The Burglary
A storm of extreme violence swept across Foxenby one night. It was
like a gigantic oratorio of wind-music, with the sea's roar as an
accompaniment.
The dormitories faced west, and therefore missed the worst of the gale,
though some of the boys lost sleep through it. Dick and Roger were
among the sufferers from insomnia, and got up before daybreak by mutual
consent, meaning to make themselves a cup of coffee in their study.
"Jove, listen to the windows rattling!" cried Dick. "And how blinking
draughty it is! Why, there's snow on the table!"
"No wonder," Roger said. "Here's a pane of glass blown clean out, just
as if it had been cut by a glazier's diamond. We shall have to do the
'Mary Ann' business this morning. Bring the mop, Dick, old son."
"Plus a sheet of brown paper as a dummy window-pane, what? I say,
Roger, flash your electric torch into this corner--it's as dark as
Erebus. Things seem topsy-turvy, too. I've cut my hand against a
broken teacup already."
Roger's torch pierced the gloom, and the chaos it disclosed brought a
cry of dismay from Dick.
"Oh, my hat!" he exclaimed. "There's been dirty work here to-night,
and it's not all the wind's doing, either. Have a squint, Roger!"
"Burglars!" cried Roger. "They've burst open the locker, and it's any
odds our money's gone. Investigate, Dick, quick!"
No investigation needed! The thieves had made a good job of it!
"Not even left a luck-penny behind them!" groaned Dick. "Roger, old
man, we're 'broke'. The hounds have cleaned us out!"
"Our savings gone, and every cent of the _Rag's_ subscription money,
likewise! Oh, confound that printing-works' manager--why the dickens
couldn't he have taken the 'dibs' when we offered to pay? It--it's
stark tragedy, Dick!"
He sank into a chair with his head in his hands, apparently
overwhelmed. Dick, always more practical, hastened to the door.
"Crying mops up no spilt milk, old boy," he said. "The police must
know of this. I'll knock up Mr. Rooke, and get him to telephone down."
Roger's teeth were chattering, but he followed Dick to the
housemaster's quarters, and helped him to pommel the bedroom door. Mr.
Rooke grumbled sleepily at this unceremonious alarum. He had been
awake half the night, and he eyed the boys with sour disapproval until
they had explained matters. Then he became gravely alert.
"Show me the damage," he said. Having seen it, he flew back with long
strides to a room next his own and examined a cabinet there. It had
been wrenched open and its contents extracted.
"Boys," he gasped, "that's the Headmaster's coin and pewter cupboard,
and they've stripped it bare. Coins of the Roman era, with some almost
invaluable old silver and pewter besides. He had them insured for some
hundreds of pounds, but money can't replace them. Hello, there!" He
was at the telephone now. "This is Foxenby School; get me the Moston
police-station, please--I don't know its number. Quick as you possibly
can--there's been a burglary."
At his command Dick and Roger hurried off to awaken the Head and the
other masters, some of whom speedily discovered that they, too, had
been robbed in a greater or lesser degree. But all their troubles
paled before the Old Man's loss. He had thought his treasure-cabinet
burglar-proof, and his usually stern face now seemed almost boyishly
distressed. He was writing a book about his unique collection, and the
recovery of the treasure was essential to the manuscript's completion.
"I'm sorry for everybody who has been robbed," he said, "and devoutly
hope we may recover the stolen goods. You boys have lost nothing, I
hope?"
Roger was beginning to explain that they had, indeed, lost a very great
deal, but the prompt arrival of a police-inspector silenced him.
"Our men are already out scouring the district," the inspector briskly
reported. "The burglars may not have escaped. Awfully sorry this has
occurred, sir; must have slipped in between the beats. Can I see the
rifled rooms, please?"
His tour was so thorough that Mr. Rooke and the boys lost patience, and
begged the Head to let them join in the search for the thieves.
"Yes, go," the Old Man agreed, "but be wary. Burglars are usually
armed. Don't jeopardize your skins by indiscreet valour."
It proved altogether an unprofitable adventure. The wind on the heath
stung their faces with icy points of hail, and over that wide expanse
of moorland a regiment of hidden men could have escaped detection. But
it was quite unlikely that the burglars had remained in the district.
