FOR THE SAKE OF A CHUM
Nine--half-past! The clock in the tower had chimed the half-hour when
lights were out in Paul's dormitory. In the senior dormitories there
were only four beds--two less than in the junior. In that where Paul
slept there were, therefore, three other occupants beside
himself--Stanley Moncrief, Waterman, and Parfitt.
Parfitt was not on particularly good terms with most of the fellows. He
was one of Newall's cronies. Waterman was an easy-going fellow, who was
on friendly terms with everybody, so long as they did not disturb him
too much. He was one of those indolent boys, with plenty of talent, if
they only care to exercise it. The disposition to do so, however, only
came by fits and starts. In another respect, too, he was like a great
many other boys--ay, and girls, too--and that was--he would often go to
a great deal more pains to avoid a difficulty than it would have caused
him by boldly facing it. So true is the proverb that lazy people often
take most pains.
Ten o'clock! Paul looked from his bed. There was the bed in which
Stanley ought to have been sleeping--empty! Next to that, Waterman. He
had been asleep for some time. Beyond his bed was Parfitt's.
Was he sleeping? Paul was not quite certain, but he thought he was. It
would be better to wait a little longer, however. There was no hurry.
He could see in outline, on the wall beyond Parfitt's bed, the motto for
the year, "Be ye stedfast, unmovable." He liked that motto. It had
appealed to him when he had first seen it on the wall, and he had often
repeated it to himself since. He had repeated it frequently to himself
that night.
"Be ye stedfast"--stedfast to his friend.
The empty bed beside him made him sad. Stan ought to have been resting
there. By the stern decree of Mr. Weevil he had been turned from his
bed, and was at that moment a prisoner, in solitary confinement. For
what? Simply because he had refused to speak. Oh, it was bitterly
unjust. If any one ought to have been sent to Dormitory X it was Newall,
but he had escaped without even a word of blame.
Half-past ten! Paul listened again. He felt certain that Parfitt was at
last sleeping; so he slipped out of bed as he had slipped into it--with
his trousers and stockings on. He drew on his coat; opened the dormitory
door, and glanced along the corridor. As he did so, the figure in the
end bed moved, and glanced in the direction of Paul; then breathed hard,
as though it were sleeping.
Paul, unconscious that Parfitt had seen him, passed into the corridor.
Dormitory X was in the room next to that occupied by Mr. Weevil, on the
floor above. Paul crept up the stairs. They seemed to creak horribly,
but it was the silence of the building that magnified the sound to
Paul's ears. He glanced along the passage. A light was still burning in
Mr. Weevil's room. He could see it stealing faintly through a crack in
the door.
"Studying late. Trying some scientific experiment, I expect. The fellows
say that he burns the midnight oil a lot. That's what gives him such a
sleepy look sometimes, I suppose. No wonder he's such a dab at science."
Paul knew that it was useless to try to get to Stanley along the
passage. He might succeed in getting past the master's room, but what
then? The door would be locked, and he could not pass through a locked
door. Dormitory X had a window looking on to the parapet outside, and it
was by this window he hoped to gain Stanley's room. There was a small
lavatory at the end of the corridor, and this likewise had a window
leading to the roof.
"Be stedfast!" he whispered to himself, as he climbed through the window
to the parapet. It was a rash thing to do--a wrong thing. Though Paul
might have questioned the justice of what Mr. Weevil had done in putting
his chum in Dormitory X., he had no right, from a chivalrous feeling of
friendship, to run the risk of a foolhardy adventure at night. But Paul
thought that he was right, and that, by visiting Stanley, he was
interpreting in the best way he could the school motto, "Be stedfast."
There were but few stars in the heavens as he stepped on to the parapet.
The wind blew freshly, and the clouds were scurrying quickly across the
moon. It was a plain Gothic parapet, in keeping with the time-worn
building. It rose a couple of feet above the gutter, and the latter, in
turn, was nearly of the same width; so that there was not much
difficulty in walking along it to the dormers.
Glancing along the gutter, Paul saw that the light was still burning in
Mr. Weevil's room. The window beyond was in darkness. That was where
Stanley was? Would it be possible for him to reach it without being seen
by Mr. Weevil? He meant trying. Stealing cautiously along the gutter, he
stopped within a yard or so of the master's window.
What was that? The sound of voices, and it came from Mr. Weevil's room.
"Chewing over science with one of the other masters," thought Paul.
"It's jolly late to be talking that dry stuff. But hanged if I don't
think Weevil talks it in his sleep; he's so hot on it. He ought to be
amongst the fossils in the museum. I don't believe he's got any warm
blood in him. He was never meant for a human being. Steady--steady."
He knelt on the gutter, and stretched himself along till he was just
able to peer into the room. A lamp was burning on the table, on which
were strewn a number of papers and documents. Over these two men were
leaning, as though they were earnestly discussing their contents.
"Some musty old parchments from the Assyrians or the lost Ten Tribes, I
expect," Paul told himself. "But who's the other fossil? I don't seem to
know him. Not one of the masters here."
