Was this his beastly sarcasm? Trevor asked himself. But he c_The Gold Bat

conclusion that it was not. After all, the head of a house is only

human. He cannot be expected to keep an eye on the private life of

every member of his house.

"This must be stopped, Trevor. There is no saying how widespread the

practice has become or may become. What I want you to do is to go

straight back to your house and begin a complete search of the

studies."

"Tonight, sir?" It seemed too late for such amusement.

"Tonight. But before you go to your house, call at Mr Seymour's, and

tell Milton I should like to see him. And, Trevor."

"Yes, sir?"

"You will understand that I am leaving this matter to you to be dealt

with by you. I shall not require you to make any report to me. But if

you should find tobacco in any boy's room, you must punish him well,

Trevor. Punish him well."

This meant that the culprit must be "touched up" before the house

assembled in the dining-room. Such an event did not often occur. The

last occasion had been in Paget's first term as head of Donaldson's,

when two of the senior day-room had been discovered attempting to

revive the ancient and dishonourable custom of bullying. This time,

Trevor foresaw, would set up a record in all probability. There might

be any number of devotees of the weed, and he meant to carry out his

instructions to the full, and make the criminals more unhappy than they

had been since the day of their first cigar. Trevor hated the habit of

smoking at school. He was so intensely keen on the success of the house

and the school at games, that anything which tended to damage the wind

and eye filled him with loathing. That anybody should dare to smoke in

a house which was going to play in the final for the House Football Cup

made him rage internally, and he proposed to make things bad and

unrestful for such.

To smoke at school is to insult the divine weed. When you are obliged

to smoke in odd corners, fearing every moment that you will be

discovered, the whole meaning, poetry, romance of a pipe vanishes, and

you become like those lost beings who smoke when they are running to

catch trains. The boy who smokes at school is bound to come to a bad

end. He will degenerate gradually into a person that plays dominoes in

the smoking-rooms of A.B.C. shops with friends who wear bowler hats and

frock coats.

Much of this philosophy Trevor expounded to Clowes in energetic

language when he returned to Donaldson's after calling at Seymour's to

deliver the message for Milton.

Clowes became quite animated at the prospect of a real row.

"We shall be able to see the skeletons in their cupboards," he

observed. "Every man has a skeleton in his cupboard, which follows him

about wherever he goes. Which study shall we go to first?"

"We?" said Trevor.

"We," repeated Clowes firmly. "I am not going to be left out of this

jaunt. I need bracing up--I'm not strong, you know--and this is just

the thing to do it. Besides, you'll want a bodyguard of some sort, in

case the infuriated occupant turns and rends you."

"I don't see what there is to enjoy in the business," said Trevor,

gloomily. "Personally, I bar this kind of thing. By the time we've

finished, there won't be a chap in the house I'm on speaking terms

with."

"Except me, dearest," said Clowes. "I will never desert you. It's of no

use asking me, for I will never do it. Mr Micawber has his faults, but

I will _never_ desert Mr Micawber."

"You can come if you like," said Trevor; "we'll take the studies in

order. I suppose we needn't look up the prefects?"

"A prefect is above suspicion. Scratch the prefects."

"That brings us to Dixon."

Dixon was a stout youth with spectacles, who was popularly supposed to

do twenty-two hours' work a day. It was believed that he put in two

hours sleep from eleven to one, and then got up and worked in his study

till breakfast.

He was working when Clowes and Trevor came in. He dived head foremost

into a huge Liddell and Scott as the door opened. On hearing Trevor's

voice he slowly emerged, and a pair of round and spectacled eyes gazed

blankly at the visitors. Trevor briefly explained his errand, but the

interview lost in solemnity owing to the fact that the bare notion of

Dixon storing tobacco in his room made Clowes roar with laughter. Also,

Dixon stolidly refused to understand what Trevor was talking about, and

at the end of ten minutes, finding it hopeless to try and explain, the

two went. Dixon, with a hazy impression that he had been asked to join

in some sort of round game, and had refused the offer, returned again

to his Liddell and Scott, and continued to wrestle with the somewhat

obscure utterances of the chorus in AEschylus' _Agamemnon_. The

results of this fiasco on Trevor and Clowes were widely different.

