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CHAPTER VII.
SAD NEWS

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Ormond, opening his morning paper and glancing at one of the headings printed in big black letters. "Heavy loss of life at sea again; two vessels in collision, and both sunk. Why! good gracious!" he continued; "the Arcadia– that was the ship William Cole sailed on!"

There was a dropping of knives and forks all round the table, and a general exclamation of dismay.

"O father!" cried Ida. "You don't mean to say that the Arcadia is lost?"

"I'm afraid so," was the reply. "Yes; it says, 'which sailed from London on Friday, October 28th.' It must be the same boat."

"But perhaps William wasn't drowned," exclaimed Elsie. "Doesn't it say if any of them were saved?"

"Only fourteen souls from the liner," was the reply. "Ten of the crew, and four passengers. Their names are given here, but poor William Cole isn't mentioned."

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Ida. She pushed away her plate, and the tears started to her eyes. Elsie, too, leant back in her chair, the corners of her mouth beginning to turn down.

"She must have sunk very quickly, uncle," said Brian. "How did it happen?"

"She seems to have come in collision with a sailing ship named the Cumberland," answered Mr. Ormond. "'It was in a fog, and during the early hours of the morning, when all the passengers were below in their berths. The Arcadia sank almost immediately. Two boats were filled and lowered, but one capsized as it touched the water. The survivors were taken on board the Cumberland, but that vessel was so badly damaged that it was found impossible to keep her afloat. Fortunately the rockets she sent up were seen by a merchant steamer, which took the Cumberland's crew and the survivors from the Arcadia on board, and eventually landed them at one of the Spanish ports. One man on the sailing ship was killed and another injured by the falling of spars from aloft, which were brought down by the blow.'"

"But isn't there any hope that William was saved?" asked Elsie in a choking voice. "Has he really been drowned?"

"I'm afraid so," was the reply. "The names of all those saved were telegraphed at once by the British consul."

"I can't think how a big ship like that can possibly sink so quickly," said Guy.

"You wouldn't wonder at it if you saw the size of the hole that one vessel can make in another's side," answered his father. "It's very sad. Poor William! If he'd only known what was before him, he'd have been content to stop in England."

A dark shadow seemed to have fallen on the breakfast table. The children went on with their meal in silence. William Cole had always been popular with them, for reasons which have already been given. He was a civil-spoken, dapper-looking young fellow, perhaps not over fond of work, and a little too ready for a half-hour's gossip, or for spending his time making the tail of a kite, when he should have been cleaning the yard or digging in the garden. But whatever his faults had been, they were for the time forgotten, and only his better qualities remembered. Even Guy seemed shocked and subdued by the terrible news.

"I say," he remarked, as he and Brian walked along on their way to school, "it's awful to think that William's drowned! Somehow, I can't believe it's true. He was such a sharp, lively sort of chap, it seems almost impossible that he's dead, and that we shall never see him again. Even now I feel inclined to shout for him, and ask him to do things, just as if he were still at work somewhere about the place."

Mr. Ormond, who was a magistrate, had to attend at the police court that morning, and was rather late in returning home to dinner.

"By the way," he said, speaking to his wife, "I mentioned that carving-knife to Evans, our police sergeant, and asked him to call in when he's passing, and just have a look at it; so he says he'll be round some time this evening. I'll see him here in the dining-room, if he comes when the children are at their lessons. They needn't know the reason why he called."

"You don't suppose either of them threw the knife into the pond, do you?" asked Mrs. Ormond.

"Oh no!" answered her husband, laughing. "Only I thought that if they heard that a policeman had been called in, it might fill their heads with all kinds of fancies, and I don't want to do that. Elsie, especially, seems highly nervous, and is blessed with a rather too vivid imagination. If it got on her mind I don't know what blood-curdling story she wouldn't be telling us next."

Punctually at the time appointed, Sergeant Evans presented himself at the Pines, and was ushered into the dining-room. He was a stout, rosy-cheeked man, and so tall that he seemed almost obliged to stoop as he entered the door.

"Good-evening, sergeant," said Mr. Ormond. "This is the knife I spoke to you about. What d'you think of it? Look at the blade."

The officer laid down his helmet and walking-cane, and, taking the carver, subjected it to a careful examination.

"Where did you say it was picked up, sir?" he asked.

"It was at the bottom of our little pond," was the answer. "The boys had one of their toy boats sunk, and, in dragging for it with a rake, they brought up this."

"At the bottom of the pond," murmured the policeman thoughtfully. "Then it is evident that the person who ground it down threw the knife into the water, so that it shouldn't be found again. – You don't remember on what day the knife was lost, I suppose, ma'am?"

"No, I'm afraid I can't tell you that," answered Mrs. Ormond. "We missed it first last Saturday week; but we don't use it every day, so it might have been before then."

