If the practical joke played upon the keeper in Hangman's Wood ever
transpired in the immediate neighbourhood of that ill-omened locality,
the tidings thereof did not reach as far as Saint Kirwin's--nor had its
perpetrators any opportunity of revisiting the place, by reason of the
distance, and the difficulty of so soon again obtaining leave from
call-over. But other coverts were levied upon in like fashion, all, or
nearly all, we regret to say, under equally forbidden conditions.
The summer term proved exceptionally fine, and Haviland and other
collectors revelled in the bright and glowing weather. If at times
illicit, the long breezy rambles over field and down were fraught with
all that was healthful and wholesome, in the splendid air, the beautiful
surroundings of the fairest of English landscapes, the hardening of the
young frame into the most perfect training, the excitement of a certain
amount of ever present risk, and the absorbing pursuit of a favourite
hobby. And then the cool plunge into the swimming pool at the close of
the long summer's day. There was plenty of cricket too, and some
exceptionally good matches in which Saint Kirwin's kept up its name
quite well.
"Can't think why you don't go in for cricket, Haviland," observed
Laughton, in the prefects room one whole holiday as he was getting ready
for one of the matches aforesaid, and in which he figured in the school
eleven as a bowler of no mean repute. "You ought to, you know. It's
due to your position."
"No, thanks, Laughton. You don't catch me wasting a splendid day like
this shying a ball at three silly sticks."
"Well, you could go in for batting. From what little I've seen you do
in that line, with a little practice you'd make a very fair bat indeed."
"Oh, yes. Get bowled first ball, and spend the rest of the day fielding
out. I'd as soon be doing an impos."
And the speaker finished some arrangement of cotton wool and cardboard
boxes, and stowing the same into his side pockets tightened the strap
wherewith he was girded, and nodding to Laughton started off there and
then upon his favourite pursuit--but alone.
After him from the third form room windows gazed a pair of wistful eyes.
Mpukuza, otherwise Anthony, had conceived a hero-worship for the other,
nearly akin to that felt by some of the old indunas of his race for
their king. To accompany Haviland on one of these rambles had become
for him something to live for. He would have "broken his gates" and
cheerfully welcomed the inevitable swishing thereby incurred, rather
than forego one such, and of late the occasions on which Haviland had
been graciously pleased to command his attendance had been growing more
and more rare--partly due to the unwritten code which was against a
prefect fraternising much with a junior unless the latter were about his
own age and size. So he gazed wistfully after his hero, and in the
expressive idiom of his race "his heart was sore."
"Hallo, Cetchy! Not gated, are you? Come out bird-nesting." The voice
was that of Smithson minor.
Since their little scrimmage in the dormitory the two had become very
friendly, and had been out together several times.
"All right."
"Thought you were gated when I saw Haviland go out alone," went on
Smithson as they started. "Hallo! There's Clay! Quick. We'll dodge
him. I've got an impos to do for him. I'm not gated, but if he saw me
he might want to know why I'm not doing it."
Having successfully dodged the master they struck across some fields.
But alack and alas! in escaping one possible danger they were destined
to run straight into the jaws of another and a more certain. At the
crossing of a stile there was a rush of big fellows who had been lying
in wait on the other side, and in a trice they were pounced upon and
collared by Jarnley and his gang.
"Got you at last, have I, Cetchy?" snarled that worthy, fairly grinning
with delight. "Oh, I've a long score to pay off on your black hide,
haven't I? and I'm going to begin now," tweaking the other savagely by
the ear with one hand though holding him firmly by the collar with the
other. "You would get me tanned by Clay, would you?"
"I was tanned too," protested the victim.
"And now you'll be tanned again. What Clay gave you--gave us--is
nothing to what we are going to give you now. And the seven hundred
lines, and the lines Sefton gave us all but let you off."
"Shut up, Perkins, you beastly bully!" yelped Smithson minor, who was
undergoing his share of trial in the little matter of a twisted arm and
a fistic punch or two thereon. "I'll report you to Haviland if you
don't leave us alone."
"Oh, you'd sneak, would you? Take that--and that"--emphasising the
expostulation with a couple of sounding smacks on the head.
"Come on, you fellows," said Jarnley. "Don't let him go, but we'll deal
with Cetchy first. Oh, yes, my black snowball, my woolly-pated beauty--
I told you I'd skin you alive, didn't I? I told you I'd rip the black
hide off you, and now I'm going to do it. Now then, spread-eagle him
over the steps of that stile. Oh, yes. We've been keeping these for
you many a long day, my noble snowball," producing a thick but supple
willow switch, and one of the others, of whom there were just half a
dozen, producing one likewise.
It was then or never. The victim, well aware of what a savage thrashing
would be inflicted upon him, should he fail, made one last effort.
Before the others had time to seize him he struck his heel down sharply
on to Jarnley's toes, crushing them into the ground, at the same time
sending his elbow back with all his force. It caught the bully fair in
the pit of the stomach, and with a howl, promptly strangled in a gasp,
Jarnley partially relaxed his hold. In a trice the Zulu boy had
wrenched himself free, and, deftly ducking between two of the others who
sprang at him, was off like a shot.
Jarnley was beside himself with rage.
"You asses!" he shouted gaspingly as he recovered his wind. "All this
time we've been looking out for him, and now, just as we've got him, you
let him get away."
"It strikes me it was you who let him get away," retorted Perkins.
