Kitabı oku: «Gunpowder Treason and Plot, and Other Stories for Boys», sayfa 6

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.

Aunt Polly had finished her tea when her nephew arrived, but she still sat at the head of the table, while Harry gulped down huge mouthfuls of bread and butter, at the same time pouring forth an excited account of the match, describing with great animation Herbert's big hits, Smith's sensational catch, and the magnificent manner in which Vincent had kept wicket. Mrs. Arden smiled and nodded, but it was perhaps excusable if her mind wandered, and she mixed some points in her nephew's narrative. To her the Cock-house Cup was but a silver vase. She knew none of the traditions which belonged to it, the long story of gallant and honourable warfare told by the names engraved upon its side; and though she was aware of the fact that each summer term one house gained the cricket challenge trophy, yet it did not seem of vital importance to her whether it went to Conway's or Morgan's. She was, however, pleased with Harry's enthusiasm, and anxious for him to grow up a thorough Englishman, and, therefore, she tried to sympathize with him in the interest which he took in the great national sport, and made up for her lack of knowledge by being a ready listener when the boy came home with tales of the playing-field.

Meanwhile, Buckle had changed his boots, found his coat, and started off to return to Conway's, bearing the oak case in triumph, and surrounded by a small group of wearers of the green and orange cap. As they turned into the road a pebble clattered past them.

"Swindle!" yelled a shrill voice, and a youth with a red and black band to his "straw" disappeared quickly round a neighbouring corner.

"Some young beast of Morgan's," growled an indignant Conwayite. "They've all gone home in a sulk. Precious poor sportsmen, I call 'em. All because Bell gave that chap 'run out' in our match against them, and they said he wasn't."

"He was out right enough," said Buckle. "Of course, I couldn't see from where I was standing, but Vincent told me the beggar's bat never came within a yard of the crease; and Vincent isn't the sort of chap to tell a lie for the sake of a wicket. He always plays the game."

"Well, Morgan's have made up their minds that we swindled them out of that cup," said another. "They've got a grudge against us. They were all hoping that we should be beaten to-day, and they're jolly sick that we aren't."

"Let 'em be!" retorted the sturdy long-stop. "One thing I know; we've got the cup, and they'll have to wait a whole twelvemonth before they can take it away from us again."

"They might come over and steal it!" said a rather shallow-brained small boy vaguely, for which remark he was promptly smacked on the head, and the conversation terminated.

Buckle took the case to the house-master's study, and deposited it on the end of the writing-table. The boy would have liked to have another look at the trophy, but Herbert had the key of the box, and Mr. Conway himself was out spending the evening.

The following morning at breakfast the master referred to the recent victory, and congratulated the cricket team on having won such distinction for the house.

"By the way," he said in conclusion, "while the cup remains with us (which I hope may be for many seasons to come), I think it may as well stand here on the sideboard with our other trophies. Will you fetch it from my study, Vincent?"

The boy named rose from his place at the prefect's table and left the room, reappearing again two minutes later with the oak case in his hand.

"It's locked, sir," he remarked.

"Who has the key?"

"Here it is, sir," said Herbert, producing it from his waistcoat pocket.

At each of the four tables the boys had paused in their eating and drinking, and were waiting in silence for another sight of the famous trophy. Mr. Conway turned the key and opened the box.

It was empty!

For a moment the incident seemed rather more comic than serious. It appeared a sort of first of April joke, and a ripple of laughter went round the room.

"How's this?" said Mr. Conway with a slight indication of annoyance in his tone. "Where is the cup?"

The members of the cricket team stared at one another in silent astonishment.

"Where is the cup?" repeated Mr. Conway. "Who brought it back from the field yesterday?"

"I did, sir," answered Buckle. "I put it in your study."

"Did you make sure the cup was in the case before you started?"

"Yes, sir; I saw Herbert lock it in the case, and he's had the key ever since."

"Did you leave the case about anywhere?"

"No, sir; I brought it straight home, and put it on your table."

"Do you know anything about it, Herbert?"

"No, sir," answered the cricket captain, whose face was as long as a fiddle. "I locked the cup in the case, and gave it to Buckle; and I only just remembered that the key was still in my pocket."

"Well, this is most extraordinary!" said Mr. Conway blankly. "It sounds like one of those tricks shown by Maskelyne and Cook. You must be mistaken, Herbert. This must be inquired into at once."

A few minutes later an excited crowd surged out of the dining-hall. Every one was talking at once, the result being a perfect babel of sound. The Cock-house Cup was missing; by some extraordinary means it had been spirited away from its rightful owners. In the whole history of Hadbury College such a thing had never been heard of before.