Trevor it depressed horribly. It made him feel savage. Clowes, on the

other hand, regarded the whole affair in a spirit of rollicking farce,

and refused to see that this was a serious matter, in which the honour

of the house was involved.

The next study was Ruthven's. This fact somewhat toned down the

exuberances of Clowes's demeanour. When one particularly dislikes a

person, one has a curious objection to seeming in good spirits in his

presence. One feels that he may take it as a sort of compliment to

himself, or, at any rate, contribute grins of his own, which would be

hateful. Clowes was as grave as Trevor when they entered the study.

Ruthven's study was like himself, overdressed and rather futile. It ran

to little china ornaments in a good deal of profusion. It was more like

a drawing-room than a school study.

"Sorry to disturb you, Ruthven," said Trevor.

"Oh, come in," said Ruthven, in a tired voice. "Please shut the door;

there is a draught. Do you want anything?"

"We've got to have a look round," said Clowes.

"Can't you see everything there is?"

Ruthven hated Clowes as much as Clowes hated him.

Trevor cut into the conversation again.

"It's like this, Ruthven," he said. "I'm awfully sorry, but the Old

Man's just told me to search the studies in case any of the fellows

have got baccy."

Ruthven jumped up, pale with consternation.

"You can't. I won't have you disturbing my study."

"This is rot," said Trevor, shortly, "I've got to. It's no good making

it more unpleasant for me than it is."

"But I've no tobacco. I swear I haven't."

"Then why mind us searching?" said Clowes affably.

"Come on, Ruthven," said Trevor, "chuck us over the keys. You might as

well."

"I won't."

"Don't be an ass, man."

"We have here," observed Clowes, in his sad, solemn way, "a stout and

serviceable poker." He stooped, as he spoke, to pick it up.

"Leave that poker alone," cried Ruthven.

Clowes straightened himself.

"I'll swop it for your keys," he said.

"Don't be a fool."

"Very well, then. We will now crack our first crib."

Ruthven sprang forward, but Clowes, handing him off in football fashion

with his left hand, with his right dashed the poker against the lock of

the drawer of the table by which he stood.

The lock broke with a sharp crack. It was not built with an eye to such

onslaught.

"Neat for a first shot," said Clowes, complacently. "Now for the

Umustaphas and shag."

But as he looked into the drawer he uttered a sudden cry of excitement.

He drew something out, and tossed it over to Trevor.

"Catch, Trevor," he said quietly. "Something that'll interest you."

Trevor caught it neatly in one hand, and stood staring at it as if he

had never seen anything like it before. And yet he had--often. For what

he had caught was a little golden bat, about an inch long by an eighth

of an inch wide.

XXI

THE LEAGUE REVEALED

"What do you think of that?" said Clowes.

Trevor said nothing. He could not quite grasp the situation. It was

not only that he had got the idea so firmly into his head that it

was Rand-Brown who had sent the letters and appropriated the bat.

Even supposing he had not suspected Rand-Brown, he would never have

dreamed of suspecting Ruthven. They had been friends. Not very close

friends--Trevor's keenness for games and Ruthven's dislike of them

prevented that--but a good deal more than acquaintances. He was so

constituted that he could not grasp the frame of mind required for

such an action as Ruthven's. It was something absolutely abnormal.

Clowes was equally surprised, but for a different reason. It was not so

much the enormity of Ruthven's proceedings that took him aback. He

believed him, with that cheerful intolerance which a certain type of

mind affects, capable of anything. What surprised him was the fact that

Ruthven had had the ingenuity and even the daring to conduct a campaign

of this description. Cribbing in examinations he would have thought the

limit of his crimes. Something backboneless and underhand of that kind

would not have surprised him in the least. He would have said that it

was just about what he had expected all along. But that Ruthven should

blossom out suddenly as quite an ingenious and capable criminal in this

way, was a complete surprise.

