ACTON'S TRUMP CARD
On the Saturday before we should go home Acton was due at Aldershot, and would return the same night, as the fellows hoped, with his laurels thick upon him. Bourne and Vercoe were staying at school a week later than we, for the rackets did not come off until our holidays had commenced. Toby had begged for this almost with tears in his eyes, for he had a mortal dread of the relaxing process of a week at home.
"You'd have no 'ands, Mr. Bourne, no spring, no eyes, when you toed the mark at Kensington. I'll send you fit if I have you here."
So Vercoe and Phil agreed to stay.
And now Acton determined to put into operation his long-thought-of scheme for the paying off of the score against Phil. It was subtle, and founded on a perfect knowledge of Bourne's character, and a perfect disregard of the consequences to any one—even including himself. Acton would have willingly martyred himself, if he could have inflicted a little of the torments on Bourne too.
There was one rule from which Dr. Moore never swerved a hair's breadth. Compared to this particular law the stringency of the Old Game regulation for Thursday was lax indeed. He never had departed from it, and he never would depart from it. If any fellow took it into his head to slip out of his house after lights out at ten on any pretence whatever he was expelled. There was some legend in connection with this severity, what exactly none of us rightly knew, but according to the tale the escapade of two fellows years ago, when Corker was new to the place, had resulted in one of the fellows being shot. Twice had he expelled fellows while I was at school—Remington and Cunningham—and I cannot ever forget the old man's deathlike face as he told them to go. Some fellows broke out and were not found out, for Corker wasn't going to have any barred windows as in some places. Any one could break out any night he liked, but he knew what he might expect if he were caught. There was no help. Remington had been found out, and though there had been Remingtons in the school since Anne's reign, Corker was inexorable. He was expelled.
In a word, Acton determined to go to London and to take young Bourne with him, and so risk certain expulsion for both, supposing they were discovered. He had no intention of being expelled, though; for he liked the life at St. Amory's, where incense floated round him all day long, but he meant, when he had accomplished the ruin of Jack, to let Bourne senior know it. Acton gloated in advance over Phil's anger, shame, and consternation, and—this was the cream of the joke—his utter inability to do anything except keep silence and chew the bitter cud of hopeless rage against him—the man to whom he would not give the footer cap. Acton never thought of Jack's share in the matter at all, and yet he was genuinely fond of him; all he thought of was what would be Philip's hopeless rage.
Phil, of course, could say nothing to Corker, for he knew it would be hopeless. And Acton knew that Phil's pride could never bear the idea of Jack—a Bourne—being expelled from the old place. Therefore he would keep silence. I don't think I used the wrong adjective when I said it was subtle. The only question was—could he so manage that Jack would go? And Acton for good reasons was pretty certain that he could.
Jack was staidly taking a turn up and down the pavement with Grim when, on passing by Biffen's house, he heard a whistle from one of the windows, and, on looking up, he saw Acton.
"I want you, Bourne, for five minutes—if you can spare them."
"Of course he can," said Grim, sotto voce. "Aren't you a monitor? Jack, my boy, Acton wants to knight you—or something. You'll find his boots in the bottom cupboard, if you want to black 'em very much. I suppose, being only a common or garden fag, my feelings aren't to be considered for a moment. When you were—for once—talking sensibly for a Corker fag, you are called away to——"
"Cork all that frivol, old man, till you see me at tea," said Jack, moving into Biffen's yard.
When Jack was comfortably installed in a chair, Acton bolted his door, and, somewhat to young Bourne's surprise, seemed rather in a fix how to start what he had to say. The locking of the door was unusual, and this, combined with Acton's grave face and hesitating manner, made Jack a trifle uneasy. Whatever was coming?
"I say, Bourne," at last said his friend, "do you know anything about betting?"
"Betting!" said Jack, with a vivid blush. "About as much as most of the fellows know of it. Not more."
"Well, do you mind reading this?" He handed Jack a slip of paper which contained such cryptic sentences as: "Grape Shot gone wrong, though he will run. Pocket Book is the tip. If you're on Grape Shot, hedge on best terms you can get," etc.
"I understand that," said Jack, "you've—if this means you—you've backed the wrong horse."
"Exactly," said Acton. "I backed Grape Shot for the Lincolnshire Handicap, and he hasn't a ghost of a chance now. Gone wrong."
"I see," said Jack, absolutely staggered that Acton, a monitor, should tell him, a fag, that he was betting on horse-racing.
"I see, young 'un, that you seem surprised at my little flutter, but, by Jove! this will have to be my last. Do you know, Bourne, I'm in an awful hole."
"I'm very sorry to hear it," said Jack, with no end of concern.
"You see, if Pocket Book pulls the handicap off before I've time to trim my sails, I lose a lot."
"Much," said Jack, "for you?"
"Thirty pounds."
"Whew!" whistled Bourne.
"I get a good allowance from home, Bourne, but I'm bound to say thirty pounds would cripple me."
"Rather," said Jack, with a gasp.
"Of course, if the worst did come to the worst, I'd have to apply to home; but there would be, as you might guess, no end of a row about it."
"Then you must hedge," said Jack.
"That is it, exactly. I must back Pocket Book for first place. This is a sure tip—I can depend upon it."
"Then send to the fellow you bet with, and let him put you on Pocket Book."
"That is just it, Jack—the bookmaker wouldn't take a bet from me."
"Why ever not?" said Jack, mystified.
"Because I'm a minor—I'm under age."
"Then how do you manage?" said Jack.
"Why, I bet through another man."
"I see," said Jack, for this was but another edition of his own little adventures. "And that man——"
"Is Raffles," said Acton, quietly.
