"Of course I don't know how much your father paid in the pound."
Presently I said, "I'm awfully obliged to you, Gideon, and I shall never
forget how kind you have been. And I wonder if you'd mind adding to
your fearful kindness by lending me a penny."
"What for?" said Gideon; "ginger beer?"
"No," I said; "for a stamp to write to my grandmother. I may tell you
privately that she sent that pound out of her own money, and it was very
sporting of her, and of course I must thank her."
Gideon didn't much like it, I could see; but at last he brought out the
penny and entered it in his book.
"If you can pay it back by the end of the term I'll charge no interest,"
he said.
And just to show what luck Gideon always has, the very next Sunday, at
church, I found a three-penny piece, doubtless dropped by somebody, so
Gideon had his penny back in three days, and I went so far as to offer
him a halfpenny interest, but he would not take it from me.
*THE TIGER'S TAIL*
*No. IV*
*THE TIGER'S TAIL*
*I*
Curiously enough a very curious thing happened to the other foreign
curiosity that Johnson maximus sent to Dr. Dunstan. You may remember
that Johnson, who is in the merchant service, brought the Doctor home a
parrot and a tiger's skin, and that strange things overtook the parrot,
especially after death. Well, strange things also overtook the Bengal
tiger's skin, owing to me and Freckles and Smythe. I am Macmullen, and
the real name of Freckles was Maine, and he came from Australia and had
a great ambition to be a bush-ranger in course of time, and revive the
practice of bushranging in New South Wales. Among other things that he
had was an important bowie-knife--the same the Chinese boy, Tin Lin
Chow, borrowed to commit 'harri-kari' with and failed. Well, with his
great feeling for sport, Freckles naturally felt a good deal of interest
in the tiger's skin, and often went to look at it in the Doctor's study.
It was a good one, no doubt--white and yellow and black, with a long
tail and a very fine head. In this head were glass eyes, like life, and
the mouth was open and pink, with terrific teeth--worn smooth where the
tiger had chewed his prey.
[Illustration: FRECKLES OFTEN WENT TO LOOK AT IT IN THE DOCTOR'S STUDY.]
Then there came to Merivale a kid called Smythe. He was very small, but
pretty solid and rather decent, and keen as mustard, and fiery in colour
too.
It's a rum thing with boys, that some get chums with the greatest ease
and some never do. And also the boys who often want to make chums never
do, for some reason or other. But this kid soon made chums, though I
couldn't tell you why. Of course he was nothing to me, because I'm
thirteen--in fact, nearly fourteen--but for a chap just ten he was all
right, and other chaps of his own age found him interesting. He had a
lot of rather peculiar knowledge, gathered up from his father, who was a
very learned man and wrote books for libraries. And he believed in
heathen charms and old sayings, and remembered many queer things that
his father had told him. He wanted to be the caretaker of a museum some
day, but said that he hoped to be allowed to travel round the world
first, like Darwin did, and see dwarfs and giants, and write books, and
shoot a few specimens of different things not often heard of.
Of course he went through the ordinary adventures of new boys at
Merivale, and it was in the matter of the 'kid test' that he became so
generally known as a kid out of the common.
There is, just beyond the cricket ground, and before you come to the
wood, a huge clump of rhododendrons that is covered with purple flowers
in May. It is just the sort of place that a wild beast would choose for
its lair, if there were wild beasts at Merivale, and it was a regular
thing with kids to tell them that a savage animal did live there, and
only came out at night. This beast was a test of the pluck of new kids,
and the new kid who would walk past the rhododendrons after dark alone,
was considered to be all right. Of course something was done to make it
seem more terrible, and, in fact, till he left, John Batson, the
gardener's boy, was always told to hide in the rhododendrons, and shake
the bushes and growl when a test was being made. This he did very well,
having a chronical sore throat, and a very harsh and growling voice,
like a ferocious beast. But he had to go, owing to some row with the
servants, and the new gardener's boy could only squeak, and was useless
for the test. Generally, however, somebody in the fifth could be got,
and for some time Freckles kindly obliged when a test had to be made. It
amused him, and he growled very fairly well, and could also imitate
wolves in a state of hunger, which he had once heard at a menagerie.
Well, young Smythe was told about the mystery of the rhododendron bed,
and seemed more interested than frightened.
"Hasn't anybody ever seen the thing?" he asked.
"No," answered Steggles, who was there. "The sound it makes is so
frightful that chaps generally run for their lives, and never wait to
see it."
Smythe was very keen about it.
"I wish my father would come up and hear it," he said.
"The point is," explained Freckles, "that each kid must go past alone.
It only growls for kids, and doesn't growl for grown-up people. It is a
test of bravery. There are chaps here still who have never been brave
enough to pass after the first growl. They were chaps who turned out
quite brave in every other way, too."
"What have I to do?" asked Smythe.