"Well, we'll take it out of this little beast instead."
Poor Smithson minor howled for mercy, but he howled in vain. They
pulled him down over the stile step, the switches were uplifted and
ready when--
"Whack! Whack!" came a couple of stones. "Whack--whack--whack!" came
three more, flung hard too, and with a terrible precision. One struck
Perkins on the hand, causing him to dance and swear all his fingers were
broken. Another hit Jarnley on the shoulder, while two more found their
billet in violent contact with another of the bullies--and there, in a
gap in the hedge some little distance off, stood the one who had
escaped, grinning in mingled vindictiveness and glee. Other stones
followed, hurled with the same unerring precision. To proceed with
their congenial work under that terrible bombardment was impossible--and
so, leaving one in charge of Smithson, the gang started in pursuit of
the Zulu boy.
The latter chuckled, for he knew that not one of them could get any
nearer to him than he chose, when it came to running. He sprang down
into the road again, quickly shovelled up a double handful of stones,
and loped on. Then he turned, just as the pursuers came within easy
range, and opened fire again. It was too much. With dire threats they
beat a retreat. They would get hold of him again sooner or later, they
declared, and that time he would not get off at any price. At all of
which the Zulu boy chuckled and laughed, hurling abusive epithets at
them in his quaint English.
The while poor Smithson, in the grasp of the big fellow who custodied
him, was having a bad time, in the shape of a slight forestalment of
what he might expect when the others returned. But for him, too, came
relief--rescue, and it came in the shape of a couple of prefects who
appeared in sight, sauntering along the field-path towards them.
"You'd better let me go," he said, "or I'll call out to Street and
Cluer."
The other saw the force of this, and, with a threat and a sly cuff,
acted upon it, and slunk away to give the alarm to the rest. Half an
hour later Smithson and Anthony were forgathering under a hedge, talking
over their escape.
"Well, you are no end of a brick, Cetchy," said the former. "Why,
they'll make you cock chief of your tribe one of these days, I should
think."
"Ha--ha--ha!" chuckled the other. "Jarnley hurt more'n we hurt. All of
'em hurt. Ha--ha--ha!"
"Well, you got me out of it with those beasts. I say, Cetchy, old chap,
I'm expecting a hamper next week, and won't we have a blow out then!" he
added, in a burst of gratitude and admiration.
"Hamper? What's that?"
"Why, a basket of tuck. Grub, you know, from home. No end of good
things."
"Ha! All right," said the other with a jolly laugh.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
That day Haviland was making the most of his time and his solitary
ramble. His collecting boxes were fairly well filled; among other
specimens he had hit upon a grasshopper warbler's nest, whose existence
he suspected, containing five eggs, beautifully fresh and thus easily
blown, likewise a sedge-warbler's, hung cuplike, among the bulrushes of
a reedy pond. The spoils of two wheatears, extracted with some
difficulty from a deep burrow on the slope of Sidbury Down, had also
fallen to his lot, and now, stretched on the springy turf on the summit
of that eminence, he was enjoying a well-earned rest, thoroughly
contented with himself and all the world. And what a view lay
outstretched beneath and around--a fair, rolling champaign, green meadow
and darker wood--here and there the shining surface of a pond: farm
buildings too, picturesque with their red roofs and yellow corn-stacks,
nestling among hanging elms noisy with the cawing of restless rooks, and
the shrill whimsical chatter of jackdaws. The bark of a sheepdog, and
the glad melodious shout of the cuckoo here and there, were borne upward
on the still air--and far away over this beautiful landscape the brown
high-pitched roofs of Saint Kirwin's, conveying a sort of monastic
suggestion in its surroundings of field and wood.
Haviland had been making the most of his day--therefore this was his
fourth expedition, and it was now late afternoon. His watch marked ten
minutes past five, and chapel was at six. There was plenty of time, but
he thought he would take it easy going back. So, having allowed himself
another five minutes' rest, he took a final look around, and started to
come down.
He had nearly reached the bottom of the slope when he stopped short,
with an exclamation of unbounded amazement and unmistakable dismay. He
stood listening, motionless, intent. Only the sound of a bell, pealing
out with startling plainness through the sleepy afternoon air. Great
heavens! It was the chapel bell at Saint Kirwin's.
No. It couldn't be! Why, it wasn't nearly time. Chapel was at six--
not half-past five. Eagerly, almost convulsively, he jerked forth his
watch. Still the hands marked ten minutes past five.
He groaned aloud. The game was up. Not by any possibility could he now
be in time for chapel. The bell always rang for a quarter of an hour,
and he knew--none better--that exactly double that period of time was
required to cover the distance between where he stood and the school
gates, and that at a sharp run all the way. By a wellnigh superhuman
effort it might possibly be done in twenty-five minutes, but not one
second less, and here he was with something under a quarter of an hour
to do it in. He was in despair.
For being late for chapel was one of the most heinous offences he could
commit. The only chance for him was if for any reason the Doctor should
happen to be absent himself. In that event the best he could expect was
a stiff imposition from the master of the week. Should however the Head
be there, as was nearly always the case--why then it would mean certain
suspension for him at any rate.
He glared at the offending watch, and shook it savagely. It ticked
feebly for a few seconds, then hopelessly stopped once more. A pretty
trick it had played him, and he felt inclined to hurl it into the first
pond he should pass, as he sped along at a hard steady run: for every
minute he was late would, if possible, render his case worse.