Each boy had a different opinion to offer: one thought that Herbert or Buckle must have left it behind on the ground; another believed a burglary had been committed; while a third made the somewhat rash assertion that the Morganites might have collared it out of spite, though how this could have been done he was not prepared to explain.

A few of the seniors did not doubt that the cup would be found somewhere in the house-master's study, but a careful search afforded no further clue towards a solution of the mystery; in fact, the theory of a robbery seemed untenable, since not a single article in the room had been disturbed or removed from its accustomed place.

The startling fact at length forced itself upon the minds of all concerned. The Cock-house Cup, Hadbury's most cherished and honoured trophy, had, in some mysterious manner, disappeared; added to which was the unpleasant reflection that Conway's would be held responsible for its loss.

Ill news travels fast, and before morning school the tidings had spread far and wide. Westcott, arriving in the big quadrangle ten minutes before the bell rang, was told it by his chum Lawrence.

"I say, Westcott," cried the latter; "what d'you think? The Cock-house Cup's gone!"

For a moment the day boy seemed overcome with the shock of this announcement. He gulped in his throat, and then blankly said, "Oh!"

"Yes, it's gone, right enough," continued the other excitedly. "Lost, or stolen, or something. Awful rum business. I've just heard all about it from young Redfern, who's at Conway's."

And the speaker launched out into a vivid account of what had happened, not forgetting to embellish the story with a little addition, prompted by his own imagination.

"If they can't find where it's gone, they'll have a detective down from London."

Westcott opened his mouth as though to reply, but he only gave forth a kind of inarticulate gasp.

The excitement grew as the morning progressed. That a big silver cup could have totally disappeared, and in such an extraordinary manner, when the case which contained it was locked, was almost inconceivable; and added to this was the fact which has already been stated, that the challenge vase was the most valued trophy competed for by Hadbury boys.

"My eye!" exclaimed one member of the Sixth to another. "Brise will be in a pretty way when he comes back. He'll pitch into those Conway beggars for not being more careful, I know."

As the foregoing remark seemed to imply, the winners of the cup were held in a way responsible for its loss, and the Conwayites were destined to come in for a good deal of blame and reproach. Nowhere did the feeling rise higher than in the Middle Fourth, of which form Westcott was a member.

Mr. Blake, the master, happened to be a little late in appearing in his classroom, and his pupils availed themselves of the opportunity of airing their views on the topic of the moment.

"Yah, you miserable Conwayites!" cried Steward, who hailed from Morgan's. "You can't keep that cup for a day, which shows you only won it by a fluke."

"We didn't," shouted a youngster named Cay, firing up at once. "We won it fairly enough, and you know that, Steward!"

"Then why can't you take proper care of it? You don't deserve to be trusted with anything better than a pewter mug."

Like an assembly of foxhound puppies, several other youngsters now gave tongue. Cay called Steward a liar, who promptly fired a book across the room; and in another moment something in the form of a general action might have taken place, if the appearance of Mr. Blake had not quelled the disturbance.

At eleven o'clock the usual "break" took place in the morning's work, and towards the end of the half-hour Herbert was crossing the road, when Cay and another young Conwayite rushed up to him in a state of the greatest excitement.

"I say, Herbert! Look what we've got! Sam says he found it in our yard this morning."

The thing in question was a black flannel cap with red stripes.

"Well, what of it?" said the cricket captain. "It belongs to one of Morgan's chaps."

"Yes, that's just it," cried Cay. "One of them must have been in our yard last night. Sam found this before he blacked the boots this morning. I say, Herbert, perhaps this was the fellow who carried off the cup!"

"Oh, rubbish!" answered the senior. "How could he? And besides, what object could there be in doing such a thing? You don't suppose we've got any burglars in the school?"

"No, but they might have done it out of spite," persisted Cay. "It may have been a sort of practical joke."

"Not it!" answered the senior. "No chap would be such a fool as to run such risks for the sake of a joke. That isn't good enough!"

Though Herbert pooh-poohed the suggestion, he took possession of the cap, and carried it away in his pocket. After dinner Mr. Conway called the senior members of the house together for a consultation as to what steps should be taken towards recovering the lost trophy. The first thing seemed to be to ascertain in what manner it had disappeared; and though several theories were advanced, not one of them seemed to offer a satisfactory explanation of the mystery.

At length Herbert produced the black and red cap from his pocket, and repeated the remarks which had been made by young Cay.