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KING OF RANLEIGH
A School Story
by
CAPTAIN F. S. BRERETON
Author of "The Hero of Panama," "The Great Aeroplane," etc. etc.
Illustrated by Ernest Prater
London
S. W. Partridge & Co. Ltd.
Old Bailey
[Illustration: "CLIVE WAS DASHED BACKWARD WITH TERRIFIC VIOLENCE."]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE CONSPIRATORS 9
II. A BOOBY TRAP 25
III. OFF TO RANLEIGH 47
IV. SOME INTRODUCTIONS 68
V. AN ULTIMATUM 89
VI. CLIVE AND HIS FRIENDS TRIUMPHANT 111
VII. PLANS FOR AN OUTING 131
VIII. BREAKING BOUNDS 153
IX. HONESTY'S THE BEST POLICY 173
X. THE RUINED TOWER 194
XI. BERT MAKES A DISCOVERY 214
XII. ROUNDING UP THE BURGLARS 236
XIII. TRENDALL AND SOME OTHERS 259
XIV. THE STRENUOUS LIFE 278
XV. STURTON'S POLICY IS VINDICATED 295
XVI. A GREAT DISTURBANCE 317
XVII. WHO IS THE SCOUNDREL? 340
XVIII. TRACKED DOWN 358
XIX. A MONSTROUS ACCUSATION 374
XX. THE OLD FIRM HANGS TOGETHER 386
XXI. KING OF RANLEIGH 403
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Clive was dashed back with terrific
violence" _Frontispiece_
"His rage was almost appalling" 44
"'Look out, Susanne! I'm coming
in to help'" 114
"Rawlings and Trendall were tossed
into a dense mass of bushes" 171
"'Forward!' ordered the sergeant
sternly. 'Rush 'em!'" 254
"They were swept back by an appalling
gush of flame and smoke" 328
KING OF RANLEIGH
CHAPTER I
THE CONSPIRATORS
Clive Darrell took from the pocket of a somewhat tattered coat, which
bore many a stain and many a sign of hard wear, a filbert of good size,
and having admired it in silence cracked the same by placing it upon a
miniature anvil and giving it an adroit blow with a hammer. There was a
precision about his movements and his action which spoke of practice.
Clive was inordinately fond of nuts. His pockets bulged widely with
them. As he ate he extracted a handful and presented some to each of his
two comrades.
"Here, have a go. I've heaps to draw from. Well?"
"Well?" came from Hugh Seymour, a boy of his own age, just a little more
than thirteen.
But Bert Seymour, brother to Hugh, made no answer. Taller than the other
two, a year older than his brother, he was a weedy, lanky youth,
running to height rather than to breadth. He had tossed his cap on to
the bench, so that he presented a tousled head of hair, above a face
thin like his frame, but ruddy enough, with keen penetrating eyes which
wore a curiously dreamy aspect for such a youngster. He was cogitating
deeply. That was evident. But being the prince of good fellows, one who
made a point of returning hospitality, he rummaged also in his pocket,
producing a medley of articles to be found nowhere else save in the case
of a schoolboy. A piece of tangled string, half a broken hinge, a knife,
a second knife, somewhat bigger and distinctly rusty, a length of
galvanised wire which made one wonder if he were a jack-of-all-trades,
three handkerchiefs, each more terrible in appearance than the last, a
number of air-gun slugs, a broken box for the same, now empty and
severely damaged, and lastly, that for which he searched, a respectably
sized piece of toffee in a wrapping of paper which was broken at one
corner, and through which a half-dozen slugs had contrived to insert
themselves and were now nicely imbedded in the sweetmeat.
"Have some," he said laconically, handing over the packet to Clive.
"Fair does then. Thanks."
There was a strange taciturnity about these three lads. A silence and
absence of words to which they were unaccustomed. But then, great events
bring about equally great changes on occasion, and this day saw the trio
face to face with a circumstance which baffled them, rendered them
almost inarticulate, when they were accustomed to chatter, not seldom
either in the lowest tones, and made of them a somewhat morose
gathering.
Clive split the toffee into three equal-sized pieces with the aid of a
huge pair of metal shears, distributed two of the pieces, and thrust the
third into his mouth.
"Well?" he asked again, almost inarticulate since the sticky piece held
his jaws so firmly. "We've got to move."
"Or funk."
"Or go on getting kicked."
"Not if I know it!" ejaculated Clive, with a distinct effort, tearing
his two rows of shining teeth asunder. "Who's he? We've been here ages,
and he has the cheek to order us about."
"Suppose he imagines we're going to fag for him," exclaimed Hugh,
pulling his piece of toffee into the light of day as speech was
otherwise almost out of the question. "He's a cad, this Rawlings. Vote
we go for him."
"How?"
