A BOOBY TRAP
"Five feet and a bit," announced Bert Seymour with gusto, measuring the
depth of the pit which he and Hugh and Clive had been digging in the
centre of the path leading down the much-discussed spinney. "Two feet
either way, and a precious job to dig it on that account. Jolly well too
narrow."
"For working in, rather," agreed his brother. "But about right size for
a trap. A bit big, if anything. Top edges nicely sloped off, so as to
give nothing for a fellow to cling on to."
"And a good foot of sticky clay pudding at the bottom," grinned Clive.
"That'll hold him like bird-lime. It'll be bad for his boots and his
pants. But, then, it can't be helped. He shouldn't be such a cad. It'll
help to teach him manners. I say, do you think a foot of pudding's
enough? Suppose we make it two. It'd make things certain."
A second foot of the sticky puddled clay was therefore added, and Hugh
tested its adhesiveness with a long stake he had discovered in the
forest.
"It'll hold him like wax, till he hollers for someone to help him," he
announced, with radiant face. "Of course, we ain't likely to hear him
for a goodish time, are we? and there's no one else who'll be about. Old
Tom knows what we're up to, of course, but he's a clever bird. He'll be
out of the way, or deaf or something. Tom don't like the Rawlings."
That was true enough. If Clive and his chums had suffered from the
loftiness and condescension of the new-comers to Potters Camp, Old Tom,
Mrs. Darrell's gardener, had likewise suffered. He'd been used to
quality.
"The folks up at the house was different to that," he had assured his
cronies in the village. "The old master'd never have thought of passing
without a nod and a smile, and most like he'd have pulled up his hoss
and had a chat about things in general. As for being proud, why he'd
have his hand out to shake whenever he came back home after a holiday;
while he'd come to the wedding of his gardener's daughter, and it was a
five-pound note, all clean and crisp, that he'd slipped into her
fingers. He was quality. These here Rawlings ain't the same product.
They're jest commoners. And I'll tell yer more," observed Tom, dragging
his clay from between a pair of fangless gums and looking round at the
company slyly and cautiously.
"More?" ejaculated one of his cronies, encouragingly. "More, Tom? Then
let's have it. We don't hold by new-comers."
"Then here it is. But no splitting, mind you. No going about and telling
others. Else the whole of Potters Camp and the neighbourhood'll have it
before evening."
He lifted an admonitory finger, and glanced sternly at his audience, a
collection of village gossips of the type usually to be met with. There
was Tom himself, tanned by exposure, his rugged face wreathed by a pair
of white whiskers of antique fashion. A bent but powerful figure was
his, while in spite of his stooping shoulders he stood half a head above
his companions. Then there was the publican himself, rubicund and round
and prosperous, his teeth gripping the stem of a favourite pipe. Mrs.
Piper also, the said publican's helpful wife, ensconced behind the bar,
clattering glasses and bottles and yet managing to hear all that was of
interest. Joe Swingler, groom at the Rectory, fondly imagined by his
employer never to frequent such a place as a public-house, was in a
corner, jauntily dressed, the fit of his gaiters being the despair of
Jack Plant, the bailiff's son. But the latter could at least display a
suit to attract the fancy of all in the village. There was enough
material in his riding-breeches to accommodate two of his size, while
the cut of his jacket was ultra-fashionable. The slit at the back
extended so high, and the tails were so long, that one wondered whether
the garment were actually divided into two portions. For the rest of the
audience, they were shepherds, pig men--for Potters Camp prided itself
on its pigs, while there was even a small bacon factory--cattle men,
carters and agricultural labourers, and all, without exception, agog to
hear news of the Rawlings. That caution which Old Tom had given was as
certain to have its effect as if he had gone upon the house-tops and
called therefrom the news he was about to give to his audience on the
promise of their secrecy. It was certain, in fact, that within a short
hour every inhabitant of Potters Camp of adult age would be possessed of
the information.
"It ain't to go further, mind that!" repeated Tom, wrinkling his face
and glaring round. "It's a secret; but it's got truth behind it, so I
tell ye. I ain't so sure that these here Rawlings come by the house and
the park in a square sort of way. You take it from me, I ain't so sure.
There was queer doings afore the old master died. He got to runnin' up
to Lunnon, which ain't no good for anyone, least of all for a squire as
has things to see to in the country. There was letters to this man
Rawlings. I knows that, 'cos I posted 'em, as I always posted all the
letters from the house. Then the master dies, and this here Rawlings
come down and takes the place and starts ordering people about."
"And he ain't got it fair?" asked one of the hearers.
