THE FLIGHT
Some six months previous to our discovery of the secret chamber, it
happened that all the boys in our class at school had been taken with
a desire to become archers,--the result of reading the story of Robin
Hood,--and Percy and I, among the rest, had procured bows and arrows,
and had spent many hours practising at a sack full of straw suspended
from a bough in the playground. With the others the craze, as such
crazes will, had died out again in a short time; we two alone kept it
up. For one thing, my chum’s persevering nature impelled him, having
undertaken to be an archer, to be one; another reason was that our bows
were very superior to those of the other boys. In the churchyard there
grew a splendid old yew-tree, the pride of the village, and we, young
rascals that we were, had purloined from it two straight branches,
which, with great pains, we had fashioned into very serviceable bows.
By constant practice we became highly respectable shots, and many a
luckless small bird did we thoughtlessly slay for the mere pleasure of
killing; we even became so expert as now and then to kill a rabbit “on
the wing,” as Percy put it.
The favourite place for our shooting expeditions was the Cross-roads
Spinney, a triangular piece of ground of eight or nine acres, well
covered with trees, which lay about two miles from the village. It
belonged to nobody, or rather, being claimed by Sir Anthony and by the
Parish, it had for many years lain in Chancery; a state of affairs
which suited us very well, for, while the lawsuit dragged along, we
boys appropriated the place for our own happy hunting-ground. Bordering
as it did upon Sir Anthony’s best game-preserve, it was a source of
great annoyance to the old Baronet that the title could not be settled,
for many a pheasant flew over the wall to roost in the spinney, and
very seldom did it ever fly back again; somebody was sure to get it.
Then, too, the gypsies would frequently encamp there, to Sir Anthony’s
great disgust; for, with him and his keepers, “gypsy” and “poacher”
were synonymous terms.
This spinney was not far from Hengist’s Castle, and the belief that the
poachers who were just now giving so much trouble were harbouring in
the ruins, kept all the keepers on the alert, not only in the hope of
laying hands on the culprits, but of discovering their hiding-place.
One evening in April, Percy and I were returning from a shooting
expedition, bearing our spoils, one rabbit each, in our hands, when
we were overtaken by one of our school-fellows,--Bates, senior, by
name,--with whom, though there were no active hostilities between us,
we had long been “at outs.” We did not like him, and he returned the
compliment.
That I may not do him an injustice, I must explain that Bates had some
reason for his antipathy. He was an orphan, his affairs being managed
by a crusty old lawyer in London, whose idea of the proper discharge of
the duties of a guardian was confined to the remitting of so much money
to his ward every three months--more money than a boy ought to have at
command--and in taking no further notice of him until next quarter-day
came round. Bates was thus in a manner thrown upon the world to follow
his own bent, and, unfortunately for him, his bent had one very
serious twist in it,--he was a born gambler.
Old Moseley was aware of his pupil’s proclivities. He had found him
out once in a horse-racing transaction whereby Bates had lost a
considerable sum of money, and had warned him that at the next offence
he would have to leave the school; a warning which seemed to have had
the desired effect, for during some months thereafter Bates desisted.
One day, however, Percy and I, ranging the woods in search of
birds’-nests, came suddenly upon Bates and a stranger seated on the
ground with a handkerchief spread between them, shaking dice for
shillings. The disconcerted gambler, when he saw he was discovered,
sprang to his feet and advanced upon us with a threatening air, but,
though he was three years older and three inches taller than either of
us, Percy and I were not afraid of him, and Bates, knowing, probably,
that we were a pair hard to beat,--which I think I may assert without
risking the charge of bragging,--thought better of it, and, changing
his manner, invited us to join the game--an invitation we promptly
declined. He then fell to begging us to say nothing about it. This we
promised--with a reservation.
“Look here, Bates,” said Percy, who was usually the spokesman for the
pair; “of course we won’t say anything about it. Why should we? But
if old Moseley asks us any questions we are not going to tell him any
lies.”
I nodded my head in approval. Bates, who seemed to regard such scruples
as absurd, tried in vain to argue us out of this resolution, and was
obliged finally to content himself with the assurance we had given him.
