"How shall we know you?"
And the spy said:
"I shall be disguised as a farmer, in gaiters and the sort of clothes
farmers go to market in on Saturdays; and I shall be in the bar with
other men. And one of these men will be a very dangerous German secret
agent, who has a 'wireless' at his house. And when we've got him, we
shall go to his house and destroy the 'wireless.' And now you'd better
be getting on, or people will think it suspicious. And you shall have
your money again next Saturday."
So we left him, and the six shillings with him, and I was by no means so
pleased and excited about it as Travers minor. Still, I was excited in
a way, and hoped the following Saturday would be glorious; and Travers
said it would undoubtedly be the greatest day we had spent up to that
time.
We had gone two hundred yards, and were wondering what the German would
look like, and if he'd make a fight, when we were much startled by a man
who suddenly jumped out of the hedge and stopped us.
It was a policeman in a very excited frame of mind.
"What did that bloke up the road say to you?" he began; and Travers
minor, remembering what contempt the great spy had for policemen, was
rather haughty.
"Our conversation was private," he answered, and the policeman seemed
inclined to laugh.
"I know what your conversation was, very well," he answered. "Soapy
William wouldn't tire himself talking to you kids for fun. Did you give
him any money?"
In this insolent way the policeman dared to talk of Baden-Powell's
brother!
"His name is not Soapy William," answered Travers, who had turned red
with anger, "and he's got no use for policemen, anyway."
"No, you take your dying oath he hasn't," said the policeman. "If he
told you that, he's broke the record and told you the truth. Did you
give him money, or only a fag?'
"We lent him money for a private purpose, and I'll thank you to let us
pass," said Travers minor.
But the policeman wouldn't.
"He's as slippery as an eel," he said, "and I've been waiting to cop him
red-'anded for a fortnight. So now you'd better come and overtake him,
for he's lame and can only crawl along. And when I talk to him, you'll
be surprised."
"You're utterly wrong," Travers minor told the policeman. "You're quite
on the wrong scent, and if you interfere with that man, you'll very
likely ruin your own career in the Force. He's much more powerful than
you think."
But the policeman said he'd chance that, and then, in the name of the
law, he made us come and help him.
It was a most curious experience. When we got there, the spy had
disappeared, and the policeman, knowing that he could only go about one
mile an hour, said he must be hidden somewhere near.
"And if you chaps are any good as scouts, now's your chance to show it,"
he said.
By this time I began to believe the policeman, for he was a big man and
very positive in his speech; but Travers hated him, and if he'd found
the spy, I believe he would have said nothing. But I found him, or,
rather, I found his boot. He had, no doubt, seen us stopped by the
policeman, and then hastened to evade capture. There was a haystack in
a field, and he had gone to it, and on one side, where it was cut open,
there was a lot of loose hay, and he had concealed himself with the
utmost cunning, all but one boot. This I observed just peeping out from
a litter of loose hay, and not feeling equal to making the capture
myself, I pretended I had not seen the boot, and went off and told the
policeman, who was hunting some distance off, and also eating
blackberries while he hunted.
He was much pleased and hastened to make the capture; and when he
arrived and he saw the boot, he said: "Hullo, Soapy, old pard! Got you
this time, my boy!"
Then the hay was cast aside, and the great spy; otherwise known as Soapy
William, rose up.
It was rather a solemn sight in a way, for he took it pretty calmly, and
said he'd been wanting a fortnight's rest for a long time.
After the capture, the policeman seemed to lose interest in Travers
minor and me. In fact, he didn't even thank us, but he gave us back our
money, and it was rather interesting to find that Soapy William, besides
our six shillings, had the additional sum of two and sevenpence
halfpenny also.
Travers minor didn't speak one single word, going back to Merivale,
until we were at the gates; then he said a thing which showed how
fearfully he felt what had happened.
He said:
"It makes me feel almost in despair about going into the Church, Briggs,
when there's such wickedness as that about."
And I said:
"I should think you would want to go in all the more."
And afterwards, when we had changed and had tea, and we were in school,
he got calmer and admitted I was right.
But he took a gloomier view of human nature afterwards, and often, on
scouting days, he said there was more satisfaction in helping a beetle
across a road, or making a snail safe, than there was in trying to be
useful to one's fellow-creatures.
We had to go and give evidence against Soapy William before a Justice of
the Peace two days later. In fact, it was Sir Neville Carew, who lived
at the Manor House, and he seemed to be very much amused at our
evidence, and almost inclined to let Soapy off. But he gave him a
fortnight, and Soapy said to us as he 'oped we'd let the great
Baden-Powell know how he was being treated; and everybody laughed,
including Brown, who had gone to the court with us.
But, after that, Dr. Dunston cooled off to the Boy Scouts a lot; and
when the terrific adventure to Travers minor finally occurred, about
three weeks after, Travers major said it was a Nemesis on old Dunston;
and so undoubtedly it was.