"You've no idea who could have done this?"

"None whatever. We had an idea that one of the boys might have been the culprit; but, as I said to Mrs. Ormond, I don't think a boy could have ground a knife blade down as cleverly as that."

The sergeant held the carver nearer to the lamp, and looked at it for a few moments in silence.

"I've seen some queer tools," he said, "manufactured by what's called a thieves' blacksmith, and sometimes by the men themselves – all kinds of odd contrivances, made out of the most unexpected things you can imagine, from a knitting-needle to a steel fork or a poker."

"You don't think that was done by a robber, do you?" exclaimed Mrs. Ormond, looking up from her work.

"No, ma'am; I can't see what the use of it could have been, it's so thin and fragile. Now, if it had been turned into a fine saw," the speaker continued, feeling along the edge of the blade with his finger and thumb, "it would have made me feel a bit suspicious. – I suppose, sir, you've had no cause lately to think the house has been broken into – no drawers forced, or windows opened?"

"Oh no!" answered Mr. Ormond. "Nothing of the kind."

The sergeant nodded. "It's difficult to understand," he said, "why any one should take the trouble to grind a knife like this, and then throw it into a pond, unless they was trying their 'and to see how thin the blade could be made."

The speaker stood thoughtfully balancing the carver across the palm of his large hand; then a close observer might have seen the ghost of a smile appear on his ruddy face.

"I expect, sir, you've got a grindstone on the premises?"

"Yes, there's one out in the tool-house."

Evans made no reply, but after a moment's pause laid the knife down on the table, and prepared to go.

"Then you don't think it was the work of a thief?" inquired Mrs. Ormond, smiling.

"Oh no, ma'am," was the answer. "It don't strike me as being that."

"By the way," said Mr. Ormond, "I suppose you saw the account in the paper to-day of that terrible shipwreck? You remember William Cole, my gardener? The Arcadia was the ship he sailed on, and I'm afraid there's very little doubt but that the poor fellow's drowned. At all events, he's not mentioned as one of the four passengers who were saved."

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Evans, the little twinkle in his eye disappearing in an instant. "So Will Cole was on board that ship! Well, well, it's sad news, very!"

"It is," answered Mr. Ormond. "He had his faults, but he seemed a sharp, promising young fellow; and I hoped he'd do well in the Colonies."

"So did I, sir. When I heard he was going abroad I thought it was about the best thing that could happen. I was afraid that if he stayed on much longer in these parts he'd find himself in trouble."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sir," continued the man in blue, slowly, and with his eyes bent on the tablecloth. "One don't wish to talk ill of the dead, and I don't know as I've got anything to say against Will himself more than this, that of late he seemed to be getting mixed up with them as would have done him no good."

"I knew nothing of this," said Mr. Ormond.

"No, I don't suppose you would, sir; but such things naturally come under our notice, and he wouldn't have been the first young chap I've seen get associated with an idle, drinking, betting lot, and then come to grief. However, the poor fellow's beyond all that now, and I can only say I'm sorry to hear of his death."

As Mr. Evans walked home, cogitating on the interview which has just been described, the sly smile once more returned to his face; and on entering his own door, and being greeted with the savoury smell of something hot for supper, his good-humour was so far increased that he laughed aloud. Seated at table, he entertained his wife with an account of his visit to the magistrate's house.

"Well, what could have been the meaning of it all?" inquired Mrs. Evans. "Where's the sense in treating a knife in that fashion?"

The sergeant leant back in his chair and chuckled. "It beat me for some time," he answered. "But then I saw through it clear enough."

"And who done it, then? A burglar?"

"Burglar my grandmother!" replied Mr. Evans. "No, 'twas like this – so at least I puts it together. The servant gal, who ought to have kept the knife in its proper place, leaves it lying about in the damp, and lets the blade get rusty. Then, instead of telling her mistress, she gets Cole to put it on the stone, or else does it herself, and they keeps grinding away till the knife's spoilt, and then, to end the matter, one of 'em chucks it into the pond, and so it gets lost."

"And didn't you tell Mrs. Ormond?"

"No fear! I couldn't say for certain. I wasn't going to get the pore gal out of her place, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt."

"Pore gal!" cried Mrs. Evans indignantly. "I'd pore gal her, the careless hussy! I don't consider you've done your duty, Samuel."

"Well, if I didn't," replied the culprit, "'twas because I was reminded of the fact that you was once in service yourself, Sarah."

"Get along with you!" cackled Mrs. Evans, trying hard not to laugh, but failing in the attempt. "If I was in service I didn't throw no carving-knives into no fishponds."

CHAPTER VIII.
ELSIE HAS A FRIGHT

"It's my birthday on Thursday, mother," said Guy. "Have you decided what you're going to give me?"

"That sounds as if you quite expected a present," answered Mrs. Ormond, laughing.

