the corner. It's got nothing in it but dumb-bells, and they won't be
touched again before we have drill on Monday."
There was a pause as the four conspirators stood considering whether
there was any other matter which it would be well for them to discuss
before separating. As they hesitated, somewhere in the darkness there
was a slight shuffle.
"Hush! What's that?" whispered Perry.
The exclamation was followed by a patter of feet outside in the
playground.
"Some young beggar must have been hiding away here," muttered Jarvis,
"and has just bolted. Let's see after him."
"Bother it! He must have heard what we have been talking about. He may
let the cat out of the bag."
"No fear," answered Roden. "Every one knows now what's going to happen,
and nobody would dare to go and sneak to Chard."
"I hope it wasn't that little rascal Downing," said Brookfield uneasily,
as he prepared to return to the schoolroom. "He's such a dirty young
toady, always trying to curry favour with Draper or Wills; and of course
if it got to their ears, it's as bad as if any one had told old Chard
himself."
"Oh, there's no danger of that!" said Jarvis, as the quartet sauntered
slowly across the gravel. "Young Downing has too much regard for his own
skin to do a thing of that kind. He'd know too well what he might
expect. Besides, there's no reason to suppose it was Downing."
"No, only it's just like one of the little wretch's sly, sneaking
tricks," answered Brookfield, and so the conversation ended.
As might have been expected, those day boys to whom the project was
mentioned displayed no great readiness to take part in the rebellion.
Most of them had private celebrations of the Fifth at their own homes,
or were invited to assist at similar undertakings at the houses of
friends, and for this reason were unwilling to go out of their way to
join in a spree which might be followed by serious results. Only one, an
arrant duffer nicknamed "Sloper," from some supposed facial resemblance
to that popular hero, volunteered to assist, and that in a manner which
could scarcely be said to entail any special display of courage.
"Let me know what time it happens," he said, "and I'll come outside, and
chuck squibs over the wall."
One boy alone tried to use his influence in such a manner as to prevent
the revolt taking place, and he was a senior named John Oliver, who sat
next in form order to the head of the school. The conspirators had not
taken him into their confidence, feeling pretty certain that he would
not approve of the project; but from remarks let fall by one and
another, he could form a pretty shrewd guess as to what was intended.
"Look here," he said, encountering Brookfield as the latter stood
warming his hands at a coil of hot-water pipes in the hall. "What's all
this nonsensical talk about letting off fireworks to-morrow?"
"Who's talking about it?" asked the football captain with a grin.
"Oh, nearly everybody; and they say you're at the head of it all. Don't
think I'm such a deaf and blind old moke that I don't know what's going
on in the place."
Brookfield liked Oliver, who played full back with him in the team; he
might have resented another boy's right to cross-examine him, but Oliver
was an old friend, and could never be regarded as strait-laced or a
prig.
"Well, what if I am at the head of it? I haven't asked you to join," was
the laughing retort.
"Now don't you be a fool, Brooky!" said Oliver earnestly. "There's no
sense in it, I tell you. Chard'll be frightfully angry about it. Some of
you will get expelled before you've finished, and we can't afford to
lose our football captain."
"Oh, don't you fret yourself, old man," was the careless rejoinder. "I
know how to take care of myself--of that you may be certain."
* * * * *
The eventful Fifth dawned as any other dull November day might, and by
the end of the afternoon all preparations had been made. A good stock of
explosives had been obtained and stowed away under an old bit of sacking
in the chest with the dumb-bells. Out of the thirty-four boarders,
twenty-six had promised to take part in the demonstration, and all had
been carefully instructed how to act. As Brookfield explained, only
united action on the part of all would prevent vengeance being taken on
individuals. It would be impossible for Mr. Chard to expel twenty-six
boys in a lump, and an imposition or the loss of a half-holiday would
not be too heavy a price to pay for the lark and excitement.