Though not actually in it, I heard all the particulars--in fact,
everybody did, for naturally Dr. Dunston was the most famous person in
Merivale, and when this remarkable thing overtook him, The _Merivale
Weekly Trumpet_ had a column about it, and everybody for miles round
called to see him and say how jolly glad they were it wasn't worse.
It was a fierce afternoon, with the leaves flying and the rain coming
down in a squally sort of way, and Travers minor and I went for a drill,
and after the drill we scouted a bit on rather a lonely road where
nothing was in the habit of happening. But, as Travers truly said, the
essence of scouting is surprise, and because a road is a lonely and
uneventful sort of road, it doesn't follow something may not happen
unexpectedly upon it.
He said:
"No doubt the roads in the valley of the river Aisne, in France, have
been pretty lonely in their time, but think of them last September!"
So we went, and one motor passed us in two miles; and two dogs poaching
together also passed, and in a field was a sheep which had got on its
back and couldn't get up again, being too fat to do so. We pulled it up.
In another field was a bull, and we tried to attract it, and scouted
down a hedge within fifty yards of it, to see if it was dangerous, and
warn people if it was; and I went to within forty yards of it, being a
good twelve yards from the hedge at the time, but it paid no attention.
Then, just at the end of the road, we came across an old woman sitting
by the roadside in a very ragged and forlorn condition, with a basket of
watercresses and also about twelve mushrooms.
Thinking she might be lame, or otherwise in difficulties, Travers minor
went up to her and said:
"Good evening! D'you want anything?"
And she said:
"Yes, a plucky lot of things, but none of your cheek."
"It wasn't meant for cheek. I'm a Scout," said Travers minor.
And she said:
"Oh, run along home and ask mother to let out your knickers, else you'll
bust 'em!"
Travers turned white with indignation, but such was his great idea of
discipline, that he didn't tell her she was a drunken old beast, which
she was, but just marched off. But he was fearfully upset, all the
same, and, instead of pouring out his rage on the horrid old woman, he
poured it out on me. He'd been a bit queer all day, owing to a row with
Brown over a history lesson, in which Travers minor messed up the story
of Charles II; and now, what with one thing and another, he lost his
usual self-control and got very nasty.
He said scouting with another person was no good--not with me, anyway.
And I said:
"What have I done?"
And he said:
"You're such a fathead--nothing ever happens when you're about!"
I told him to keep his temper and not make a silly ass of himself. I
also asked him what he thought was going to happen. I said:
"We all know you're always ready for anything--from an Uhlan to a
caterpillar--but it seems to me the essence of scouting is to keep wide
awake when nothing is happening, like the fleet in the North Sea. Any
fool can do things; the thing is always to be ready to do them, and not
get your shirt out and lose your nerve because there's nothing to do."
This good advice fairly settled Travers minor. He undoubtedly lost his
temper, as he admitted afterwards, and he said:
"When I want you to tell me my business, Briggs, I'll let you know."
And I said:
"Your first business is to keep your hair on, whatever happens."
And he said:
"Then I'll relieve you of my company, Briggs."
And, before I could answer, he had got through the hedge and gone off
over a field which ran along a wood. I watched him in silent amazement,
as they say, and he crossed the field and entered the wood and
disappeared.
This action alone showed what a proper rage he was in, because he had
gone into the Manor Woods, which was not only going out of bounds, but
also trespassing--two things he never did. It was a fearful loss of
nerve, and I stood quite still for a good minute after he vanished.
Then my first idea was to go and lug him back; but discretion was always
the better part of valour with me, and always will be, owing to my
character; so I left Travers to his fate, and hoped he'd soon cool down
and come back without meeting a keeper. It was growing dusk, too, and I
went back to Merivale, and decided not to say anything about Travers
minor, except that, while we were engaged in some scouting operations, I
had missed him.
I only heard the amazing tale of his adventure afterwards, and though
everybody had the story in some shape or form, I got the naked truth
from Travers minor himself in his own words. Next morning, much to our
surprise, it was given out that Dr. Dunston was unwell, and Fortescue
read prayers; and during that event Travers told me all.
"When I left you," he said, "I was in a filthy bate, and for once,
instead of not wanting to trespass and break bounds, I did want to. And
I went straight into the Manor Woods, and badly frightened some
pheasants that had gone to roost, and was immediately soothed. They
made a fearful row, and I thought a keeper would be sure to spring up
from somewhere, and rather hoped one would, in order to afford me an
opportunity for an escape. But nothing happened, and I decided to walk
on till I came to the drive, and then boldly go along out of the
lodge-gate. Well, I walked through the wood to the drive just before it
got dark. I was looking out cautiously from the edge of the wood, to
see that all was clear, when I observed a man sitting on the edge of the
drive. For a moment I thought it was that wretched Soapy William again.
He was humped up and nursing his foot which was evidently badly wounded.
Then the man gave a sound between a sigh and a groan and a snuffle, and
I saw it was Dr. Dunston!