To have been defied by two boys younger than himself was bad enough; to
be at the mercy of their possibly indiscreet tongues was worse. From
that time forth, fearing that the incident might come to light, Bates,
all unsuspected by us, set his wits to work to oust us from the school,
if possible, and by a curious, roundabout course he succeeded at last,
though in a manner he could hardly have expected, and with results he
was very far from anticipating.
Since the occurrence of the dice-shaking incident Percy and I had held
no intercourse with him, and we were therefore somewhat surprised and
quite well please when Bates, overtaking us that evening, checked his
pace and spoke to us.
“I say, you fellows,” said he; “don’t you think it is about time we
made friends again?”
It occurred to me that this way of putting it was hardly correct, as we
had never been friends before; but Percy did not notice it, and putting
out his hand, he said, “All right, Bates; I’m willing if you are.”
Percy was of that straightforward, unsuspicious nature that it never
entered his mind that Bates could have ulterior motive for his friendly
advances; while, as for myself, I was accustomed to follow my chum’s
lead without much consideration for the consequences. Accordingly we
shook hands all round and walked on side by side, glad to think that
the feud was ended.
“You haven’t been to the spinney to-day, have you?” asked Bates.
“No,” replied Percy. “We went up the Roman road to Crabtree’s farm.
There are lots of rabbits there, and old Crabtree is glad to have them
shot; they are so think as to be just a nuisance.”
“Well,” said Bates, “I’ve just come by the spinney, and I saw something
that made me think of you two fellows and your bows and arrows. I had
an idea; and you can help me to carry it out if you like. In fact, to
be honest, that was why I proposed to you to be friends again.”
We were rather pleased at this “honest” confession. Bates was not such
a bad fellow after all, perhaps.
“What is your idea?” asked Percy.
“I’ll tell you. As I was coming along I saw five pheasants fly over
Sir Anthony’s park-wall and alight in the spinney. I crept in there,
and there they were, all settling themselves for the night in a young
fir-tree. Then I thought of you. What do you say to going out to-night
and having a try for them? You can bring your bows and arrows, and I’ll
show you the place. What do you say?”
“But, look here, Bates,” said I. “Isn’t it against the law to shoot
pheasants?”
“Oh, no,” said Bates confidently. “If you were to shoot them on Sir
Anthony’s land, that would be poaching, of course; but in the spinney a
pheasant belongs to anybody who can get it.”
“Are you sure?” asked Percy.
“Certain, quite certain,” Bates declared with much emphasis. “You would
not catch me going after pheasants if there was any fear of getting
into prison for it. No, thank you. You may be sure of that.”
“It does seem pretty reasonable,” said Percy, “that game found on land
that belongs to nobody in particular should be the property of anyone
who can get it; and if you’re sure you’re right, Bates, I think we may
as well go. Eh, Tom?”
Percy, naturally enough, knew almost nothing of the English game-laws,
and, as for myself, I knew but little more. I was aware that rabbits
were not game--in the eye of the law--and that pheasants were, but
whether it were an illegal act to kill a pheasant in a public place
like the spinney I had no knowledge. But as Bates was not afraid to
venture (and we had no great opinion of his courage); as we were both
very desirous of shooting a pheasant; and as, in fine, we possessed
that common attribute of schoolboys, the habit of acting first and
thinking afterwards, we decided to go.
At eight o’clock that evening, therefore, Bates, carrying a bag for the
reception of the game, called for us at the vicarage, where Percy and I
were waiting for him, and together we set off for our hunting-ground by
a short cut across the fields.
We had nearly reached our destination, when Bates, vaulting over the
gate which led from one field to another, managed somehow to entangle
his feet in the game-bag and fell upon his hands and knees on the
farther side, at the same time uttering a sharp exclamation of pain.
“Have you hurt yourself?” asked Percy, solicitously, seeing that our
guide remained sitting on the ground clasping one ankle with both hands.
“I’m afraid I’ve twisted my ankle a little,” replied Bates, suppressing
a groan with seeming difficulty.