The conspirators were all provided with boxes of fusees. As soon as
preparation was ended, the whole body were to rush out to the gymnasium
shed in the playground, and there receive their supply of ammunition. A
sharp fusillade of squibs and crackers was to be kept up for about ten
minutes, at the end of which time the headmaster might be expected to be
approaching the scene of action; then the signal would be given to cease
fire, and the rebels were to "make tracks" as speedily as possible.
"I know what it'll be," said Brookfield. "He'll ring the bell, and order
us to assemble in the schoolroom. Then he'll ask who's been letting off
fireworks, and when he does we must all stand up together, and that'll
show him we don't mean to be treated like babies in future. There musn't
be any shirking; if there is, the fellow will catch it hot, I promise
him."
All the twenty-six professed themselves ready to carry out these
instructions to the letter; never were champions of liberty in such
deadly earnest before.
If there were any whose hearts began to fail them as the appointed hour
drew nearer, they gave no outward sign of lessening determination. Some
young madcaps, who never counted the cost of a lark, looked forward to
the revolt as a huge joke; others, who had more sense, but who had
promised to take part in the display, may have been ashamed to draw back
at the last moment.
Among the latter, strange to say, might possibly have been numbered the
promoter and leading spirit of the whole business. He and Jarvis had
slipped out before tea to make sure that the fireworks were safe in the
chest.
"I say," he muttered, as they lingered for a moment before returning,
"you and I'll catch it hot over this affair."
"How d'you mean?"
"Why, Chard will be sure to drop on us more than on fellows lower down
in the school. I shouldn't wonder if he expels us both."
"Well, let him; I don't care," answered Jarvis recklessly. "You've been
telling a different tale all along; if you're afraid of the
consequences, why in the name of fortune did you ever set the thing
going?"
"Oh, I'm not afraid," answered Brookfield with a short laugh. "I only
said what he _might_ do, if he chooses to regard us as the ringleaders.
By the way, I saw that little rascal Downing talking to Wills this
morning. I wish I knew for certain if it was that young beggar who was
hiding away here yesterday."
"It seems to me you're getting in a funk already," cried Jarvis. "Buck
up! You aren't the sort of chap to lead a forlorn hope. Come on; there's
the bell!"
That evening's "prep." seemed the longest that the boys had ever known.
Mr. Draper was on duty. He stood three youngsters out for inattention,
and reprimanded and cautioned a number of others. Firework displays had
already begun in the town; muffled pops and bangs, and the occasional
flare of a soaring rocket seen through the neighbouring windows, all
served to keep the subdued excitement up to concert pitch. The sound of
whispering and the restless shuffling of feet broke the usual stillness
of the room, in spite of the sharp demands for silence repeatedly made
by the assistant master.
Presently the door opened, and Mr. Chard himself entered the schoolroom.
His eye fell on the three luckless urchins standing in the centre aisle,
and his brow contracted into a frown.
"What have these boys been doing?" he asked.
"They have been very inattentive," answered Mr. Draper. "In fact, I've
been obliged to say I should keep the whole assembly for an extra
half-hour unless they did more work."
Something seemed to have ruffled the headmaster's temper.
"I suppose this is owing to the decision I came to about the fireworks,"
he said sharply. "If so, let it be clearly understood I won't stand any
insubordination of that kind. Go on with your work at once. If I find
to-morrow that any boy has been wilfully idle and inattentive, I shall
punish him severely."
Slowly the hands of the clock crept round the dial; then at last they
stood at half-past eight.
It was with a more than usually audible sigh of relief that the boys
obeyed Mr. Draper's order to put away their books; and now came the
crucial moment, thoughts of which had been in nearly every one's mind
for the last three days.
Brookfield did not hesitate. Having gained the passage, he produced his
cap from his pocket, and ran straight out into the playground. He was
closely followed by Jarvis, Roden, and Perry, and behind them came a
straggling line of dark forms. It was not a good night for fireworks,
for the moon was shining, but its light enabled Brookfield to see and
marshal his followers.
Half-way across the playground he stopped.
"Hullo!" he cried in a low tone. "This isn't all. Where are the others?"
Only eight boys had turned out in addition to those whose names have
been mentioned, so that the whole party numbered a round dozen. Where
were the twenty-six?