It was almost the first word which Bert had uttered. A keen glance shot
from those dreamy eyes, searching the faces of his two comrades. He
borrowed Clive's hammer and mechanically cracked the handful of nuts
presented to him, preparing a store for consumption after the sweetmeat
was finished. His dreamy eyes slowly travelled round his immediate
surroundings, noting without enthusiasm the many tools and appliances
which to boys as a general rule are the greatest of attractions. For
Bert was no mechanic. At the precise period of which we write he was
immersed in the intricacies of a calculation having for its object the
purchase of sundry cricket stumps, bats and a ball with a sum raked
together after noble self-sacrifice and still all too small for the
purpose. He was, in fact, keen on cricket, and no dull hand at the game.
Fair at the wicket, he could send down a ball at any time the varying
length of which might be expected to baffle one who had not stood up to
his bowling before. While at "point" he had already gathered laurels in
the village matches, to which residence in the depths of the country
confined him.
Mechanics distinctly bored Bert. He had no use for hammers, other than
that of cracking nuts, and even then he managed to hammer his fingers
fairly often. And there he differed from his brother, just as the latter
differed from him in appearance. For Hugh was a rosy-cheeked fellow,
short and active and strong, quick and brisk in his actions, and with
eyes which sparkled and could never be accused of presenting a dreamy
appearance. Always ready for cricket or football or any other game that
might be suggested, and shining particularly in the gymnasium, there
were two hobbies which absorbed his every waking thought, and contrived
to make him Clive Darrell's boon companion. For both loved the wild
things they saw about them. They were the terror of gamekeepers in all
directions, and there was not a copse nor a cover for miles around which
they had not visited in their search for nests. And the winter season
found them both for hours together in this workshop, once the happy
rendezvous of Clive's father. What wonder if they were enchanted with
the place? Imagine a large room, with steeply sloping roof, in which
were a couple of lights. A range of shelves down one side, each carrying
planes or cramps or wood tools of some description. While against the
farther wall stood a cabinet, glazed at the top, and presenting a range
of calipers, micrometers, drills, gauges, taps and dies and what-not;
while nests of drawers beneath contained every tool necessary for both
wood and metal turning. That was the triumph of this workshop. A
five-inch lathe stood against the far wall, the floor beneath stained
with many a splotch of oil. A belt ran to it from a shaft overhead which
travelled the length of the shop and was there fitted with a wheel of
large diameter to which a second belt was attached. This latter
travelled to the fast and loose pulleys of a second shaft, and thence to
a petrol engine, which puffed and rattled at the moment.
Clive toyed with the lever which operated his pet lathe. As he and his
comrades cogitated, he pushed the lever over, setting the shaft above in
motion and the spindle of the lathe revolving. A chunk of brass bolted
to the face-plate of this latter spun round at speed, while the tool he
had fixed in position shaved a neat ribbon of metal from it. Then the
lever swung back, the spindle of the lathe came to a rest, while the
shaft above ceased to rotate, leaving the engine still running.
"I know. We'll make a trap for the ass. Catch him as they catch elephant
and rhinoceros in Africa," he suddenly blurted out as he turned from the
lathe. As for his hearers, they received his suggestion with scant
sympathy.
"Trap! How? Where? Rot!" ejaculated Bert. "What's the good of trapping
an idiot?--unless, of course, you mean setting a thing like a
rabbit-trap. That'd fix him. Imagine the great and noble Rawlings,
fresh from a public school, lord of all he beholds, caught by the toe
and left singing!"
A wan smile wreathed his lips. Hugh giggled, and then looked serious. "A
precious row we'd get into, too," he cried. "Try again, Clive. Don't
talk rot; we're serious."
"So am I; we'll fix a trap for this bounder, a trap that'll not hurt
him, you understand, but one that'll make him look a fool and an ass,
and'll teach him not to interfere with his betters."
"Meaning us," grinned Bert.
"Of course! Who else? You don't imagine that an ass like that's on the
same plane, do you?" demanded Clive loftily. "Now I'll tell you how
we'll do it. There's the path down the spinney."
"Ah!" A frown crossed Bert's face. Hugh's ruddy cheeks grew redder. For
that path happened to be the bone of contention which had brought about
this meeting. But for that, Clive and Hugh and Bert would not have been
gathered in the workshop on this fine morning, cracking sundry nuts upon
a miniature anvil, and sucking sticky toffee. Bert, for instance, would
have been down at the one single store which Potters Camp, their local
village, boasted, where he would have painfully haggled for the stumps
and other goods he coveted. Then Clive and Hugh would have been
otherwise occupied. They had a big mechanical scheme on foot, no less an
undertaking than the manufacture of a motor-car, a real motor-car to run
upon the high-road. Morning and afternoon and evening they had been at
it through these holidays. And the scheme was so very simple, and
promised such certain success! To begin with, there was the petrol
engine at that moment puffing and rumbling in the shop. The framework
they had made was the precise thing for it. They had only to erect a
species of crane above the engine and they could lift it into the frame
and bolt it down. That was childishly easy. The rest was a triumph, or
almost so, inasmuch as it was on the high-road to completion. For the
front axle was already fitted. True, it was not quite up to modern form,
since stub axles at either end were missing. But then necessity is the
mother of invention, as Clive had told his chum often and often. That
axle was bored at the very centre and swivelled about a pin bolted to
the framework. As for springs, who wanted any!