"You've got to walk out on an appointed night, after evening school, and
go round the rhododendron bed twice, no matter what happens. It is a
winter beast, and is never heard in the summer. So it is a winter test.
You've just come in time for it," explained Fowle, who was also there.
Smythe had been at Merivale about a fortnight when he was asked to
undergo the great kid test.
He thought a bit after this speech from Fowle. Then he asked a question.
"And what do you think the creature is?"
"Nobody knows," said Fowle. "Of course if that was really known,
something might be done."
"It ought to be shot," said Smythe; but Gideon thought not.
They all pretended to be serious, and Smythe quite believed the story,
because he was very young. In fact, only one kid had ever refused to
believe it.
"No," declared Gideon; "it may be the only beast of its kind in the
world, and to shoot it would be a thousand pities."
"Then it ought to be photographed," said Smythe.
"Impossible, because nobody ever sees it," answered Steggles.
"That's no reason," said Smythe; "it might be done with Rontgen rays."
Which shows what a clever kid he was, though so ready to believe this
rot about the beast.
"One person did see it, however," said Fowle, "and that was Montgomery,
who went into a bank last term, and it left a great impression upon
him."
"What did he say it looked like?" asked Smythe.
"A sort of thing between a tiger and a donkey," answered Fowle very
seriously.
"Rum," said Smythe. "It might belong to the zebra family."
"Zebras don't growl," said Freckles.
"More they do," admitted Smythe. "They bray."
Then he went on to tell us some things about zebras that we didn't know
ourselves.
"If it could be killed, it would be a good thing," said Smythe; "and the
chap who did it would have a very precious charm, because the skin, or
part of the skin of a savage beast is a very tremendous charm to the man
or boy who gets it. The Boringos, my father said--at least, I think they
were Boringos, or if not, Kinnatoos, or some other tribe--always wear
the skin of a fierce beast next their own skin, and by so doing get the
fierceness of the beast into themselves, and so nobody ever interferes
with them, and they always have the most remarkable luck, and live to a
great age. So this fierce beast would be a good chance."
"You might have a dash at it," said Freckles, though he could hardly
help laughing. "If you killed it and skinned it, and wore a bit of the
skin, it would be a fine thing for you."
"Yes, it would," admitted Smythe. "I'd risk a good deal; but I've got
nothing to kill anything with except a catapult, and of course that's no
good against a fierce and growling beast."
Everybody laughed, but young Smythe was as serious as possible.
"If anybody would lend me a decent knife, I'd have a go," he said.
"You'll be frightened when you hear its dreadful sound," declared Fowle.
"I was, and I'm never ashamed to say so."
"Very likely I might be," admitted Smythe. "But often a jolly good thing
has been done by a man who was in funk at the time; and I'd have a dash,
anyhow; because, think if I succeeded, and got a charm that would last
for a lifetime!"
"I'll lend you my well-known bowie-knife if you'll be careful of it,"
said Freckles.
With that he took it out of his pocket, where it hangs suspended by a
lanyard, so that Freckles can get it in a moment, in time of need, when
he goes on his hunting expeditions on half-holidays.
Young Smythe thanked him frightfully, and took the knife.
"It's just been sharpened for me by the gardener," explained Freckles.
"It can pretty-well cut hairs, so you'd better be careful." And Smythe
promised he would be.
Then it was decided that the test should take place that evening before
evening prep. It was a good day to choose, because the Doctor and Mrs.
Dunstan were going out to dinner somewhere, and we always felt a sort of
feeling of more freedom at such times.
When the kid had gone I warned Freckles that he might be doing a
dangerous thing; but he laughed and said not. Then Steggles had one of
his terrific ideas, that nobody gets but Steggles, and he said--
"What a lark it would be if we could fake up a fierce beast, and make it
come out of the rhodo. bed just as you let off a frightful yell,
Freckles!"
Of course Freckles admitted it would.
"With some kids one couldn't dare," he said. "Such a thing happening to
Mathers, for instance, would certainly make him go dotty for ever; but
this kid doesn't know what fear is. It would be a lark to see what he'd
do."
"You'd better be pretty careful, or he'll stab you," said Gideon. "He's
jolly quick, and you'd look rather a fool if a new kid went and ran you
through with your own bowie-knife."
"So I should," admitted Freckles; "but I'm not afraid. You forget my
great power of seeing in the dark. I'm jolly near as good as a cat at
it."
Then I suddenly had the most awfully fine idea, apart from machinery,
that ever I did have. Little did I know what would happen, but still,
looking back, it is only fair to me to admit the awful fineness of the
idea. I said--
"The Doctor being out, couldn't we get the tiger-rug and stuff it with
pillows, and stick it up on four cricket-stumps just round the corner of
the rhodo. bed? Then, where we are all hidden behind the pavilion, we
see the fun, and after it's over and the kid has bolted, we can take the
skin back."