"Where are the others?" repeated the leader, as the stragglers,
breathing hard with excitement, came up and formed round him in a group.
"They've funked!" growled a voice in the gloom. "I thought from the
first some of them would."
"Beastly sneaks!" added another. "I collared hold of young Thomas and
tried to make him come, but he wouldn't."
For a second time in the history of the project Brookfield hesitated.
Here was an end to all his ideas of united action, and the whole
responsibility for the rebellion would rest on the shoulders of himself
and the few bolder spirits who stood before him. He could not draw back
now--it would be too much of a climb-down; and it would never do for
him, the football captain, to show the white feather.
"Come on! Don't waste time!" muttered Jarvis, but not in quite such a
confident tone as that in which he usually spoke.
"Come on, then!" repeated the leader desperately. And turning on his
heel he made for the adjacent wooden building styled on the prospectus
the "gymnasium," but commonly known among the boys as the "shed."
Exactly what happened next perhaps Brookfield alone could afterwards
clearly explain, and he was rather chary of repeating his experience.
He opened the door and went cautiously forward in the darkness, feeling
his way with outstretched hand to prevent his coming into violent
collision with the parallel and horizontal bars. The windows, which in
former times had been constantly broken with tennis balls in a game
known as "shed cricket," were protected with wire latticing, and this
served to obscure the struggling moonbeams which faintly illuminated the
farther end of the building.
Exactly how or when he first caught sight of it, Brookfield could hardly
have told, but as he neared the chest in which the fireworks were
stored, he became conscious of the presence of _something_ standing in
what was usually an empty corner.
The moonlight strengthening, or his own eyes becoming every instant more
accustomed to the gloom, enabled him to make out a tall, dark figure,
erect and motionless as a statue; then his heart gave a jump as he
recognized the outlines of a mortar-board and gown.
In an instant he realized that he and his comrades had walked into a
trap; and without a second's hesitation he turned and bolted, coming
into violent collision with Jarvis and Roden, who were following closely
on his heels.
"_Cave!_--_Scoot!_"
The retreat became a rout. At the moment no one clearly understood what
was the matter; but those who had not entered the shed, seeing their
companions rush out like rabbits from a furze bush, joined in the
stampede.
As they ran, and as if to increase their confusion and hasten their
flight, a big squib came whizzing over the playground wall and exploded
with a bang in their very midst. This single firework formed the whole
of Sloper's contribution to the entertainment; for, finding that there
was no response, he came to the wise conclusion that something must have
happened; and so, putting the rest of the squibs in his pocket, he ran
off home.
It was not until the entrance to the school building was reached that
Brookfield found breath enough to gasp out,--
"'Twas old Chard himself! I nearly walked into his arms! Some one's
split, and he was waiting there to collar the whole pack of us!"
Shamefacedly, and with looks of apprehension, the discomfited band
assembled in the schoolroom for prayers.
"Hullo!" whispered Oliver to Brookfield in a bantering tone. "How about
the firework display?"
The football captain was in no mood for joking, and answered with a
surly "Shut up!" He was momentarily expecting the door to open, and the
headmaster to enter and commence an investigation.
To the surprise of at least a dozen young gentlemen, nothing of the sort
happened. Mr. Draper read prayers, and gave the order to pass on to bed.
Brookfield was the senior in charge of No. 5 Dormitory, and all the
other occupants of the room being numbered among the faithful dozen who
had mustered in the playground, the conversation naturally turned on the
unexpected termination to their adventure.
"How is it Chard has said nothing? Perhaps he won't kick up a row after
all."
"Oh, won't he! He's keeping it till to-morrow; don't you fret."
"Who could have told him?"
"Why, that young sneak of a Downing," said Brookfield, getting into bed.
"He told Wills. I'll half kill that young hound in the morning!"
The getting-up bell rang at the accustomed time, and early school
proceeded as usual. This suspense was worse almost than the row itself,
and Brookfield began to wish that the thundercloud would break.