"Well, perhaps _you_'ll make a remark?" he said, turning to

Ruthven.

Ruthven, looking very much like a passenger on a Channel steamer who

has just discovered that the motion of the vessel is affecting him

unpleasantly, had fallen into a chair when Clowes handed him off. He

sat there with a look on his pasty face which was not good to see, as

silent as Trevor. It seemed that whatever conversation there was going

to be would have to take the form of a soliloquy from Clowes.

Clowes took a seat on the corner of the table.

"It seems to me, Ruthven," he said, "that you'd better say

_something_. At present there's a lot that wants explaining. As

this bat has been found lying in your drawer, I suppose we may take it

that you're the impolite letter-writer?"

Ruthven found his voice at last.

"I'm not," he cried; "I never wrote a line."

"Now we're getting at it," said Clowes. "I thought you couldn't have

had it in you to carry this business through on your own. Apparently

you've only been the sleeping partner in this show, though I suppose it

was you who ragged Trevor's study? Not much sleeping about that. You

took over the acting branch of the concern for that day only, I expect.

Was it you who ragged the study?"

Ruthven stared into the fire, but said nothing.

"Must be polite, you know, Ruthven, and answer when you're spoken to.

Was it you who ragged Trevor's study?"

"Yes," said Ruthven.

"Thought so."

"Why, of course, I met you just outside," said Trevor, speaking for the

first time. "You were the chap who told me what had happened."

Ruthven said nothing.

"The ragging of the study seems to have been all the active work he

did," remarked Clowes.

"No," said Trevor, "he posted the letters, whether he wrote them or

not. Milton was telling me--you remember? I told you. No, I didn't.

Milton found out that the letters were posted by a small, light-haired

fellow."

"That's him," said Clowes, as regardless of grammar as the monks of

Rheims, pointing with the poker at Ruthven's immaculate locks. "Well,

you ragged the study and posted the letters. That was all your share.

Am I right in thinking Rand-Brown was the other partner?"

Silence from Ruthven.

"Am I?" persisted Clowes.

"You may think what you like. I don't care."

"Now we're getting rude again," complained Clowes. "_Was_ Rand-Brown

in this?"

"Yes," said Ruthven.

"Thought so. And who else?"

"No one."

"Try again."

"I tell you there was no one else. Can't you believe a word a chap

says?"

"A word here and there, perhaps," said Clowes, as one making a

concession, "but not many, and this isn't one of them. Have another

shot."

Ruthven relapsed into silence.

"All right, then," said Clowes, "we'll accept that statement. There's

just a chance that it may be true. And that's about all, I think. This

isn't my affair at all, really. It's yours, Trevor. I'm only a

spectator and camp-follower. It's your business. You'll find me in my

study." And putting the poker carefully in its place, Clowes left the

room. He went into his study, and tried to begin some work. But the

beauties of the second book of Thucydides failed to appeal to him. His

mind was elsewhere. He felt too excited with what had just happened to

translate Greek. He pulled up a chair in front of the fire, and gave

himself up to speculating how Trevor was getting on in the neighbouring

study. He was glad he had left him to finish the business. If he had

been in Trevor's place, there was nothing he would so greatly have

disliked as to have some one--however familiar a friend--interfering in

his wars and settling them for him. Left to himself, Clowes would

probably have ended the interview by kicking Ruthven into the nearest

approach to pulp compatible with the laws relating to manslaughter. He

had an uneasy suspicion that Trevor would let him down far too easily.

The handle turned. Trevor came in, and pulled up another chair in

silence. His face wore a look of disgust. But there were no signs of

combat upon him. The toe of his boot was not worn and battered, as

Clowes would have liked to have seen it. Evidently he had not chosen to

adopt active and physical measures for the improvement of Ruthven's

moral well-being.

"Well?" said Clowes.

"My word, what a hound!" breathed Trevor, half to himself.

"My sentiments to a hair," said Clowes, approvingly. "But what have you

done?"

"I didn't do anything."

