GRIM'S SUSPICIONS
As I said before, Jack Bourne, after the first bloom of his forbidden
pleasures had worn off, rather repented of the Raffles' connection, and
would gladly have exchanged it for the old, easy, open, and above-board
society of his chums. Grim, Rogers, Wilson, Poulett, etc., were, on their
side, rather sore at Jack's continual desertion of them and their causes.
They had just seen him pedalling easily after Acton, throwing them a
rather mirthless joke as he ran past, and they had, naturally, held a
council to consider matters.
"Wherever can the beggar get to is what I want to know," said Wilson.
"Can any one tell me what he wants with Acton?" said Grim.
"I think that it's Acton that wants him," said Rogers. "Come to think of
it, Grimmy, you're Acton's man. Why doesn't he lag you?"
"Grimmy's not to be trusted. He'd read the _billet-doux_"
"I don't believe that there's any notes, Wilson," said Grim,
impressively, "in this business. It's something deeper than that."
"What's the mystery, Mr. Grimmy Sherlock Combs?"
"Poachin'," said Grim, solemnly.
"What!" exclaimed the other, with breathless interest.
"Dunno, quite," said Grim; "but that young ass dropped a cartridge from
his pocket the other day."
"There's nothing to poach here, Grimmy."
"There's Pettigrew's pheasants," said Grim, mysteriously.
"But you don't shoot them in March."
"_We_ don't, Poulett, but poachers do."
"Tisn't likely that Acton----"
"Well, don't know," said Rogers, reflectively. "He's lived so long in
France, where they shoot robins and nightingales, that he'll not know."
"But Bourne would."
"That's why he looks so blue. He does know, and it preys on his mind."
W.E. Grim's pathetic picture of young Bourne turned out-of-season poacher
against his will by an inexorable Acton didn't seem quite to fill the
bill.
"Grimmy, you're an absolute idiot. That poachin' dodge won't do. Perhaps,
after all, they only bike round generally."
"What about that cartridge?" said Grim.
The little knot of cronies discussed the matter for a good half-hour,
Grim holding tenaciously to a poaching theory--pheasants or rabbits--the
others scouting the idea as next door to the absurd.
"Look here," said Wilson, brilliantly, "we'll track the pair to their
earth to-morrow. If they're after birds or bunnies I'll stand tea all
round at Hooper's."
"All right," said Grim. "I'd like to know about that cartridge."
On the morrow the suspicious band quietly trotted out after dinner from
St. Amory's, dressed ostensibly for a run down Westcote way. Once down
the hill they lay well out in the fields, keeping a sharp watch through
the hedges for their quarry. When they saw two well-known figures, feet
on the rest, coasting merrily down and head for Westcote, they all drew a
long breath and girded up their loins for the race.
"With luck and the short cuts," said Grim, stepping out, "we may just see
'em sneak into Pettigrew's woods."
"And we've got a mile in hand too," said Wilson.
The cronies ran tightly together, nursing their wind and keeping well
screened from eyeshot from the road, not that either Acton, or Bourne
dreamed that their afternoon's run was being dogged by anyone. From their
numerous short cuts the scouts were necessarily out of view from the
road, but they marked the two cyclists from point to point and themselves
headed up hill and down dale straight for Westcote. They felt pretty well
winded by now, as they stood panting in a breezy spinney, watching for
the appearance of their quarry on the brown road beneath them.
"There they are," gasped Wilson, pretty blown.
"There's only one," said Rogers, "and it is that young owl Bourne, too.
He's shed Acton."
"Perhaps he's punctured," suggested Grim; "anyhow, we hang on to Jack."
Rather puzzled at the non-appearance of Acton, they kept the first-comer
well in view as he pedalled hard for Westcote.
"That's Jack right enough," said Rogers; "and we'll have to leg it or
he'll slip us. Jove! he's captured a wheel with a vengeance. Hear it
hum."
The quartette strung down the hill full pelt, but when they got to the
bottom the cyclist was a good hundred yards ahead. His pursuers came to a
dead stop.
"May as well go home now," said Grim, in great disgust. "We can't dog him
now, and anyhow it isn't Pettigrew's pheasants that Jack's after: he's
gone past the woods. What a bone-shaker he's captured. Hear the spokes
rattlin'."