At length the dreaded moment seemed to have arrived, when at the end of
breakfast the headmaster rose from his chair and rapped on the table as
a signal for silence. Jarvis and Roden exchanged a meaning glance, which
was repeated between other boys at different tables.
"I told you the other day that I did not wish you to have any
fireworks," began Mr. Chard. "It is not my intention to take away any
legitimate enjoyment to which you have been accustomed, without, if
possible, giving you something in its place; and as it is a fine day, I
shall grant a half-holiday for a special game of football."
There was a burst of applause as the boys rose from their seats; but
Brookfield, without waiting to join in the cheers, slipped out of the
room and made for the entrance to the playground. Half-way across the
stretch of gravel he heard footsteps behind him, and turning saw Jarvis
following at top speed. The same thought had evidently suggested itself
to them both--a possible solution of the mystery.
Rushing into the empty shed, they paused, and then burst into a laugh.
"Well, I'm blest!" cried Jarvis. "We were a set of muffs! Fancy all our
grand plot being knocked out by _that_!"
In one corner stood one upright of the high-jump gallows; about it was
hung an old tarpaulin; while perched on the top was a battered
mortar-board, the property of some departed hero.
"Some of the kids must have done this," said Brookfield--"the one who
was in here the other evening, and heard us talking. He slipped out last
night, and rigged this up after tea. It wasn't Downing, after all; but I
wouldn't mind betting sixpence 'twas young Markham."
"Cheeky little beggar!" cried Jarvis. "I saw him sniggering this morning
at breakfast. I vote we haul him in here and give him a licking."
"Oh no!" answered Brookfield. "It's a jolly day for footer, and we've
got the extra half, so perhaps it's as well this blessed guy did spoil
our revolt."
* * * * *
The fireworks were subsequently disposed of on easy terms to the day
boys, and though the story soon leaked out among the boarders, causing a
good deal of harmless chaff and hearty laughter, it is probable that Mr.
Chard himself never knew how much he was indebted to an old tarpaulin
and battered mortar-board for the part they had played in so effectively
nipping in the bud a promising rebellion.
THE COCK-HOUSE CUP.
There was great excitement on the Big Side cricket ground at Hadbury
College, though play for the day had finished. The last of the
inter-house matches had just been brought to a conclusion, and the
coveted trophy, known generally as the "Cock-house Cup," was about to be
presented to the winners.
At Hadbury there were many honours of this kind to be won--the "footer"
shield, the racquets trophy, and other prizes of a similar nature, which
excited keen competition between the different boarding-houses. But
among all these coveted rewards of skill and endurance the cricket
challenge cup was perhaps the most highly valued. It took the form of a
handsome and elegantly-chased vase of solid silver, on which, each
succeeding year, the name of the holders was engraved.
Directly in front of the pavilion the ground was raised into a small
terrace, round which the whole school had assembled in a dense crowd.
At the top of the slope, as though on a platform, stood the headmaster,
the Rev. T. A. Wedworth, M.A., Mrs. Wedworth, several of the
house-masters and their wives, Brise the captain of cricket, and other
notables too numerous to mention.
The late afternoon sunlight flashed like fire on the precious metal as
Mrs. Wedworth handed the cup to Herbert, the captain of the winning
team; and a mighty roar of applause went up from the crowd, who had been
patiently bottling up their shouts all through the headmaster's speech.
"Hurrah! Bravo, Conway's! Three cheers for Conway's! Hurrah!"
A boy who, considering his size, contributed as large a share as any one
to the general hubbub, was young Harry Westcott, commonly known among
his more intimate associates as the "Weasel." In a voice of remarkable
power and shrillness he shrieked, "Bravo, Conway's! Bravo, Herbert!"
until a bigger boy, standing just in front, whose teeth were set on edge
by these yells, turned round crying, "Shut up, you little beast! You're
enough to deafen anybody!"
At first sight there seemed little cause for such a display of feeling.