“Well, that is hard luck,” said Percy. “That ends our expedition for
to-night, sure enough. Look here, Bates. Put one arm over Swayne’s
shoulders and the other over mine and we’ll help you along back to the
schoolhouse as fast as we can. If you can’t do it in that way, we’ll
carry you pick-a-back in turns. I expect we can manage it if we rest
often enough.”
“Oh, no,” returned Bates. “We won’t give up our expedition yet, now
that we have come this far. I am afraid I had better not try to walk
any farther myself, but you two can go on and get the pheasants. You
won’t be gone more than half an hour, I suppose, and then you can come
back to me and give me a hand home. I’ll just sit here and wait for
you.”
At first we were very much opposed to this course, but Bates insisting,
we at length agreed to go on, and accordingly, taking with us the
game-bag, and leaving him propped up with his back against the gate, we
hurried off.
We soon spotted the young fir-tree, the position of which Bates had
carefully described to us, and there, sure enough, were the pheasants;
we could see them, like dark blotches, against the sky.
“You take the first shot,” whispered Percy.
Choosing the lowest bird, that its fall might not disturb the others,
I let fly, and down it came with hardly a flutter. Percy then took a
shot, with equal success. We placed the two birds at the foot of the
tree, and were stooping to pull out the arrows, when we were suddenly
pounced upon from behind, and a voice in my ear, a voice strangely
familiar, said:
“These are your poachers, Keeper, caught in the act. Sir Anthony will
give you a five-pound note for this, you may depend.”
“Thanks to you, sir,” said the keeper, who was holding Percy by the
collar. “Bring the young gent along; they’ll spend the rest of the
night in the lock-up.”
My assailant transferred his grip to my collar, and I was then able to
turn my head and look at him. It was Bates.
“What are you up to, Bates?” I exclaimed, giving him a dig in the
stomach with my elbow. “What do you mean by calling us poachers? You
know perfectly well we are not poaching.”
“Oh, yes, you are, though,” replied Bates, with a complacent snigger.
“Are they not, Keeper?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the keeper--it was the big young man who had helped
the villagers in the search for our fire in the castle. “They’re
poaching, sure enough. ’Tain’t the first time, neither, I’ll lay a
tanner.”
“What rot you are talking, Keeper!” I blurted out. “You know just as
well as I do that this isn’t Sir Anthony’s land.”
“Ah, but it is, though,” replied the grinning keeper; and Bates burst
out laughing.
“Perhaps you didn’t know,” said he, “that the Chancery suit was settled
three days ago in favour of Sir Anthony. This spinney is part of his
preserves now; and you are caught poaching, my fine fellows. You’ll
never see your native land again, my little Yankee,” shaking his fist
at Percy. “If you’re not hung you’ll be transported for life. Oh, this
is fine! I think I’ve squared accounts with the pair of you now, you
young beggars.”
Then the whole extent of Bates’ villainy burst upon us. He had known
of the settlement of the lawsuit, and he had pretended to make friends
with us that evening solely with the object of drawing us into this
trap. His twisted ankle was merely a part of the trick, contrived
beforehand.
I was so enraged at his unparalleled meanness that I squirmed around in
his grasp, and seizing him by the arms, I set to work kicking his shins
with enthusiastic vigour. This was more than Bates had bargained for.
He hopped about, first on one leg and then on the other, struggling to
break from my grasp, and yelling to the keeper to come and help him.
But the keeper was fully occupied in holding Percy; so Bates and I had
it out between us. I hope I am not of a very vindictive nature, but I
confess I long remembered with satisfaction the sound made by my stout
English shoes as they cracked against the shins of the howling Bates.
At length he broke away and fled; when I instantly ran to the
assistance of Percy. Coming up behind the keeper I seized him by the
hair, pulling his head back so that his face was turned up to the sky.
Down he came to his knees, and leaving his hold of Percy he attempted
to grasp me by the wrist. This, however, was just what I was expecting,
and giving him a sharp push I threw him forward upon his face.
The next moment Percy and I were out of the wood and scudding down the
road.
