Crees had gathered around the big kite, examining it with evident
curiosity.
"I say," said one of them, "she must be pretty strong to lift you up
like that."
"Well, she's not badly designed, comrade," said Patch, with lordly
condescension. "This is Flying Fox III. Numbers I and II, I regret to
state, would not fly. They absolutely refused. Why, I don't know. But
they--"
He found himself gripped hard by the shoulder, and turned to front the
crimson face of Cummles, who, angered as he had been by the opposition
to his presidency, had been doubly enraged by his ignominious fall. His
dignity had been injured, and as he had a certain prestige among his
fellows, he wanted redress.
"Look here," he said, shaking Patch's shoulder till the inventor's
horn-rimmed spectacles shivered on his nose. "Look here, what the
dickens do you mean by it?"
"Mean by what?"
"Why, barging into my back like that, and sending me flying? It was
your wretched kite thingummy, and like your cheek!"
"My dear fellow," said Patch.
"Dear fellow, nothing! It's an apology I want, you glass-eyed goat!
Down on your knees, too, and repeat what I say."
"I'm sure it wouldn't be worth repeating," said Patch coldly. "Anyway,
there was no need to flare up like that over a simple accident.
Reflect, comrade, on the injustice you are doing to yourself, and--"
"If you don't apologize the way I say," said Cummles inflexibly, "then
you're going to be put through it."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you'll get bashed," said Cummles, who was obviously in a
dangerous mood. His dignity had been injured, and he meant to show
the Crees just how he could impose his will on others. It should make
an impression, he thought. "If you think you can play your silly fool
tricks on me, then you're making the mistake of your young life! See?
Now, what about that apology?"
"No," murmured Patch, with a worried air. He had gone very white, for
the idea of a physical encounter hardly appealed to him. "You mean
you're going to fight me?"
"I don't fight fools like you," said Cummles trenchantly, still bent on
showing the Crees what he was made of. "I don't fight them--I just whip
them. Apologize?"
For answer, Patch gave one look round on the circle of still, watching
faces, and then sighed. Then, with a deliberate movement, he began to
take off his coat. A gasp went up, for Cummles was a big, bull-necked
sort of fellow, and a regular terror in a fight. Poor Patch, it seemed,
was in for a very torrid time; but the spectators were forced to
admire his courage. What sort of a chance would he have, though, with a
smashing hitter like Cummles?
It was quite unfair, and Jack Symonds for one was dead against it.
Cummles would have to learn to control his temper; it was too bad that
Patch should get whipped for a pure accident. Just as Jack was on the
point of protesting--just as, indeed, he had stepped forward to check
the fight preparations, a new voice cut in before he could utter a word.
"Wait a moment." It was Fane, the quiet New Zealander, and he looked
shyer than ever as he introduced himself, blushing, into the circle.
"Well?" Cummles demanded, with the truculence of a dog interrupted in
worrying a bone.
"Patch mustn't fight--can't fight," said Fane, still in that uneasy,
self-conscious manner. "You see--it wasn't his fault, really. I was the
one that actually barged into you, and so--"
"Are you ready to take his place then?" demanded Cummles, with brutal
directness.
"If necessary."
The Crees were even more disturbed at this, for if Patch was a hopeless
opponent for the bully, Fane was even more so. He was half a head
shorter than the big fellow, and his appearance was altogether quiet
and inoffensive. He removed his coat and, with the air of a veteran,
rolled up his sleeves.
"I'll see if I can't justify my title of bully-killer," he said,
without any appearance of boasting. "Will one of you give me a knee?"
"But look here--" said Jack.
"Where?"
"It's all absurd. You don't know what you're up against. Cummles here
is a fighter--"
"You wouldn't have me back down, would you?"
"No; but--"
"The fight will go on," said Fane simply. "I know how to take care of
myself. Cummles was anxious to pick a quarrel, and as Patch can't fight
for sour apples--"
Patch was standing by, with a little criss-cross mark of puzzlement
showing between his eyes.
"I ought really--" he began.
The sardonic voice of the bully interrupted him. "When you fellows
have finished gassing to save time," he said, "I'll be ready to thrash
you. Both, if you like--it doesn't matter to me a bit. One after the
other--who's first? But hurry up."
He had not troubled to remove his coat, anticipating an easy time with
Patch; but now he did so, and rolled up his sleeves, moved by something
in the bearing of the quiet boy before him.
Without any further argument, without any courtesies of combat, he and
Fane flew at each other, and there was the sound of a collision and
heavy blows. For a moment the spectators looked on with dismay, fearing
that Fane would pay dearly for his temerity and get hopelessly smashed
about. But in a minute or two their apprehension changed to excitement,
and they set up a volley of cheering.
Fane was a dark horse--everybody recognized that at a glance. He quite
obviously knew more than a little about boxing--and fighting, too. He
had a good stance, and hit long and straight, and with both hands, like
a professional.
Cummles was vastly shocked when, at the end of the first furious rush,
he ran fairly upon a stiff left jab that split his lip instantly. Again
and again he strove to get past that propped-out fist, but try as he
would he could not get his head out of the way, and every time it was
as if he had jammed his face against a beam of wood.
Then, too, Fane's right hand, with heavy body-swing behind it, followed
up the left like a piston and thudded upon every portion of Cummles's
anatomy in solid drives, until he began to feel acutely miserable, and,
stung to desperation like a tormented bear, he commenced to hit with
all his force, in wild swings that Fane dodged in good style. It was a
magnificent exhibition of pluck and skill of the first water, opposed
to brute force and doggedness. Fane seemed to be able to land hits at
will. A trickle of blood from the bully's split lip coursed down that
fellow's chin, and added nothing to his appearance.
"Go on, the bully-killer!"
The name had caught on, and the Crees yelled it in pure enjoyment,
for they had all suffered more or less at Cummles's hands, and they
appreciated to the full this repayment of his own medicine.
"Look at him--he's blowing like a grampus!"
Cummles was not in the best of training at this early stage of the
term, and he was feeling the disadvantages of his condition. He was
puffing badly and perspiring profusely. His movements slowed down and
he seemed tired. Fane could not hit hard enough to knock the bigger boy
over; but there was no doubt that he was cutting him about badly.
"Hand it out," yelled the bully's enemies, eager for the downfall of
their tyrant. "You know, Fane!"
The Crees went simply wild with delight, for Cummles was getting the
worst trouncing of his life. They cheered the New Zealander on with
loud cries of encouragement, although it would have been impossible to
have added to the sting and venom of his attack.
"Go on, Fane!"
"Give it to him--he's been looking for this for a long time!"
The bully-killer, as he had called himself, propped off another of
Cummles's blind rushes, with stinging hits.
"Had enough?" he gasped, lowering his hands momentarily.
"No!" wheezed Cummles, lurching forward; and with a tremendous swing he
clouted his opponent on the side of the head, sending him flying head
over heels to the ground, where he lay outstretched.