"I was afraid you wouldn't. Did he give any explanation? What made him

go in for the thing at all? What earthly motive could he have for not

wanting Barry to get his colours, bar the fact that Rand-Brown didn't

want him to? And why should he do what Rand-Brown told him? I never even

knew they were pals, before today."

"He told me a good deal," said Trevor. "It's one of the beastliest

things I ever heard. They neither of them come particularly well out of

the business, but Rand-Brown comes worse out of it even than Ruthven.

My word, that man wants killing."

"That'll keep," said Clowes, nodding. "What's the yarn?"

"Do you remember about a year ago a chap named Patterson getting

sacked?"

Clowes nodded again. He remembered the case well. Patterson had had

gambling transactions with a Wrykyn tradesman, had been found out, and

had gone.

"You remember what a surprise it was to everybody. It wasn't one of

those cases where half the school suspects what's going on. Those cases

always come out sooner or later. But Patterson nobody knew about."

"Yes. Well?"

"Nobody," said Trevor, "except Ruthven, that is. Ruthven got to know

somehow. I believe he was a bit of a pal of Patterson's at the time.

Anyhow,--they had a row, and Ruthven went to Dexter--Patterson was in

Dexter's--and sneaked. Dexter promised to keep his name out of the

business, and went straight to the Old Man, and Patterson got turfed

out on the spot. Then somehow or other Rand-Brown got to know about

it--I believe Ruthven must have told him by accident some time or other.

After that he simply had to do everything Rand-Brown wanted him to.

Otherwise he said that he would tell the chaps about the Patterson

affair. That put Ruthven in a dead funk."

"Of course," said Clowes; "I should imagine friend Ruthven would have

got rather a bad time of it. But what made them think of starting the

League? It was a jolly smart idea. Rand-Brown's, of course?"

"Yes. I suppose he'd heard about it, and thought something might be

made out of it if it were revived."

"And were Ruthven and he the only two in it?"

"Ruthven swears they were, and I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't telling

the truth, for once in his life. You see, everything the League's done

so far could have been done by him and Rand-Brown, without anybody

else's help. The only other studies that were ragged were Mill's and

Milton's--both in Seymour's.

"Yes," said Clowes.

There was a pause. Clowes put another shovelful of coal on the fire.

"What are you going to do to Ruthven?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Hang it, he doesn't deserve to get off like that. He isn't as

bad as Rand-Brown--quite--but he's pretty nearly as finished a little

beast as you could find."

"Finished is just the word," said Trevor. "He's going at the end of the

week."

"Going? What! sacked?"

"Yes. The Old Man's been finding out things about him, apparently, and

this smoking row has just added the finishing-touch to his discoveries.

He's particularly keen against smoking just now for some reason."

"But was Ruthven in it?"

"Yes. Didn't I tell you? He was one of the fellows Dexter caught in the

vault. There were two in this house, you remember?"

"Who was the other?"

"That man Dashwood. Has the study next to Paget's old one. He's going,

too."

"Scarcely knew him. What sort of a chap was he?"

"Outsider. No good to the house in any way. He won't be missed."

"And what are you going to do about Rand-Brown?"

"Fight him, of course. What else could I do?"

"But you're no match for him."

"We'll see."

"But you _aren't_," persisted Clowes. "He can give you a stone

easily, and he's not a bad boxer either. Moriarty didn't beat him so

very cheaply in the middle-weight this year. You wouldn't have a

chance."

Trevor flared up.

"Heavens, man," he cried, "do you think I don't know all that myself?

But what on earth would you have me do? Besides, he may be a good

boxer, but he's got no pluck at all. I might outstay him."

"Hope so," said Clowes.

But his tone was not hopeful.

XXII

A DRESS REHEARSAL

Some people in Trevor's place might have taken the earliest opportunity

of confronting Rand-Brown, so as to settle the matter in hand without

delay. Trevor thought of doing this, but finally decided to let the

matter rest for a day, until he should have found out with some

accuracy what chance he stood.