"I ain't a-going to say that," nodded Tom cautiously. "But I kin think
as I like. You can't go and stop a man thinking, can yer? No. I thought
not. You can't. So I thinks what I like, and thinkin' with me's precious
nigh knowing."
The old fellow gave the company generally the benefit of a knowing wink,
and lapsed into silence. But from that moment all who had heard him
speaking thought as he thought, and were as equally certain. Such is the
unstable foundation of tales which at times go the round of the country.
Not that Tom was altogether wrong. There were others who might have said
more, others in the city of London. But Tom did not know that, nor any
of his audience. But the conversation at least gives one the impression
that if Clive and his chums were not enamoured of the new-comers, Tom
was even less so.
"It'll come to blows atween that ere son of Rawlings and Master Clive
and his friends," he observed to the company present. "There's been
words already, and ef Master Clive's like his father--which he is--why,
it's 'look out' fer this here Albert Rawlings."
That pit so craftily constructed would have made Tom even more emphatic.
For when all was ready, and Clive and his accomplices had completed
their work to their own satisfaction, even they could hardly say where
the pit existed.
"Of course," observed Hugh, with that grin to which his friends were
accustomed--"of course, if we were actually setting the proper sort of
trap we'd have to bait it, eh, and put sharpened stakes in it to kill
the game. But it isn't necessary here, eh?"
"To bait?--not a bit. This is a booby trap," laughed Bert. "It's meant
for an ass, and an ass is the one that'll fall into it."
It came as a shock, rather, to this lanky young hero that he himself was
trapped within the minute. For Bert was not too observant. That dreamy
eye was not meant for close watching, while here it wanted the eye of a
hawk to detect the presence of a pit. For Clive had been very thorough.
To the covering of reeds and light sticks laid across the pit mouth had
been added a thick sprinkling of leaves which were most bewildering.
Bert's description of the trap as a booby one carried him away into a
whirl of delight, during which he strutted aimlessly along the path. And
in an instant he was immersed. There was the sound of rending reeds, his
lanky figure disappeared as if by magic, and only the top of his cap
remained in view, frantically bobbing.
"Hi! Here! What's this?" he shouted, roused to a pitch of indignation.
"Booby trap. Well caught!" cried Clive, dancing with delight at this
unexpected demonstration of the successful working of his invention.
"And done without baiting," gibed Hugh, shaking with laughter. "Now,
Bert, you've spoiled the thing. Come along out. Don't stop hiding in
there."
That was an impossibility. Two feet of glutinous clay adhered to the
boy's boots and trousers and refused to be shaken off. He raised one leg
with an effort, gripped the sloping side of his prison, and endeavoured
to raise the other limb. The result was that he was dragged back into
the depths promptly.
"Well, it's a beauty," he grinned at last, beginning to relish the fun
of the scene himself. "Regularly tested the trap, eh? and been badly had
myself. But lend a hand. This stuff'd stick old Rawlings himself, let
alone his son. And it's beautifully hidden. I was never more surprised
in my life."
"Then it'll be ten times more of a jar to the fellow we're after,"
gurgled Clive. "My! You do look a beauty! And what a mess you've got
into!"
Bert was smothered in sticky clay from the knees downward, and had need
to stand in the stream adjacent and wash his boots and clothing.
Meanwhile Clive and Hugh completed their repairs to the covering of the
pit, scattered leaves about till the surroundings looked quite natural,
and having concluded matters to their satisfaction passed out of the
spinney.
To-morrow, they promised themselves retaliation. "And it's not been such
a long job as I thought," said Clive, as he put Old Tom's garden tools
back into the shed from which they had been taken. "Supposing we tackle
the car again. She'd be ready, perhaps, by the morning."
But tea was of almost equal importance. Hugh and his brother therefore
partook of Mrs. Darrell's hospitality, the state of Bert's trousers and
boots being skilfully concealed by that young gentleman by the simple
expedient of standing well in the background. But he left a stain here
and there. Peering through her spectacles on the following morning,
Clive's mother was astonished to find red lines of clay on the chintz
cover of one of her chairs.
And then the workshop claimed the three young fellows.
"Ready for dropping the engine in," declared Clive, surveying the
skeleton of his motor. "By the way, we've forgotten seats, haven't we?"
"That's a nuisance!" admitted Hugh. "But we'll not let that bother us.
We'll fix it by nailing boards across. I know. We'll get a box and make
that fast. That's what all the garage people do. A shop body, you know.
Smart! Eh? I rather think so."
Behold them, then, struggling with the sheer legs erected over the
petrol engine so nicely fitted in the workshop. Watch the pulley
contrivance secured to those legs above and the rope passing about it.