The indignant keeper was up and after us like a shot; we could hear his
heavy shoes coming, _clip-clop_, on the hard road behind us. We were
just beginning to think we should out-run him when he blew a shrill
whistle, in response to which two other keepers suddenly appeared
in the road a hundred yards ahead. They supposed they had caught us
then; but they were mistaken. Without an instant’s hesitation Percy
swerved to one side, put down his head, shut his eyes, and dashed at
the quickset hedge which bordered the road. He burst half-way through,
when a push from me sent him forward upon his hands and knees on the
other side. I dived into the gap he had made, and Percy, seizing me by
the arm, dragged me through, just as the young keeper came panting up
behind.
Away we went across country, heading straight for the castle, and after
a smart run of nearly a mile we dashed into the old dining-hall--still
fifty yards ahead of our pursuers. Calling to Percy to take to the
chimney, I bolted through the arched doorway of the hall and scrambled
up the ivy, reaching the top in time to see the young keeper pop into
the fireplace down below. He had evidently seen Percy go in there,
and supposed he had caught him as in a trap. Great was his surprise,
therefore, to find the place empty.
Soon Bates and the other two men came up, and as I lay on the top of
the wall, peeping over, I could hear their conversation.
“Gone up the chimney, have they?” said Bates. “Then they can’t escape:
they will have to come down again sometime. I’ll tell you what it is,
men: these are the poachers who have been making this smoke that has
been puzzling everybody so much; they have found some secret chamber up
the chimney here. I wonder what Sir Anthony will say when he hears who
it is that has been stealing his pheasants so long.”
“He’ll prosecute ’em, sir; you may depend on it,” said one of the
keepers. “He told me, only this morning, he didn’t care who it was,
he’d prosecute ’em to the full extent of the law.”
“I hope he will; they deserve it--the young rascals. Look here, men----”
Bates and the three keepers fell to whispering together; I could no
longer hear what was said. Presently they withdrew to either side of
the fireplace and stood motionless, except that Bates occasionally
rubbed his shins. It was plain that they expected that, if they kept
quiet, we, supposing they had gone, would come down to be pounced upon.
I put my face over the opening of the chimney and gave a click with my
tongue; Percy answered the signal; and then I whispered to him to come
up. Soon his head appeared, and creeping out of the hole he pulled up
the rope and laid it on the wall.
“Did you pull up the other rope?” I asked.
“Part way. I lodged it on one of the ledges below the passage. What are
they doing down there?”
“Waiting for us to come down.”
We peered over the wall. Seemingly the enemy had already tired of
waiting, for they were holding another whispered consultation, which
resulted in the disappearance of two of the keepers into the fireplace.
Presently we heard a muffled voice exclaim:
“There’s a rope up here. Give me your stick, Andrew, and I’ll hook it
down.”
Bates and the remaining keeper immediately crowded into the fireplace,
and we, listening down the chimney, heard a scrabbling and a scuffing,
and then a light appeared, and the same voice said:
“Here’s a passage. Here’s three candles and a half, and candle-grease
all along. That’s where they’ve gone. I’m a-going to crawl in there.”
“Hold up a bit, Jim,” the young keeper called out; “I’m coming too.”
“So will I,” cried the other, whose curiosity was excited by the
discovery of a passage; and, “So will I,” cried Bates, who did not
choose to be left alone in the shadowy old ruin.
There was a great deal of scuffing and scraping, and we two, lying flat
on the wall with one eye each over the edge of the orifice, saw four
pairs of heels alternately kick and struggle and finally disappear down
the passage.
“Come on, Percy,” I exclaimed. “Let us get down the wall while we can.”
“Wait a bit,” he replied. “There’s something else to be done first.”
To my surprise he let down the rope and vanished into the chimney
again. He was back in a minute, however, and pulling up the rope, he
sprang to his feet and cried:
“Now we’re all right. They won’t catch us to-night, I think.”
“What did you go down for?” I asked.
“I cut the other rope and dropped it into the fireplace.”
Instead of the enemy catching us, we had caught the enemy.
We were soon down upon the ground again, and on our homeward way, but
on rounding the corner of the Keep we espied a glimmer of light coming
through the ivy-leaves which covered the window of our private den.