After four o'clock, therefore, on the next day, having had tea in his

study, he went across to the baths, in search of O'Hara. He intended

that before the evening was over the Irishman should have imparted to

him some of his skill with the hands. He did not know that for a man

absolutely unscientific with his fists there is nothing so fatal as to

take a boxing lesson on the eve of battle. A little knowledge is a

dangerous thing. He is apt to lose his recklessness--which might have

stood by him well--in exchange for a little quite useless science. He

is neither one thing nor the other, neither a natural fighter nor a

skilful boxer.

This point O'Hara endeavoured to press upon him as soon as he had

explained why it was that he wanted coaching on this particular

afternoon.

The Irishman was in the gymnasium, punching the ball, when Trevor found

him. He generally put in a quarter of an hour with the punching-ball

every evening, before Moriarty turned up for the customary six rounds.

"Want me to teach ye a few tricks?" he said. "What's that for?"

"I've got a mill coming on soon," explained Trevor, trying to make the

statement as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for a

school prefect, who was also captain of football, head of a house, and

in the cricket eleven, to be engaged for a fight in the near future.

"Mill!" exclaimed O'Hara. "You! An' why?"

"Never mind why," said Trevor. "I'll tell you afterwards, perhaps.

Shall I put on the gloves now?"

"Wait," said O'Hara, "I must do my quarter of an hour with the ball

before I begin teaching other people how to box. Have ye a watch?"

"Yes."

"Then time me. I'll do four rounds of three minutes each, with a

minute's rest in between. That's more than I'll do at Aldershot, but

it'll get me fit. Ready?"

"Time," said Trevor.

He watched O'Hara assailing the swinging ball with considerable envy.

Why, he wondered, had he not gone in for boxing? Everybody ought to

learn to box. It was bound to come in useful some time or other. Take

his own case. He was very much afraid--no, afraid was not the right

word, for he was not that. He was very much of opinion that Rand-Brown

was going to have a most enjoyable time when they met. And the final

house-match was to be played next Monday. If events turned out as he

could not help feeling they were likely to turn out, he would be too

battered to play in that match. Donaldson's would probably win whether

he played or not, but it would be bitter to be laid up on such an

occasion. On the other hand, he must go through with it. He did not

believe in letting other people take a hand in settling his private

quarrels.

But he wished he had learned to box. If only he could hit that dancing,

jumping ball with a fifth of the skill that O'Hara was displaying, his

wiriness and pluck might see him through. O'Hara finished his fourth

round with his leathern opponent, and sat down, panting.

"Pretty useful, that," commented Trevor, admiringly.

"Ye should see Moriarty," gasped O'Hara.

"Now, will ye tell me why it is you're going to fight, and with whom

you're going to fight?"

"Very well. It's with Rand-Brown."

"Rand-Brown!" exclaimed O'Hara. "But, me dearr man, he'll ate you."

Trevor gave a rather annoyed laugh. "I must say I've got a nice,

cheery, comforting lot of friends," he said. "That's just what Clowes

has been trying to explain to me."

"Clowes is quite right," said O'Hara, seriously. "Has the thing gone

too far for ye to back out? Without climbing down, of course," he

added.

"Yes," said Trevor, "there's no question of my getting out of it. I

daresay I could. In fact, I know I could. But I'm not going to."

"But, me dearr man, ye haven't an earthly chance. I assure ye ye

haven't. I've seen Rand-Brown with the gloves on. That was last term.

He's not put them on since Moriarty bate him in the middles, so he may

be out of practice. But even then he'd be a bad man to tackle. He's big

an' he's strong, an' if he'd only had the heart in him he'd have been

going up to Aldershot instead of Moriarty. That's what he'd be doing.

An' you can't box at all. Never even had the gloves on."

"Never. I used to scrap when I was a kid, though."

"That's no use," said O'Hara, decidedly. "But you haven't said what it

is that ye've got against Rand-Brown. What is it?"

"I don't see why I shouldn't tell you. You're in it as well. In fact,

if it hadn't been for the bat turning up, you'd have been considerably

Was this his beastly sarcasm? Trevor asked himself. But he came to the