Jack bounced out of his chair as if he had been stung. "That beast!" he gasped.
"Raffles?" said Acton, with a slow smile. "I didn't know he was a beast."
"He is the meanest skunk alive," said Jack. He added fervently, "Acton, have no dealings with that fellow. He is an abominable sharper."
"Thanks," said Acton, with a slight grimace at Jack's advice. "But, all the same, I have to deal through Raffles."
"Then write to the fellow."
"I don't know—I've forgotten his address."
"Well, I'm hanged if I understand it!" said Jack, lost in astonishment. "If you don't know it, and your bookmaker will only bet through Raffles, you are in a hole—a marvellously deep one."
"There's only one way out—find Raffles."
"And that you can't do."
"And that I think I can do by going to London."
"Well, we're off for the holidays on Tuesday, and you can find Raffles then."
"I should be hopelessly too late if I waited till then. It would be almost ruinous to be put on to Pocket Book in a day's time. I must hedge to-night."
"To-night?" said Jack, in a complete fog. "And you haven't found Raffles!"
"No, but I think I know where to find him to-night. You know the Coon is having a match with the Battersea Beauty at the Universal Sporting Club, and Raffles is pretty sure to be there, and I must see him then."
"But that means going to London, Acton."
"Certainly."
"And Corker would expel you—even you."
"Without a doubt—if he finds out."
"There's a chance that he may."
"Certainly, but it's a mighty slender one, and in any case I mean to—I must—risk it."
"I'm awfully sorry for you."
"Now, Jack, I want you to listen to me," said Acton, very gravely, and his voice showed his genuine anxiety. "The Coon's match does not commence until eleven o'clock at night, because an awful lot of the Universal Sporters are actors and they cannot get away before that time at earliest. Now, there are two entrances for the members into the club, one in Pelican Street and the other in Ridge Street. Raffles must enter by one or the other, and there must be some one at each doorway to give him my note. I can take the one, and the question is—who will take the second doorway?"
"Not I, Acton," said Jack, in a blue funk. "Please, Acton, don't ask me."
"Jack, believe me, you were the last person I wanted to ask. I would have asked Worcester or Chalmers if it had been any good, but they would not know Raffles from Adam. It is ten thousand pities, but you are the only fellow who knows Raffles here. No one else has ever set eyes on him."
"Acton, it means expulsion," said Jack, hoarsely.
"Certainly for me if I'm caught, but, of course, I've no idea of being caught. Jack, I'm not going to ask you to come with me. I shall think no worse of you if you say you won't come, and I cannot take advantage over you to force you against your own wish, because I lent you money. Don't think so meanly of me."
"Acton," said Jack, sweating drops of terror, "it is expulsion if we're caught."
"Jack," said Acton, "have you ever known me to fail yet in anything I undertake?"
"No."
"Well, I will not fail here. If you like I'll give you my word of honour we shall not be caught, and, if by a miracle of ill-luck we should be, I shall see you through. I'll take every iota of blame on my own shoulders. You'll find yourself captain of the school one day yet."
"If I were expelled, Acton," said Jack, with intense conviction, "the pater would kill me first, and die himself afterwards; and as for Phil——"
"Jack," said Acton, "I must see the business through myself. You can't do it, I see. I must lose the £30."
Jack got up and walked up and down the room in agony.
For five minutes Acton watched his wretched prey torn to pieces by his conflicting fears—his shame of leaving Acton in the lurch, and his dread of discovery.
"Acton," said Jack at length, "I can't leave you in the lurch. I'll go with you to London."
Acton clasped Jack's hand, and said, "Jack, you are a brick. I can only say I thank you." He had landed his fish, as he knew he would.
Half an hour afterwards Jack said, almost cheerfully, for Acton had been doing his best to smooth poor Bourne's ruffled feathers—
"But how are we to go to town?"
"I've got a plan," said Acton; "but I must turn it over in my mind first. If you'll look in, young 'un, after tea, I'll tell you how we do it. I'm going to see about it now. Once again, Jack, I thank you. You do stand by a fellow when he's down on his luck."
Acton and Jack went out—the monitor to make arrangements for the escapade, and Jack to Grim's quarters, where he was due for tea, which he demolished with comparative cheerfulness, for Jack's confidence in Acton was illimitable. After he had taken the jump he was not—is not now—the kind of boy to look back.
At six young Bourne left his friend Grim among a waste of empty teacups, plates, and jam-pots, and went to Acton's room.
"I've arranged all," said that worthy. "I've seen the proprietor of the hotel down at Bring, and he's going to have a smart dog-cart and a smarter horse to do the dozen miles between here and Charing Cross ready for us at nine. He says we shall be rattled into town within the hour. So if we aren't in time to spot Raffles we are down on our luck with a vengeance. Your room is on the ground floor, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Jack, "overlooking Corker's flowerbeds."
"Well, pull up the window after supper as quietly as you can, and slip into the garden. Then scoot through the field, and you'll find me waiting for you in the hotel stables. You can pass the word to your chums in Corker's that you aren't going to be on show after supper, and then they won't be routing you out."
"My chums are mostly in Biffen's," said Jack. "Grim and Rogers, etc."
"Good omen," said Acton. "Leave your window so that you can easily shove it up when you come back, and leave your school cap behind, and bring a tweed instead. Got such an article?"
"Yes."
"How's your room lighted?"
"Oh, we have the electric. It is switched off at ten, so that the light will not give any trouble, Acton."
"Well, bolt your door, too. It seems as though the fates were fighting for us, eh, young 'un?"