"Of course, it was the moment of my life, and I felt, in a sort of way,
that my whole future career depended upon my next action. My first
instinct, remembering that Norris and Booth were both flogged when
caught here, was a strategic retreat; but then my duty as a Boy Scout
occurred to me. It was a fearful choice of evils, you may say; for if I
cleared out, I was disgraced for ever, and my mind couldn't have stood
it, and if I went forward, I was also disgraced for ever, because to be
flogged, to a chap with my opinions, is about the limit. I considered
what should be done, and while I was considering, old Dunston groaned
again and said out loud:
"'Tut--tut! This is indeed a tragedy!'
"That decided me, because the question of humanity came in, and looking
on into the future in rather a remarkable way, I saw at once that if I
retreated and heard next morning that old Dr. Dunston was found dead, I
should feel the pangs of remorse for evermore, and they would ruin my
life. I also felt that, if I saved him, he was hardly likely to flog me,
because there would undoubtedly be a great feeling against him if he
did."
"You might have done this," I said. "You might have retreated, and then
gone down to the lodge and told the woman that there was an injured man,
in great agony, lying half-way up the drive. You might have given a
false name yourself, and then, when the rescuing party started, you
might have cleared out and so remained anonymous. It would have gone
down to the credit of the Boy Scouts, and old Dunston would have been
the first to see that the particular Boy Scout in question preferred,
for private reasons, to keep his identification a secret."
Travers was much impressed by this view.
"I never thought of that," he said. "Probably, if I had, I should have
done it. Anyway, I'm sorry I swore at you and called you a fathead,
Briggs. You're not a fathead--far from it."
He then continued his surprising narrative in these words:
"Anyway, I decided to rescue the Doctor, and stepped out of ambush and
said:
"'Good evening, sir. I'm afraid you're hurt.'
"He was evidently very glad to see me; but you know his iron discipline.
He kept it up even then.
"'What boy are you?' he asked, and I told him I was Travers minor from
Merivale.
"'And how comes it you are here?' he asked again.
"'I was operating in the woods on my way home, sir, and I heard your cry
of distress.'
"'We will investigate your operations on another occasion, then,' said
the Doctor. 'For the moment mine are more important. I have had a bad
fall and am in great pain. You had better run as quickly as possible to
the Manor House, ask to see Sir Neville Carew, and tell him that I have
met with a very severe accident half-way down his drive. Whether I have
broken my leg, or put out my ankle, it is not for me to determine. I
have been drinking tea with Sir Neville and learning his views as to the
War. Be as quick as you can. You will never have a better opportunity
to display your agility.'
"Then I hooked it and ran the half-mile or so to the Manor House,
sprinting all the way. I soon gave the terrible news, and in about ten
minutes Sir Neville Carew himself, with his butler and his footman, set
off for the Doctor. And the footman trundled a chair which ran on
wheels, and which Sir Neville Carew kindly explained to me he uses
himself when he gets an attack of gout, which often happens,
unfortunately.
"He didn't ask me how I discovered the accident, which was naturally
rather a good thing for me; and when we got back to the Doctor, he told
me to hasten on in advance and break the evil tidings. So I cleared
out. And I've heard no more yet; but no doubt I shall soon."
That was the great narrative of Travers minor, and after morning school
Brown gave out that the Doctor's ankle was very badly sprained, but that
things would take their course as usual, and a bulletin be put up on the
notice-board in the evening.
And it was, and it said the Doctor was better.
Travers minor heard nothing until three days later, when the Doctor
appeared on a crutch and read prayers. Then he had Travers up and
addressed the school. And Travers saw at a glance that Dr. Dunston was
still in no condition to flog him, even if the will was there.
It ended brilliantly for Travers, really, because the Doctor said he had
been an instrument of Providence, and he evidently felt you ought not to
flog an instrument of Providence, whatever he's been doing. He reproved
Travers minor pretty stiffly, all the same, and said that when he
considered what a friend Sir Neville Carew was to the school, and how
much he overlooked, and so on, it was infamous that any boy should even
glance into his pheasant preserves, much less actually go into them.
And Travers minor was finally ordered to spend a half-holiday in
visiting Sir Neville Carew and humbly apologizing to him for his
conduct. Which he did so, and Sir Neville Carew, on hearing from Travers
that he would never do it again on any pretext whatever, was frightfully
sporting and forgave him freely, and talked about the War, and reminded
him about Sir Baden-Powell's brother, and ended by taking Travers minor
into a glass-house full of luscious peaches and giving him two.
And Travers kept one for me, because, he said, if it hadn't been for
getting into a wax with me, he would never have trespassed and never
have had the adventure at all.
And I said it wasn't so much me as that beast of an old woman who told
him his knickers were too tight.
"In strict honesty," I said, "she ought to have this peach."
Then I ate it, and never want to eat a better. In fact, I kept the stone
to plant when I went home.