He could not see either of the faces very clearly as they bent over the
documents; but one he knew to be Mr. Weevil's. The other was a
stranger's.
"Why doesn't he look up?" Paul asked himself, growing curious.
The man was tracing something with his finger on the document before
him, and Mr. Weevil was following the direction of his finger with the
closest attention. Presently the man raised his head. In spite of
himself Paul cried out. The men heard the cry, and he had only just time
to draw back as they turned to the window.
Paul lay there breathing hard. Would he be found out? His heart beat
violently as he heard footsteps approach the window. It was opened, and
the head of the master thrust out. Paul thought that he must be found
out. There seemed no help for it. He gave himself up for lost.
Fortunately, the light of the moon was quite obscured at this moment,
and Paul seemed only a part of the shadows that were flitting over
parapet and roof.
"It sounded very much like the cry of a human being," said the master,
peering out, "but it couldn't have been. It must have been the wind, or
a night-bird."
Then, to Paul's inexpressible relief, he heard the window close. Some
seconds elapsed, however, before he ventured to look up. He feared, in
spite of the closed window, to find the eyes of the master fixed upon
him. Should he turn back? No; that would be acting the coward's part.
Besides, he must catch another glimpse of the face he had seen.
Presently he heard the murmur of voices within, and knew that the two
had resumed their interrupted interview. So, taking his courage in both
hands, Paul peeped once more into the room.
Yes, he was sure of it. The man with whom Mr. Weevil was talking was
Israel Zuker, the German Jew--the man who had tried to wrest from him
Mr. Moncrief's letter--the man for whom he believed his father had
sacrificed his life!
Why had Zuker come there? Paul would have given a good deal to know what
the two were talking about, but not a word of their conversation reached
his ears. They were bending low, and spoke in little more than whispers.
For one thing, that was an advantage. They were so earnestly engaged in
conversation, that they were the less likely to notice anything that
happened outside. Paul therefore determined not to put off any longer
the effort to reach Stanley.
He crept quickly to the other side of the window, then waited. He could
still hear the hum of voices, so he felt sure that he had not been seen.
"Now for old Stan. I'm sure he won't be asleep."
Paul crept close to the window, and tapped on it with his nail.
"Who's there?" said Stanley.
The window was cautiously opened, and Paul slipped into the room.
"Paul! You don't mean to say it's you!" exclaimed Stanley as their hands
met in the darkness. "What's brought you here?"
"To see you, of course."
"Well, you can't see much of me, I'm thinking, by this precious light;
so, if you won't mind me saying it, old chap, it was silly of you to
come."
"No it wasn't. I couldn't bear the thought of your moping here by
yourself, and it was a ghastly shame of Weevil to send you."
"Oh, come to think of it quietly, he was right enough! I dare say I
could have got out of the pickle by speaking, but I was obstinate.
Solitude isn't so bad," he added cheerfully. "It helps you to chew the
cud of reflection."
"And a bitter cud it is sometimes. That's why I've come. It's better for
two to try their teeth on it than one."
"It's very good of you, Paul, coming to me. Is Harry all right?"
"Oh, he's all right, though he was rather cut up at your having to come
here for him. It's Newall you'll have to look out for. He won't be
satisfied till he's paid back that blow you gave him. He told me as
much."
"What did he say? Tell me the exact words."
"After you had gone away with Mr. Weevil, I told Newall what I
thought--that he had acted meanly in not speaking up. 'Why should I have
spoken?' he burst out. 'I didn't want to speak. All I wanted was to get
that blow back that Moncrief gave me; and I'll have it back, if I die
for it!'"
A sound of footsteps could be heard in the next room. In his desire to
console Stanley in his solitude, Paul had said nothing about what he had
seen in the master's room, though it had been uppermost in his mind all
the time he had been speaking to Stanley.
"Hallo! What's that? Weevil's guest on the move. Who is he, I wonder?"
"Hush! Not so loud!" cautioned Paul, clutching Stanley by the arm. "You
would never guess. You remember what happened to me on the night I took
that packet to Oakville?"
Paul had confided to his chum all that happened on that night.
"Don't I? And I'm not likely to forget it in a hurry. I only wish that
I'd been with you then, just as you're with me now. What about it?"
"What about it? Why, the man in the next room is Israel Zuker."
"Paul!" cried Stanley, rising to his feet in amazement.
"Hush--don't I tell you!"--again clutching him by the arm, and pressing
him to his former position. "Israel Zuker! I'm sure of it."
"But what can he want with Mr. Weevil, and what can Weevil want with
him?"
"Ask me another. That's what floors me. Listen! Weevil is letting him
out."
They remained perfectly silent, as they listened to the footsteps in the
passage; at first they were quite close, then they died away. Presently
they heard Mr. Weevil returning alone. He paused as he was on the point
of entering his own door, as though struck with an idea.
"What's he up to now?" whispered Paul.
They could hear the master enter the next room; then come out again. He
stopped at Dormitory X.
In another moment the light of a candle could be seen through a crevice
in the door, and a key was put in the lock.
"He's coming here!" exclaimed Stanley.