IN WHICH THE AFFAIRS OF VARIOUS PERSONS ARE WOUND UP
'Well,' he said, 'you're rather late. Any luck?'
'We've found him, sir,' said Tony.
'Really? That's a good thing. Where was he?'
'He'd fallen down a sort of quarry place near where MacArthur lives.
MacArthur took him home with him to tea, and sent him back by a short
cut, forgetting all about the quarry, and Thomson fell in and couldn't
get out again.'
'Is he hurt?'
'Only twisted his ankle, sir.'
'Then where is he now?'
'They carried him back to the house.'
'MacArthur's house?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Oh, well, I suppose he will be all right then. Graham, just go across
and report to the Headmaster, will you? You'll find him in his study.'
The Head was immensely relieved to hear Tony's narrative. After much
internal debate he had at last come to the conclusion that Jim must
have run away, and he had been wondering how he should inform his
father of the fact.
'You are certain that he is not badly hurt, Graham?' he said, when Tony
had finished his story.
'Yes, sir. It's only his ankle.'
'Very good. Good-night, Graham.'
The Head retired to bed that night filled with a virtuous resolve to
seek Jim out on the following day, and speak a word in season to him on
the subject of crime in general and betting in particular. This plan he
proceeded to carry out as soon as afternoon school was over. When,
however, he had arrived at the Babe's house, he found that there was
one small thing which he had left out of his calculations. He had
counted on seeing the invalid alone. On entering the sick-room he found
there Mrs MacArthur, looking as if she intended to remain where she sat
for several hours--which, indeed, actually was her intention--and Miss
MacArthur, whose face and attitude expressed the same, only, if
anything, more so. The fact was that the Babe, a very monument of
resource on occasions, had, as he told Jim, 'given them the tip not to
let the Old Man get at him, unless he absolutely chucked them out, you
know'. When he had seen the Headmaster approaching, he had gone
hurriedly to Jim's room to mention the fact, with excellent results.
The Head took a seat by the bed, and asked, with a touch of
nervousness, after the injured ankle. This induced Mrs MacArthur to
embark on a disquisition concerning the ease with which ankles are
twisted, from which she drifted easily into a discussion of Rugby
football, its merits and demerits. The Head, after several vain
attempts to jerk the conversation into other grooves, gave it up, and
listened for some ten minutes to a series of anecdotes about various
friends and acquaintances of Mrs MacArthur's who had either twisted
their own ankles or known people who had twisted theirs. The Head began
to forget what exactly he had come to say that afternoon. Jim lay and
grinned covertly through it all. When the Head did speak, his first
words roused him effectually.
'I suppose, Mrs MacArthur, your son has told you that we have had a
burglary at the School?'
'Hang it,' thought Jim, 'this isn't playing the game at all. Why talk
shop, especially that particular brand of shop, here?' He wondered if
the Head intended to describe the burglary, and then spring to his feet
with a dramatic wave of the hand towards him, and say, 'There, Mrs
MacArthur, is the criminal! There lies the viper on whom you have
lavished your hospitality, the snaky and systematic serpent you have
been induced by underhand means to pity. Look upon him, and loathe him.
_He_ stole the cups!'
'Yes, indeed,' replied Mrs MacArthur, 'I have heard a great deal about
it. I suppose you have never found out who it was that did it?'
Jim lay back resignedly. After all, he had not done it, and if the Head
liked to say he had, well, let him. _He_ didn't care.
'Yes, Mrs MacArthur, we have managed to discover him.'
'And who was it?' asked Mrs MacArthur, much interested.
'Now for it,' said Jim to himself.
'We found that it was a man living in the village, who had been doing
some work on the School grounds. He had evidently noticed the value of
the cups, and determined to try his hand at appropriating them. He is
well known as a poacher in the village, it seems. I think that for the
future he will confine himself to that--ah--industry, for he is hardly
likely ever to--ah--shine as a professional house-breaker. No.'
'Oh, well, that must be a relief to you, I am sure, Mr Perceval. These
poachers are a terrible nuisance. They do frighten the birds so.'
She spoke as if it were an unamiable eccentricity on the part of the
poachers, which they might be argued out of, if the matter were put
before them in a reasonable manner. The Head agreed with her and rose
to go. Jim watched him out of the room and then breathed a deep,
satisfying breath of relief. His troubles were at an end.
In the meantime Barrett, who, having no inkling as to the rate at which
affairs had been progressing since his visit to the Dingle, still
imagined that the secret of the hollow tree belonged exclusively to
Reade, himself, and one other, was much exercised in his mind about it.
Reade candidly confessed himself baffled by the problem. Give him
something moderately straightforward, and he was all right. This secret
society and dark lantern style of affair was, he acknowledged, beyond
him. And so it came about that Barrett resolved to do the only thing he
could think of, and go to the Head about it. But before he had come to
this decision, the Head had received another visit from Mr Roberts, as
a result of which the table where Sir Alfred Venner had placed
Plunkett's pipe and other accessories so dramatically during a previous
interview, now bore another burden--the missing cups.
Mr Roberts had gone to the Dingle in person, and, by adroit use of the
divinity which hedges a detective, had persuaded a keeper to lead him
to the tree where, as Mr Stokes had said, the cups had been deposited.