The slipping of the legs of this improvised crane was a distinct
nuisance at first, and made the lifting of the engine difficult, if not
impossible. But an iron peg driven in between the tiles of the floor put
an end to the trouble, while, once the bolts of the engine had been
freed, Bert and Hugh were easily able to haul the engine clear of its
foundation.
"Hoist!" shouted Clive, "and stand clear. I'll shove the chassis beneath
the engine. Then lower gently. I don't want to have my fingers pinched
off, remember that; so slack an inch at a time, and be ready to haul
again."
Oh, the triumph of this final achievement! That engine went into
position with the docility of a lamb. The chassis framework might have
been its intended resting-place from the very commencement. It bedded
down on the wooden frame snugly, hugging the timber. The bolt holes
matched beautifully with those bored by Clive perhaps a week before,
calling shouts of approval from his comrades. And when the hoisting rope
was thrown off, and the sheer legs removed, there the engine was in
position.
"And the wheels don't even feel the weight. Look. See if they do," cried
Clive.
"A bit wobbly, eh?" suggested Hugh grudgingly, pushing the chassis from
side to side, when it certainly had what might be described as freedom
of movement. "Just a bit, eh? Still, that don't matter. Make her run all
the better. But I'm glad she hasn't springs. She'd fairly roll herself
over if she had them."
"But the back part's as steady as a rock," reported Clive
enthusiastically. "Don't rock. Not a bit. Anyway, she runs forward and
backward easily. By George! That's a bother!"
"What? You make a fellow ask such heaps of questions," grumbled Hugh,
dismayed himself at the sudden fall in Clive's features.
"We've forgotten something else, and the bally thing's frightfully
important."
Hugh gaped; Bert looked somewhat amused. To tell the truth, though glad
always to lend a helping hand, he looked upon all this unnecessary work
as a species of madness.
"You'll have to sweat at things like this when you're older," he
declared. "No one's going to let you live at home and walk about doing
nothing. You won't have time for games, and this sort of thing'll keep
you from morning to evening--that is, if you take up engineering. Then
why not make use of the good times and freedom now and play cricket?"
That had led to a somewhat animated discussion on the subject and
seriousness of games as compared with mechanics till Hugh and Bert were
within an inch of a struggle. But that was in the past. The plot they
had so recently discussed, and the pit they had dug for the downfall of
young Rawlings, had drawn the bonds of friendship more closely together.
So Bert changed his expression of amusement to one of concern.
"What's the jolly thing?" he asked. "It looks complete--in fact,
ripping. There's an engine and wheels and steering gear and frame. What
more do you want? Ah! Got it! There's nothing there with which to cool
the engine. Well, you two are precious mugs! Just fancy, taking all the
sweat to mount an engine and then forgetting such an important matter!"
Clive's eye kindled, while his cheeks reddened. He could afford to pity
a chap who showed such tremendous ignorance; only, coming as it did at a
moment when he himself was distinctly distressed, the idiotic
suggestions of this ignoramus made him angry.
"Hang it!" he growled. "Don't talk such rot! Cooling indeed! Why,
even--even Rawlings could tell you that the engine's air-cooled. There's
the fan, stupid! staring you right in the face. The thing that's
worrying me is the lever for chucking the concern out of gear."
Hugh gripped the side of the chassis as the secret was mentioned. It
made him shiver to think that just as every difficulty that could be
foreseen had been surmounted another had cropped up.
"And it's a beast," he groaned.
"A teaser," admitted Clive desperately.
"What's a gear lever?" asked Bert, with aggravating coolness and
flippancy.
"What's a gear lever!" growled Clive, regarding him with an eye that
positively glared.
"What's a mug?" shouted Hugh, ready almost to strike him.
"Someone who forgets that there is such a thing as a gear lever, and
then can't or won't explain," came the irritating, maddening answer.
"Look here," began Clive, flushing hotly, and stepping nearer to Bert,
"I've troubles enough already. I'll trouble you to----"
"He's punning," shouted Bert, seizing the angry Clive by the shoulders
and shaking him. And then, careless of the anger he had aroused, for
that was the way with him, he began to cross-examine the two mechanics
on the uses and abuses of every class of lever. The meeting, in fact,
was in grave danger of a sudden break-up. But a shout from Hugh helped
matters wonderfully.
"I've got it!" he bellowed.
"What? The lever or the measles?" asked Bert, still amused and
facetious.
"Shut up, you ass! The measles indeed! No, the bally difficulty. I've a
way in which to work it."
Clive agreed with the suggestion when it came to be put to him, agreed
with ungrudging enthusiasm. "It'll be as easy as walking," he said.