"Of course I do," continued the boy. "And, I say, mother, can I ask Naylor to come to tea and spend the evening? He's one of the boarders, and a great friend of mine. I think his Christian name is George, or Gerald, or something of that sort."

"Would you prefer to ask him on some half-holiday, when you can spend the afternoon together?" asked Mrs. Ormond.

"Oh no, mother! I'd rather have him on my birthday. We'll do our prep. work as soon as ever we come back from school, and then we shall have the whole evening free."

"What shall we do?" asked Ida. "Play games?"

"Yes, I suppose so; but we shan't play any baby games like 'Snap,' or 'Hunt the Slipper,'" answered Guy loftily. "I think I'm going to invent a game specially for the occasion."

The following day Guy returned home in high spirits. He said he had been talking the matter over with Naylor, and the two, between them, had planned out a game which would be simply "ripping." Having thus aroused every one's curiosity, the boy refused to say any more, and, in answer to numerous questions, merely answered, "Wait till to-morrow evening, then you'll see."

Guy was greatly pleased with his presents, which included a chest of carpenter's tools, the gift of his father and mother, a book from the girls, and an air-pistol from Brian. He was full, too, of mysterious hints as to the new game, but refused to enter into explanations till the time arrived for giving it a trial. The boys were home early, and got through their lessons for the next day before a ring at the bell announced the arrival of the guest.

Naylor was a small boy, with rather a deep voice. He wore a spotless turn-down collar, his hair was carefully brushed, and he evidently had on his "company manners," which seemed to fit him rather badly, like ready-made clothes. He spoke to Brian in quite a deferential manner, calling him Seaton, and he was evidently shy of Elsie and Ida.

"Hullo, Nails, old chap!" cried Guy, seizing hold of his guest, rumpling his hair, and giving him a slap on the back which made him stagger. "Have you come prepared for a good feed?"

"Shut up, Ormond," murmured the unfortunate Naylor, glancing in the direction of the girls, and flushing crimson. "Why can't you leave a fellow alone?"

"You look so jolly tidy," laughed Guy. – "He's usually all over ink – isn't he Brian? – and goes about with only the lining of a cap on his head."

"It got torn," explained Naylor, in an apologetic tone. "But I only wear it in the playground. I've got a better one."

"I'm sure you needn't talk, Guy," put in Ida. "You're untidy enough. I don't know what state your clothes would get into if you lived away from home."

"Oh, fiddles!" answered her brother. "Have you brought your bicycle lamp, 'Nails'? Yes? That's all right, then! Because if you hadn't I should have sent you back again to fetch it, so it's lucky you remembered. It's for the game we've invented," he continued. "No, I shan't tell you what it is now. I'll explain it after tea."

Brian had left the room, and Guy rushed away to ask him something. Master Naylor, left unceremoniously alone with the two girls, drew a long breath, and nervously twisted his steel watch-chain. No one would have supposed that that very morning he had been sentenced to a term of extra drill for riotous behaviour in the classroom; but "Nails" had inherited the instincts of a gentleman, and he made a heroic attempt to enter into conversation.

"You – er – you know Seaton?" he began.

"You mean Brian, I suppose," answered Ida, smiling. "He's our cousin."

"Oh, of course," answered the visitor. "I remember now. Ormond – that is, your brother – told me so. Seaton is a fine chap; he plays in our football team."

"Yes, I know," chimed in Elsie, who always liked to hear Brian praised. "He's 'inside right.'"

The visitor began to feel more at home with the girls.

"The best of Seaton is he doesn't stick on side," he continued. "You know what I mean – isn't conceited. Most fellows are when they get their cap. I wonder if I shall ever play in the first team."

"I expect you will, some day," answered Ida kindly.

"D'you really think so?" inquired Master Naylor. "I'm not very big," he continued, surveying himself in a neighbouring looking-glass, with rather a wistful look; "but I'm growing," he added with more confidence.

At that moment Mrs. Ormond entered the room, and a few minutes later the company sat down to tea.

"Mother, may we go out to the garden?" asked Guy.

"Why, it's quite dark outside," was the reply. "Can't you play indoors?"

"But it's our new game," said the boy. "It's meant to be played in the dark. I'm sure it wouldn't hurt us; it's not been raining, and the paths are quite dry."

"Well, if you wrap up warm, I don't suppose it would hurt you to go out for a bit," answered Mrs. Ormond, smiling. "What is the new game? Don't you think it's time you let us into the secret?"

"Shall we tell them, 'Nails'?" asked Guy.

Master Naylor's mouth was full of cheesecake, but he nodded to show his consent.