"Tosh!" declared Clive.
"Meant for ladies and kids and invalids," said Hugh, equally emphatic.
"It'll shake about a bit, of course," admitted the former grudgingly. "I
reckon she'll do a good twenty miles an hour, and on the awful
apologies for roads round about here, why, naturally, she'll hop and
bump no end. But who cares so long as she goes? Not me. Only those
wheels look a bit rocky, eh?"
Hugh must have been an enthusiast, or else he would not have denied the
obvious fact to which his fellow inventor had drawn his attention. For
the wheels of this car-in-making were decidedly groggy, to use an
expression common to this mechanical couple. But then again, necessity
was here the mother of much inventive genius. Lack of funds could not
cripple the enthusiasm and ambition of our two mechanics. Wheels they
must have if they wished their car to run upon the road, while cash was
decidedly lacking. But both had a bicycle the back wheel of each of
which fitted with commendable niceness upon the spindle ends of the
steel bar which Clive had used for a front axle, while the back axle and
its wheels were supplied from the stable of no less a person than the
Rev. James Seymour, the respected parent of Bert and Hugh, Rector of the
parish, and owner of a tricycle.
"Fits rippingly! Just the thing!" commented Hugh, when he produced the
article for Clive's approval. "Only it'd be a bit unlucky if the
Governor wanted to trike just at this moment. Of course, he can't. Dare
say he'd be ratty, but then, think of how he's helping. It's just the
thing."
"Just!" Clive whetted his lips at the sight. The one great difficulty of
this ambitious undertaking was conquered, and, of course, they were only
borrowing the axle and wheels for a time. They'd have a run on the road
and then bolt them back into position. No one'd be the wiser, certainly
not Hugh's Governor. "But--just a trifle light for the job," he added.
"Still, you never can tell till you try. But it'd be mighty awkward if
there was a bust up. There'd be a ruction then."
Hugh had agreed to that point, and for a moment had repented his action.
But then, think of being beaten just for the want of a little courage!
After all, the wheels and axle of the tricycle might be the very thing.
They certainly looked it. And the Rector had not ridden his machine for
a month at least, and for all he knew might have discarded it
altogether. In any case, the parts had been borrowed, and as the trio
stood about the lathe Hugh's admiring eyes were upon it.
"Pity this cad's come along just now," he grumbled. "Everything's ready
and fitted. A morning's work would drop the engine in and connect up the
levers and the chain. That steering gear ain't too magnificent. But
then, if one manages the engine and the other steers her, it'll be as
right as anything. Hang this Rawlings!"
Others echoed the same malediction. For the Rawlings family were not
popular in the neighbourhood of Potters Camp. In the first place, they
were new-comers, and in the depths of the country that is sometimes a
sufficient offence. Then they were purse-proud and apparently rich, and
apt to patronise their country cousins. Mr. Rawlings was of decidedly
pompous appearance. Very stout and heavy, he had a way of lifting a
condescending stick when greeted by neighbours. And Albert, his son, was
a shining copy. He looked down upon the village youths from a lofty
pinnacle. He nodded, when he remembered to, to Hugh and Bert and Clive,
though to the latter he was not always so gracious. For Clive had once
been master where the pompous Rawlings now stepped. Once he and his
people had lived in the big house at the top of the hill, with its acres
of park land about it. But times had changed sadly. Perhaps his father
had been too immersed in his workshop, and had given little attention to
the more serious affairs of life. Whatever the reason, his riches had
left him, and here was his widow, with her only son, living in a small
house at the far corner of the park, and once occupied by a bailiff.
From the said house a path led through a long spinney to the high-road,
and made a short-cut for its inhabitants. Otherwise they must needs go a
long way round to get to the village.
"And the cad forbids us to use it!" ejaculated Clive, as he recollected
the occurrence. "Of course, the father's behind the business. He must
be. But the son does the talking. A precious nice business."
"Here, you get off! This isn't yours. Just cut it!" Hugh deliberately
mimicked the youth of whom they were talking. "A fine sort of fellow,"
he exclaimed. "So you'll set a trap for him, Clive?"