"Or falling," suggested Bert.
"You'll get your head punched yet," growled Clive. "But it's fine, this
idea. You see, we start our engine. That's easy enough."
"Well, it may be," from Bert. "I'll believe you."
"Then we take our seats."
"Don't see 'em," came from the critic.
"Ass! You've heard of the box we're going to fix."
"But that's a box. It's not a seat."
"Go on with it, Clive," urged Hugh, looking as if he would willingly
slay his brother. "Take no notice of the ass. We start her up, and then
get seated."
"On a box."
"Yes," agreed Clive, glaring at Bert, who had again interrupted. "The
engine's going. The chain's free-wheeling. We have a lever somewhere."
Hugh pointed out its position with triumph, and the two promptly
proceeded to fit the contrivance. But levers are not made in a moment.
It was, in fact, noon of the following day before they were ready for an
outing.
"You manage the steering, that's agreed?" asked Clive, when the
amateur-constructed motor-car had been pushed as far as the road.
"That's it. You control the engine. Don't let her race too much at
first. Remember I ain't used to steering. Besides, those front wheels
are frightfully groggy. She'll sway at corners, and if we put on the
pace I shall be piling the whole bag of tricks up on one of the banks.
Bert'll keep cave. There's no police about here to matter. Jimmy, the
local constable, 's a real good fellow. He'll see the thing from the
right point of view. He knows we're experimenting and'll sympathise."
"Particularly if he's called in at the inquest," gurgled Bert,
irrepressible when his chums desired to be so serious.
"Inquest. Eh?" asked Hugh. "What's that?"
"Enquiry held on the bodies of Clive Darrell and Hugh Seymour, late of
this parish, killed on the high-road. Died in the execution of their
duty'll be the verdict. Great inventors cut off in their prime!"
Bert had to run an instant later. For Clive came at him with a hammer,
while Hugh looked distinctly furious. However, the incident quieted
down, the inventors took their seats on this chassis of their own
making, while Bert, having seen that the coast was clear, listened to
the puff of the engine. Hugh gripped the steering gear. True, it was
somewhat flimsy, and bent easily from side to side. But nothing can be
perfected in a moment, he told himself. It would do for this first
experimental run, at any rate.
"Ready?" asked Clive deliberately.
"Let her go."
Clive did. There was a painful clattering of gears. The lever jerked
violently, while the engine almost came to a stop. However, a touch of
the throttle and ignition levers put that right, while the gear lever
behaved itself of a sudden. The chassis bounded forward, very nearly
hurling the box which acted as a seat from it. But for the steering
wheel Hugh would have been deposited in the gutter. But he clung
manfully to the frame, and in a moment was hurtling forward.
"Steady!" he called. "She don't steer so nicely."
She didn't. She--that is, the car--swerved frightfully. Those front
wheels had rather the appearance of wheels trying to twist round to look
at one another. Then the swivelling axle wasn't altogether a brilliant
success. It refused to swivel at inconvenient moments. The heroes of
this expedition were within an inch of the ditch lining the road.
"Near as a toucher," cried Clive. "Keep her up."
"Can't! The brute won't steer. She likes the ditch," came the answer.
"Then I'll stop her. Some of those wires want tightening. Then she'll
steer."
But that troublesome gear lever was determined to ruin the hopes of both
inventors. Perhaps it was because it had been forgotten till the very
end and felt neglected. In any case, it refused to disengage, while
owing to the awkward fact that the throttle and ignition levers had
dropped away and gone adrift, Clive could not control his engine. It
raced badly. It snorted as if it felt that it could do as it liked. It
sent the swaying car hurtling along like a bullet.
"Look out!" yelled Bert. "The bally thing's pitching like a ship at sea.
Stop her!"
"Can't! The brute's got the bit between her teeth badly," shrieked
Clive. "I can't quite reach the throttle, and till I do she'll go
plugging ahead. She runs like a demon."
"Top hole!" gurgled Hugh, whom it took a lot to frighten. "Ain't she got
pace? But she'd be better if she didn't rush so much from side to side.
Look out! There's a cart coming our way."