“Let us hail them,” said Percy; and on my acquiescing he called out,
“Hallo, up there!”
Immediately the leaves parted, and a face, illuminated by a candle,
appeared. It was Bates. At his exclamation of surprise on seeing
us--for the moon was up--his face was at once surrounded by those of
the three keepers, who gazed in wonder at our unexpected appearance.
“Good-bye, Keepers,” cried Percy. “I’ve cut the rope in the chimney,
and you can’t get out. I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I’m afraid
you are likely to starve to death. There’s plenty of fire-wood, and
there are three sparrows and a blackbird hanging on a nail in the
corner; they will keep you alive for a day or two; after that you can
cook Bates. Good-bye.”
With that we turned our backs upon the prisoners and set off at a brisk
trot for the vicarage.
There was a summer-house in one corner of the vicarage garden, and
to this we repaired in order that we might consult as to our future
proceedings.
“Do you believe that poaching is a hanging matter, Tom?” asked Percy.
“I remember my father telling me that there were once two hundred and
forty hanging offences in England, and this one might have been left
over when they repealed the others.”
“I believe it is not,” I replied. “But it is imprisonment, I’m sure.”
“What are we to do, then? We were caught poaching; there seems to be
no doubt about that. We didn’t intend it, of course, but I’m afraid
Sir Anthony may not take that into consideration; he appears to be so
hot against poachers. And for that matter, we may not have a chance to
tell our side of the story at all, because in England, I’ve heard, a
prisoner is not allowed to give evidence in his own defence. So, there
we are, you see. Four witnesses against us and none for us. Our chance
of imprisonment, it seems to me, is pretty good--or pretty bad, rather.”
Our case certainly did look serious when Percy thus laid it out for my
inspection.
“As far as I see,” said I, “there is nothing left but to run away. I
don’t _want_ to run away, you may be sure, but I don’t want to be hung
or transported or put in jail either. I wish my father and mother were
here, so that we might ask them what we ought to do.”
It happened that my parents had that evening driven off to dine and
sleep fifteen miles away, and Percy’s father being too far off for us
to communicate with him, we were thus deprived of our natural advisers.
It did not occur to either of us to lay the matter before old Moseley,
for the head-masters of English schools, at that time at least, seemed
to their younger pupils to stand upon too high and unapproachable an
eminence to be regarded by them as friends and counsellors.
“I’ll tell you what we must do,” said Percy, after sitting in profound
thought for the space of five minutes--“and considering that we got
into this scrape by no fault of our own, I believe our parents won’t
blame us for doing it. We’ll run off down to Southampton--we can get
there before morning--and slip on board a steamer going over to France.
From there I’ll write to my father and tell him all about it, and he
will arrange the matter somehow; or, if it is not to be arranged, he
will tell us what to do next. What do you say?”
“I think it is a first-rate idea, and I vote we do it.”
Doubtless we were a foolish pair of youngsters to decide upon such a
course, but I think, considering the circumstances, it is not so much
to be wondered at that we should run away and conceal ourselves for a
time until we should find out whether we were to be hanged, drawn, and
quartered, or otherwise made to suffer, for an offence we had never
intended to commit.
“But, Percy,” said I, as the thought occurred to me, “what about those
fellows up at the castle? We can’t leave them to starve to death.”
After some consideration Percy thought of a plan.
“See here,” said he. “You write out a statement of the whole matter and
leave it on your dressing-table. Say how Bates got us into this mess,
and where he is now. I’ll do the same. I’ll address it to old Moseley
and ask him to send it on to my father. How will that do?”
“That will do. And then your father, and mine too, will know that we
are all right, and that we haven’t run away without a pretty good
reason.”
“How much money have you?” asked Percy, as we rose from our conference.
“There are four pounds in my savings-box,” I replied.
“Well, bring it all,” said he. “I have three pounds, besides
twenty-five dollars my aunt gave me. Come and throw a stone at my
window at eleven and I’ll be ready. We must wait till everybody is
asleep.”
Percy then hurried off to the schoolhouse, and at five minutes past
eleven that night, as I have already told, we were running down the
white chalk road on our way to Southampton, twenty-five miles distant.
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