"Now. Without waiting. I'd fifty times rather stay along here and finish
this job. Just think, this evening we'd be ready for running. We'd have
a trial spin on our car, for there's certain to be things to adjust. But
we'd have her running top hole before it got dark. Then we'd make a trip
to London."
Hugh's eyes opened wide at the statement.
"It's seventy miles if it's an inch."
"Who cares? We can do it. But----"
"Eh?" asked Hugh, scenting another difficulty just at the moment when he
felt confident that all were overcome successfully.
"How long would it take? Let's see. We do twenty miles an hour."
"Hardly that all the way."
"Why not?" demanded Clive, in whose fertile brain the whole scheme had
originated, and who panted to be testing his first attempt at road
locomotion. "Why not?"
"Well, there's punctures," said Hugh lamely, and without thought of
grammar.
"Yes; possible."
"Then there's traffic. Besides, we've got to eat."
Yes, they had to do that, without a shadow of doubt. Seventy miles, with
sundry delays--which, however, were not likely, oh, certainly
not!--meant four hours on the road. A fellow couldn't hold out all that
time. Impossible!
"We'd have a blow-out before starting," declared Clive, his eyes on the
machine he and his chum had been so diligently building. "Then we'd be
off before nine. We'd get a real good feed at one. By then we'd be in
London. That means we'd have to go to rather a swagger sort of place. I
say, that's a bit awkward. How's the cash-box going?"
There wasn't a cash-box. Hugh was the treasurer, and he slowly and
somewhat sadly counted out three shillings and fourpence halfpenny. Not
a big sum, perhaps, but nearing the end of the holidays, and after
considerable expenditure already on their ambitious project it was
certainly a triumph of management.
"Bit short," said Hugh. "But it'll do. We must fill up well before we
start, and take things in our pockets. I dare say we'll be able to find
a place where you can get a feed for a shilling. Perhaps they'd take two
for less. Things like that are easy to arrange in London."
"Easy. But I was thinking of the return journey. There's a lamp wanted."
"And numbers, and a licence," said Hugh, aghast at the thought which had
never previously occurred to either of them. "My eye, that's a deuce of
a job. The police would be on to us."
Clive's was one of those jovial, optimistic natures which overrides all
difficulties. "Hang the police! We'll chance it. We'll stick up a number
of some sort. I'll ink one out on cardboard this evening. As for a lamp,
there's the gardener's. I'll borrow it. It'll do, hanging on in front.
It'll make us go slow, of course, but all the better. It'll be a joke to
be kept late on the road and have everyone in fits about us. But we
can't move to-morrow. It'll have to be the next day."
Ruefully Hugh agreed to the plan, for he would have loved to proceed
with the finishing of the car now so nearly ready. He sighed as he
looked at the framework at the end of the shop, with its somewhat flimsy
front axle and bicycle wheels, its borrowed back axle, its steering
gear, a complication of steel wires about a drum mounted on a raked
tubing, and surmounted by a cast-iron wheel at one time adorning the
overhead shaft which drove the lathe. What thought that gear had cost
them! What a triumph its construction had been, and how well it seemed
to act now that it was duly assembled and mounted on the wooden chassis
of the car! Only the engine needed now to be lifted into position, a
chain run from it to the sprocket on the back axle till a few days ago
part and parcel of his father's tricycle. There was the mere matter of a
lever or two to control the engine, that strip of cardboard, with a
number inked upon it, and they would be off. His imagination whirled him
to the giddy heights of enjoyment as he thought of the trip before them.
"But that cad's got to be dealt with," he agreed. "Right! What's the
particular movement?"
"A trap," interjected Bert. "A man-catcher. Go easy with the saw-edge of
the concern and the spring, or you'll break his legs. We don't want
that, even if he is a bounder. You'd have thought, considering Clive was
the owner of the spinney only a year ago, a fellow would have been
ashamed to order him off what had been his own property. But there's no
counting on what cads'll do, or won't do. He threatened to throw us out.
He's big, though only fifteen, they say. But if we tackled him together
we'd make mincemeat of him."
"Better make a fool of him, though," said Clive. "You come along with me
now to the spinney. We'll fix the thing so as to make as big an ass of
this Rawlings as possible. We'll rig a trap that'll hold him tight, and
yet not hurt him. It's near twelve now. By two hours after lunch we'll
have it finished. It'll be ready and working by to-morrow morning."
They shut off the engine destined on the morrow to be lifted into their
motor-car and provide the propelling force, and shutting the shop went
on their way to the spinney. And the same hour found them hard at work
upon another contrivance, conceived by Clive's inventive brain, and
prepared for the purpose of lowering the pride and dignity of one who
had given them mortal offence. Rawlings, the fifteen-year-old son of the
pompous new-comer to the parish of Potters Camp, little dreamed of the
consequences of his loftiness and of his churlish treatment of Clive
Darrell.