He set his teeth, endeavoured to make his figure adhere to the top of
that egg box which did duty as a seat, and braced himself for the
encounter. For encounter it seemed there was to be. The wondrous car
which he and Clive had called into being romped towards the unsuspecting
cart. It waltzed merrily from side to side of the road, seeming to take
an uncanny delight in racing within hair's breadth of the ditch on
either hand. It mounted the rough footpath with impunity, careless of
the law and of possible policemen, its springless axles bending and
bumping. It actually appeared to sight that approaching cart itself, and
as if filled with fiendish delight at its unaccustomed freedom, and
filled with knowledge of the helplessness of its inventors, it sped
toward the vehicle, pirouetted before it, skidded badly, removing in the
space of a bare five seconds one of the Rector's expensive back tyres,
and then, mounting the pathway again with startling abruptness, it
pitched its nose into the air, shuddered with positive glee, and having
thrown its drivers into the ditch subsided into match-wood and
scrap-iron. Those back wheels and their axle, borrowed for this
memorable occasion, had the appearance rather of a couple of inverted
umbrellas with the sticks tied together. The framework was torn asunder,
and only the engine remained in recognisable condition.
As Clive and Hugh picked themselves up from the ditch and surveyed the
wreck, with the driver of the cart and Bert giggling beside them, there
came a horrid shout from behind them.
"Eh? What's that?" demanded the baker, for he it was who had so
wonderfully escaped annihilation.
"Someone in trouble," said Bert. "Calling for help. Let's go."
"You ass!" grinned Hugh, gripping him by the sleeve. "Can't you guess?
It's that Rawlings cad. We've bagged him."
"It's someone as is in trouble," exclaimed the worthy baker, not hearing
the above. "Wonder if it's that Mr. Rawlings?"
"Young Rawlings?" asked Clive, with a horrible presentiment of coming
trouble.
"Mr. Rawlings," came the emphatic answer. "Him who's bought the house. I
seed him walking to the path through the spinney. He's been away up to
Lunnon."
Clive and his fellow conspirators looked at one another painfully. Then
they regarded the wreck of the motor. That was bad enough. Admission
must be made to the Rector, and his axle and back wheels brought for
inspection. Common honesty demanded that of them. It wouldn't be playing
the game to borrow and smash and then hide their guilt in some underhand
manner. And here was an addition.
"I'm a-going to see what's up," declared the baker. "You young gents had
best come along too."
They couldn't very well hang back, and had perforce to visit the scene
of their late labours. And there was the fat Mr. Rawlings, imprisoned in
a pit which needed no adhesive clay pudding to hold him. For this London
gentleman was of portly structure, and the narrow pit held him as if his
fat figure had been poured into it. He could hardly shout. Even
breathing was difficult, while his rage and mortification made him
dangerously purple. Then, when at length the efforts of the four had
released him, and he sat at the side of the pit besmirched with clay
from head to foot, his rage was almost appalling.
[Illustration: "HIS RAGE WAS ALMOST APPALLING."]
"You little hounds!" he stuttered. "You did it. Don't tell me you
didn't. I know you did. I'll set the police on you. You were
trespassing. This is my property. I'll send Albert down to give you a
hiding, and he'll be glad to do it. I'll--I'll----" His breath was gone
by now, and he sat back gasping. But his anger did not subside, and
Clive's prediction of coming evil was speedily realised.
"I shall send you off to school," said his mother. "You ought to have
gone long ago. I really do consider your conduct to have been
disgraceful."
"A piece of unmitigated mischief, and not of a harmless character,"
growled the Rector, who was given to choosing long words where possible.
"Unmitigated mischief, Bert and Hugh. First you have the temerity to
carry out something approaching a theft, a common and nefarious
business. Then you implicate a respected neighbour in a catastrophe
which might have terminated in his entire and total undoing. Bert, bend
over."
Dear! Dear! It was a painful and humiliating week which followed. Young
Rawlings up at the house giggled secretly at his father's discomfiture.
But he threatened openly when he happened to come across Clive one
morning. As for the three conspirators, they were not allowed to see one
another, nor to communicate.
"You'll go on Wednesday," said the Rector. "I've written about you."
That was ominous. "We'll catch it hot," said Hugh. "I don't care. I'm
jolly glad to be going. A chap ought to go to a big school, not stick
always at home. There'll be a workshop. That'll be ripping."
"And cricket. That's better. Wish Clive were coming to the same school.
Old Tom tells me he's led a dog's life these last few days."
Clive's existence had been wretched. He was glad, delighted in fact,
when the day for departure arrived, and he took his place in the train
for Ranleigh.
"That cad travelling too," he said, seeing Rawlings entering a distant
carriage. "Glad he's going to some other place than Ranleigh."
He saluted his mother, waved to Old Tom, and sank back on his seat as
the train started. If Bert and Hugh were glad to go to a public school,
so also was Clive. He had longed to see life outside the village of
Potters Camp with an intense longing. And here he was on his way. What
would it be like? Was there bullying? Would he have to fag? and what
sort of a place was Ranleigh?