The Head's first act, on getting the cups, was to send for Welch, to
whom by right of conquest they belonged. Welch arrived shortly before
Barrett. The Head was just handing him his prizes when the latter came
into the room. It speaks well for Barrett's presence of mind that he
had grasped the situation and decided on his line of action before
Welch went, and the Head turned his attention to him.
'Well, Barrett?' said the Head.
'If you please, sir,' said Barrett, blandly, 'may I have leave to go to
Stapleton?'
'Certainly, Barrett. Why do you wish to go?'
This was something of a poser, but Barrett's brain worked quickly.
'I wanted to send a telegram, sir.'
'Very well. But'--with suspicion--'why did you not ask Mr Philpott?
Your House-master can give you leave to go to Stapleton.'
'I couldn't find him, sir.' This was true, for he had not looked.
'Ah. Very well.'
'Thank you, sir.'
And Barrett went off to tell Reade that in some mysterious manner the
cups had come back on their own account.
When Jim had congratulated himself that everything had ended happily,
at any rate as far as he himself was concerned, he had forgotten for
the moment that at present he had only one pound to his credit instead
of the two which he needed. Charteris, however, had not. The special
number of _The Glow Worm_ was due on the following day, and Jim's
accident left a considerable amount of 'copy' to be accounted for. He
questioned Tony on the subject.
'Look here, Tony, have you time to do any more stuff for _The Glow
Worm?_
'My dear chap,' said Tony, 'I've not half done my own bits. Ask Welch.'
'I asked him just now. He can't. Besides, he only writes at about the
rate of one word a minute, and we must get it all in by tonight at
bed-time. I'm going to sit up as it is to jellygraph it. What's up?'
Tony's face had assumed an expression of dismay.
'Why,' he said, 'Great Scott, I never thought of it before. If we
jellygraph it, our handwriting'll be recognised, and that will give the
whole show away.'
Charteris took a seat, and faced this difficulty in all its aspects.
The idea had never occurred to him before. And yet it should have been
obvious.
'I'll have to copy the whole thing out in copper-plate,' he said
desperately at last. 'My aunt, what a job.'
'I'll help,' said Tony. 'Welch will, too, I should think, if you ask
him. How many jelly machine things can you raise?'
'I've got three. One for each of us. Wait a bit, I'll go and ask
Welch.'
Welch, having first ascertained that the matter really was a pressing
one, agreed without hesitation. He had objections to spoiling his sleep
without reason, but in moments of emergency he put comfort behind him.
'Good,' said Charteris, when this had been settled, 'be here as soon as
you can after eleven. I tell you what, we'll do the thing in style, and
brew. It oughtn't to take more than an hour or so. It'll be rather a
rag than otherwise.'
'And how about Jim's stuff?' asked Welch.
'I shall have to do that, as you can't. I've done my own bits. I think
I'd better start now.' He did, and with success. When he went to bed at
half-past ten, _The Glow Worm_ was ready in manuscript. Only the
copying and printing remained to be done.
Charteris was out of bed and in the study just as eleven struck. Tony
and Welch, arriving half-an-hour later, found him hard at work copying
out an article of topical interest in a fair, round hand, quite
unrecognisable as his own.
It was an impressive scene. The gas had been cut off, as it always was
when the House went to bed, and they worked by the light of candles.
Occasionally Welch, breathing heavily in his efforts to make his
handwriting look like that of a member of a board-school (second
standard), blew one or more of the candles out, and the others grunted
fiercely. That was all they could do, for, for evident reasons, a vow
of silence had been imposed. Charteris was the first to finish. He
leant back in his chair, and the chair, which at a reasonable hour of
the day would have endured any treatment, collapsed now with a noise
like a pistol-shot.
'Now you've done it,' said Tony, breaking all rules by speaking
considerably above a whisper.
Welch went to the door, and listened. The House was still. They settled
down once more to work. Charteris lit the spirit-lamp, and began to
prepare the meal. The others toiled painfully on at their round-hand.
They finished almost simultaneously.
'Not another stroke do I do,' said Tony, 'till I've had something to
drink. Is that water boiling yet?'
It was at exactly a quarter past two that the work was finished.
'Never again,' said Charteris, looking with pride at the piles of
_Glow Worms_ stacked on the table; 'this jelly business makes one
beastly sticky. I think we'll keep to print in future.'
And they did. Out of the twenty or more numbers of _The Glow Worm_
published during Charteris' stay at School, that was the only one that
did not come from the press. Readers who have themselves tried
jellygraphing will sympathise. It is a curious operation, but most
people will find one trial quite sufficient. That special number,
however, reached a record circulation. The School had got its
journey-money by the time it appeared, and wanted something to read in
the train. Jim's pound was raised with ease.
Charteris took it round to him at the Babe's house, together with a
copy of the special number.
'By Jove,' said Jim. 'Thanks awfully. Do you know, I'd absolutely
forgotten all about _The Glow Worm_. I was to have written
something for this number, wasn't I?'
And, considering the circumstances, that remark, as Charteris was at
some pains to explain to him at the time, contained--when you came to
analyse it--more cynical immorality to the cubic foot than any other
half-dozen remarks he (Charteris) had ever heard in his life.
'It passes out of the realm of the merely impudent,' he said, with a
happy recollection of a certain favourite author of his, 'and soars
into the boundless empyrean of pure cheek.'