Westcott was a day boy, and did not wear the green and orange cap of
Mr. Conway's house. He was, however, a cricket enthusiast, never
absented himself from a big match, and knew all the great men's scores
and averages. He was a stanch admirer of Herbert, and secretly flattered
himself that his own style in batting closely resembled that of the
captain of Conway's. As his own team had been knocked out in the first
round, he had hoped that Conway's would win, and hence his satisfaction
at the result of the final contest.
At Hadbury the day boys were, for the sake of the games, nominally
divided into two "houses," Mr. Beard's and Mr. Hutton's. Westcott wore
the blue and white cap of the latter; and though Hutton's had never been
favourites for the challenge cup, yet the "Weasel" continued to possess
his soul in patience, feeling quite sure that when _he_ should be
awarded his house colours, a great change would come over the character
of the team, and the name of "Hutton's" would then stand a very good
chance of being engraved on the Cock-house Cup.
The sunlight flashed again in a dazzle of ruddy gold, as Herbert turned
and held up the trophy as a sign of victory. Another roar burst from
three hundred throats; the handsome cup being regarded almost with awe
and reverence by the spectators, as though it were some relic of the
heroic past, a trophy for which doughty knights had struggled in the
ages of romance. It had been in existence now for years, and many
players who had helped to win it had since then done great things on
county grounds, and made names in first-class cricket.
One set of boys there was among the crowd who, for the most part, looked
glum and surly, and refused to cheer. They wore the red and black cap of
Morgan's, and curiously enough were not members of the house which had
been defeated in that day's encounter. Morgan's had been beaten by
Conway's in the semi-finals. There had been ill will and dissatisfaction
about an umpire's decision on which hung the fate of the game, and, ever
since, Morgan's had been consoling themselves with the rather malevolent
hope that Conway's would be defeated in the final.
An oak box, lined with baize and fitted with a lock and key, had been
specially constructed to hold the cup when it was carried to and from
the cricket ground; and, as the assembly began to disperse, Herbert
carefully deposited the trophy in its appointed case, which he then
locked, and put the key in his pocket.
"I say," he remarked, handing the box to Buckle, the long-stop, "I wish
you'd take care of this, and carry it back with you. I want to run down
town and send off a telegram. I told my people I'd wire if we won."
The interior of the pavilion was forbidden ground except to the
privileged few; but on an occasion such as the present the rule was not
so rigidly enforced, and a motley crowd pressed in after the players to
congratulate the winners and glance at the scoring sheets.
Buckle was a good-natured giant, a strong tower as long-stop, but rather
a clown in many ways; and, as might have been expected in the present
instance, he became the subject of a good bit of friendly chaff and
joking.
"Take care of that cup, Buckle; don't lose it!"
"No fear!" answered the long-stop with a grin.
"Well, don't bang it about; we shall want it returned next year exactly
as you got it."
"You've got to win it first," chuckled Buckle, putting the case down
upon a locker, and preparing to take off his spiked shoes.
Brise, the captain of cricket, elbowed his way through the crush.
"Is Herbert here?" he asked.
"No, he's gone down town," answered the long-stop.
"Oh, bother!" was the answer. "I wanted to speak to him. I'm going away
for a couple of days to see my pater before he leaves for India. Well, I
must see him when I come back."
"All right," answered Buckle. "Look here," he added; "how about getting
this cup engraved?"
Brise was already moving away. He turned his head and said something,
but the remark was lost in the babel of noises. The crowd and hubbub
increased; there was some shoving and indications of horse-play.
"Now then, all you fellows who haven't any business here, just clear
out!" shouted Buckle.
"Clear out! Hook it, you kids!" echoed two or three prefects, at the
same time picking up old leg-guards and other weapons with which, if
necessary, to enforce obedience to their commands. "Out you go!"
Among those who joined in the helter-skelter rush which followed was
Master Harry Westcott, who, with his usual self-assertion, had forced
his way into the pavilion, and now dashed out headlong to escape the
consequences of his temerity. Glancing at his watch, he found the hour
was later than he expected, and so, starting off at a trot across the
level playing-field, he made the best of his way back to the house of
his aunt, Mrs. Arden, with whom he lodged during the school terms.