"Not so quick, Grimmy. He's wheeling into that little Westcote inn. We'll
run him down now."
The rider had indeed dismounted nearly a quarter mile ahead, and
instantly the Amorians were stringing down the road again. Before the
door of the little inn they found a bicycle propped up drunkenly against
the wall, and the Amorians, pumped though they were, had breath enough
left to explode over Bourne's machine. It was a "solid" of
pre-diamond-frame days, guiltless of enamel or plating, and handle-bars
of width generous enough for a Dutch herring-boat's bow.
"There's no false pride about Jack," said Grim, gloating over the weird
mount. "Whatever is he doing in here?"
"Liquid refreshment," said Rogers between a gulp and a gasp. "Oh, Jack,
was it for this and this that you gave us the go-by?"
"This place doesn't seem Jack's form somehow," said Wilson, looking
doubtfully up and down the little inn.
"Ring him out, Wilson," said Grim. "His little game's up now, and we can
rag him for an age over this."
"Let's try his mount first, Grimmy." Rogers wheeled out the machine and,
after hopping twenty yards, "found" the saddle. To mount it was one
thing, to ride it was evidently a matter of liberal education beyond the
attainments of a junior Amorian, for, as Rogers attempted a modest sweep
round, the machine collapsed, and he was sprawling on his back, the
bicycle rattling about his ears. Then--it seemed automatically to the
gasping Amorians--a sturdy youth rushed out of the inn flourishing a
half-emptied glass of beer in one hand, and he seized the struggling
Rogers by the scruff of the neck with the other. Rogers was
unceremoniously jerked to his feet before he quite realized what it was
all about. One or two men lounged out of the inn, and surveyed the scene
dispassionately, and the landlord pushed his way forward.
"Wot's the matter?"
"Matter!" gasped the youth, tightening his hold on Rogers' collar and
waving his glass dramatically.
"This young shaver was going to nick my bike. I seen him."
"I wasn't, you fool----" began Rogers, who did not like the man's
knuckles in his neck.
"Fool am I, you little ugly thief? Worn't you a-scorchin' down the road
w'it? I see you."
The other Amorians curled up with laughter at the way things were mixing
up, and at the last exquisite joke.
"Jove, Rogers, to think you meant to steal it!" burbled Poulett.
"Leave loose of my collar, you idiot," said Rogers, squirming in the
man's grasp; "I tell you it's all a mistake."
"That's all my h'eye. I see you sneak it, and it'll be a month for you.
Sneaking bikes is awful! Mistake be blowed."
"Oh! explain, some of you," said Rogers, frantically, "before I--Grim,
tell the lunatic."
The Amorians were beyond mere laughter now, but the landlord had wit
enough to see that there was some mistake somewhere, and he finally
persuaded the owner of the bicycle to moderate his attentions to the
exasperated Rogers. Grim recovered sufficiently to lift some of the
suspicions from that ill-used youth.
"We thought you were a friend of ours--back view only and at a distance,
you know--but you're not very like him, really, in the face. His name's
Bourne."
"Mine's 'Arris," said the bicycle owner, angrily.
"A very nice name, too;" said Grim, soothingly. "You'd better see what's
the damage to the machine for we must be trotting back to St. Amory's."
Mr. Harris spun the pedals and tried the wheels.
"It's shook up considerable, that's wot it is."
"All right," said Grim, hastily. "Here's a shilling. Give it a drink of
beer."
This was a wretched joke really, but it brightened the face of Mr. Harris
considerably when he heard it, and the loafers departed from their
dispassionate attitude, and became quite friendly. The landlord went in
to draw beer.
A minute afterwards the quartette was heading back for St. Amory's as
hard as it could go, and whenever a halt was called for breath, three of
the cronies collapsed on the earth, and howled at Rogers, who could not
see the joke.
Over a quiet little tea, after call-over, at Hooper's Rogers explained
fully his views.
"No, I'm not going to do any more detective work. We missed Acton and
Bourne beautifully; they don't go to Westcote, and Grimmy's idea about
poachin' 's rotten. He may be Acton's messenger-boy or the rider of a
decent pneumatic, but I'm going to let him go his own way."
When, afterwards, they rubbed embrocation into their wearied limbs, the
rest agreed with Rogers.
"But, yet," said Grim, "I'd like to know about that cartridge too."