"All right; I'll explain," continued Guy. "It's going to be just like 'I spy,' only it's played with bicycle lamps – that is, there will be two to seek, and the rest will hide, and the seekers will have a lamp each, so that they can find people in the dark. They'll shout out, 'I spy So-and-So,' and then run back to the den. If the person who's found can get home first, then he's safe; but if he doesn't, then he's got to be one of the seekers next time."

"Only one person seeks in 'I spy,'" said Ida.

"But it'll be more difficult to find people in the dark," returned her brother, "and much easier to hide."

"Take care you don't set fire to anything with your lamps," said his father.

"Mind you don't get oil on your clothes," added Mrs. Ormond.

"No fear," answered Guy. "We shall be all right. Will you excuse us, mother?"

"Yes. Let me see you're well wrapped up, and don't stay out longer than half an hour."

The night was still and dark. The two rather grubby bicycle lamps were at length induced to burn, and the little party made their way into the garden.

"Now," said Guy; "this summer-house shall be 'home.' You know the rule; Ida and Naylor shall seek first. Count fifty slowly, to give us time to hide."

Brian, Guy, and Elsie scuttled away into the darkness, while the two whose duty it was to search for them began a monotonous chant of "One – two – three!" ending with a triumphant shriek of "Fifty!" and a warning cry of "We're coming!"

The game was a great success. There was plenty of fun in finding hiding-places, and then crouching down watching breathlessly as the lamps went flashing up and down the paths, now coming dangerously near, and then moving off again. Nor was it less exciting, when seeking, to creep about, sending beams of light into dark corners, as a policeman might when hunting for a burglar. Then would come the shout of "I spy!" followed by the mad rush back to the summer-house, finder and found not infrequently arriving at the den at the same moment.

There was no end of critical moments and hair-breadth escapes; with one searcher it would have been comparatively easy to work round and get to the den unseen, but with two lamps flashing like miniature search-lights in the darkness it was more difficult. Once Guy nearly fell into the pond, while a little later on Brian, blindly attempting to force his way into the midst of a thick holly bush, gave a yell which discovered his whereabouts to the enemy.

Warming up with the game, Naylor came out in a manner which surprised the girls, who had hitherto thought him rather quiet. He rushed about, and seemed in all parts of the garden at once. No one was safe when he was seeking, and where he managed to find such secure hiding-places was a thing only known to himself. Once only did he find himself in difficulties.

"I spy 'Nails'!" shouted Guy. "Why don't you run?" he added a moment later, as no one stirred.

"I can't!" was the plaintive reply heard in the darkness.

"Why not?" demanded the searcher, coming back a few paces, and directing his lamp towards his chum.

The redoubtable Naylor was seen crouching awkwardly in a gap in the hedge at the bottom of the garden.

"I say," he remarked in accents of distress, "this beastly barbed wire has hooked my trousers leg and the back of my coat, and I can't stir."

Guy roared with laughter, and proceeded to set his friend at liberty. The half-hour would soon be up, and the duty of seeking devolved on Elsie and Brian. Ida was soon found, Naylor was discovered up a tree this time, but Guy seemed to have disappeared from off the face of the earth.

"I wonder where the fellow has got to," said Brian.

"He may be somewhere in the yard," answered Elsie, "though he said that it was out of bounds."

She ran off, followed by her cousin. There was no Guy behind the pump, and she made straight for the tool-house. Lifting the latch, and standing just inside the door, the light from her bull's-eye fell on the old familiar objects. There was the grindstone, there the iron-bound box, and there —

Suddenly the lamp dropped from Elsie's hand, and fell with a clatter on the stones. With a shriek of terror she turned and rushed across the yard.

"What's the matter, Elsie?" cried Brian, who had been exploring the coal-hole, and now ran after his little cousin, catching her up as she arrived at the glass door of the house.

"I saw it! I saw it!" panted the child, hardly knowing what she said. "Let me go in!"

"Saw what?" asked the boy, endeavouring to soothe her. "What's the matter? Are you frightened?"

"Yes," answered Elsie, catching hold of his arm, and looking over her shoulder. "But – but don't tell any one, Bri. You won't, will you?"

"Well, tell me what you thought you saw. I won't make fun of you."

Elsie, however, would give no reply, but refused to play any more, and went indoors. Brian went across to the tool-house, flashed his lamp up and down, but could see nothing beyond what was to be found there any time.

The half-hour being up, and Guy having disclosed his whereabouts, which turned out to be a snug retreat between the back of a cucumber frame and the wall, the party returned to the house, and spent the rest of the evening till supper time playing indoor games.

"I don't think Elsie's quite well," said Mrs. Ormond later on, when Master Naylor had departed, and the children had gone upstairs to bed. Brian happened to be still in the room.

"I think she was frightened at something she imagined she saw in the dark, when we were playing 'I spy,' aunt," he remarked.

"What a nervous child she's getting!" was the reply. "I can't understand it. She used to be brave enough, and now she's as timid as a kitten."