They had the choice of several roads leading inland, and were probably
miles away by now.
Fagged out and wet to the skin, the trio gave it up towards lunch-time,
hoping that the police had had better luck. But they hadn't, nor had
any of the hardier schoolboys who had taken up the quest.
It looked like a cleverly pre-arranged piece of cracksmanship, and few
of those despoiled entertained much hope of seeing their property
again. The local police were up against a big thing, which oppressed
and baffled them.
The inspector took away a few photographs, together with an index of
the Head's stolen valuables. Dick and Roger could give him no workable
details of their loss.
"It was all in silver and notes, and we hadn't taken the numbers,"
Roger explained.
The inspector shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, young gentlemen, but
recovering cash is like getting butter out of a dog's throat. I've
made a note of the totals, and we'll do our utmost, but----"
"Oh, we quite understand, thank you, inspector," said Dick. "It's
'good-bye for ever, good-bye', to quote Tosti's song. Hope you'll have
luck with the Head's stuff, anyhow--that's far more important. He's
fearfully cut up about it."
The two chums walked off together in silence. Both feared to voice the
dread that was in their minds, and it was a relief to come across
Hadwin, the school librarian and sports' secretary, who was pinning
three announcements on the hall notice-board.
Hadwin was a quiet boy, exceedingly tactful always, and he left them at
once, saying as he went:
"There's something there which will interest you chaps, I think. We're
all awfully sorry to hear of what happened last night. Mr. Rooke told
us you'd lost everything. Hard lines!"
Not too pleased that everybody knew, they thanked the librarian, and
turned to read what he had fastened on the board.
One paper announced that, owing to the urgency of commencing structural
alterations within the School, the Christmas holidays would begin a
week earlier than usual.
"Good biz!" commented Roger. "That should save us publishing a
Christmas Number, anyhow."
Another paper asked that boys who had seen or heard anything suspicious
on the previous night would at once communicate with the Headmaster, so
that the police might be given every possible clue.
"Nothin' doin' there," said Dick. "It all happened away from the
dormitories, worse luck. They knew their way to the Golden West all
right!"
The third announcement quickened their interest somewhat. It referred
to the County Schools' "Final", and set forth that "the Committee had
carefully considered the unfortunate incident which terminated the
final tie at Walsbridge, and, while appreciating the sportsmanship of
St. Cuthbert's written request that the Cup should be awarded to
Foxenby, were unable to do otherwise, in face of Regulation 17, than
order the match to be replayed in its entirety. The re-play would take
place on the Walsbridge F.C. ground, before Easter, on a date to be
mutually arranged."
"Well, that's sticking to the strict letter of the law, in all
conscience," commented Roger. "St. Cuthbert's, like good sports, give
us the Cup, but the Committee won't."
"I agree with them, Roger--they're right!"
"What!"
"Honest, old boy! A goal's a goal when the ball's in the net--not
before. Fluffy Jim put it there; I didn't."
"Oh, come off it, Dick! You would have done."
"I should, almost certainly. But there's the very outside chance that
I might have slipped on the goal-line, and lost the ball. Funnier
things have happened, especially in exciting cup-ties. Therefore, the
Committee's ruling is fair."
Roger's eyes shone with appreciation of his chum's absolute
impartiality.
"Righto!" he agreed. "You and the Octopus are a pair! Anyhow, it'll
be great to see such another football duel as that was."
"I wish the re-play were to-day, Roger," said Dick, earnestly. "It
would take my mind off the--the other thing."
"Agreed. We're both of us trying, with poor success, not to look as
miserable as we feel."
"I shall get a special 'exeat' to-morrow, Roger, and go down to tell
that printer chap how things are."
"Quite the soundest policy, dear old chum. I heartily approve. Here,
let's go to the Common-room and have a bit of music. Nero fiddled
while Rome was burning--we'll bang the piano and trust to luck, too.
Are you game, Captain?"
His begone-dull-care manner, so unusual with Roger, lifted Dick up
responsively.
"Cheerio!" he cried. "Lead the dance, Sir Roger de Coverley!"