"EASY IS THE DOWNWARD ROAD"
Aided by Raffles of Rotherhithe, young Bourne went royally through half the rules of the school. He called the tune to that extent. In the first place, one may believe that when he called in the aid of that horsey gentleman he had no further idea in his head than that of passing away those dull half-hours which Hill inflicted upon him.
But, like many a wiser man, young Bourne found it was easier to conjure up a spirit than to lay one, and, having once accepted the aid of Raffles, he found it beyond his power to dispense with it, despite his brave word. So, unheedful of his brother's advice, he not merely put his innocent feet into the stream of forbidden pleasures, but waded in whole-heartedly up to the chin.
Raffles, as promised, turned up on the next occasion provided with a ferret and a gun, and all difficulties were smoothed over with the farmer. Thus Jack Bourne took his post as the noble British sportsman just behind the Lodestone Moat, whilst Raffles, with his ferret, worked the bank, which was honey-combed with rabbit-holes. As the rabbits scurried out before the ferret, Jack blazed away noisily, and occasionally he had the pleasure of seeing a rabbit turning a somersault as it made its last bound. Certainly, Jack was not a dead shot, but when he contemplated the slain lying stark on the flanks of the bank, he felt the throaty joy of the slaughtering British schoolboy. He counted out to his worthy henchman four sixpences for the four slain with all the pride of the elephant-hunter paying his beaters yards of brass wire and calico. Raffles was properly grateful, of course.
Then, as their acquaintance progressed, there were little competitions between Jack and Raffles at artificial pigeon-shooting, Raffles having fixed up the apparatus, and Jack, from the twenty-five yards' mark, occasionally winged his clay pigeon. It was very good sport in Jack's opinion. Further, that little "'ouse" which Raffles knew of also soon made the acquaintance of Jack, and he and Raffles on rainy afternoons snatched the fearful joys of hasty "hundreds up" or "fifties up," just as time allowed, Jack did not find the cue quite so sticky nor the charms of stale tobacco quite so unlovely as he had expected. The landlord, who marked for the two worthies, told our young gentleman that he had "a pretty 'and for the long jenny," and Jack felt he could not do less than order a little of his favourite beverage in return for his good opinion. And thus as ever. Under the expert tuition of Raffles, Jack became a little more of a "man" every day, and a little less of a decent fellow. He smoked, he could call for a "small port" in quite an off-hand fashion, he had played "shell out" with loafers at the little "'ouse," and he began to know a little more of betting, "gee-gees," and other kindred matters, than an average young fellow should know.
"Facilis descensus Averni"—you know the old tag.
By insensible gradations Jack Bourne found himself with a ruin of broken rules behind him, and still tied to the chariot-wheels of Raffles, who dragged him wherever he would. Jack's pockets, too, began to feel the drain, but luckily—or unluckily, if you look at it properly—he was rather flush this term, and as he had more than the usual allowance, he was not so short as he might have been.
One thing bothered Jack, though he did not exactly put the idea that worried him into words. There was not much fun really in this shooting, billiards, etc., since Jack broke all the rules alone. Now, if Poulett, or Wilson, or Rogers, or Grim had been with him, that would have been jolly. Besides that, since he could give his old chums so precious little of his time, and had perforce to head them off when they offered to bear him company on half-holidays, they called him many choice names.
"I hear they sample all the public-houses between here and Westcote," said Rogers. "Look what a dissipated eye Mr. Bourne's got."
"Yours will soon be groggy, Rogers, my pet, though you are cock of your beastly water-lilies." After Sharpe's memorable poem, Biffen's house were always "water-lillies" to the rest of St. Amory's.
"Ah?" said Poulett, "Jack carries Acton's notes to some yellow-haired dolly down at Westcote. She gives him milk whilst he's waiting for the answer."
"Go and poach eggs, Poulett."
"Don't do anything too mean, dear Jack, so that you'll make us blush for you."
"Keep Acton out of mischief, Jack, remember he's only a poor forsaken monitor. Show him the ropes."
"Good-bye, you chaps," said Jack, hopping on his bike, "here's Acton coming." The two would then pedal the well-known road to the Lodestone, and the elevating company of the Coon and Raffles.
"Don't let Raffles bore you, young 'un," said Acton to Bourne one day as the owner of Warmint hove in sight. "Make him useful, but keep out of mischief."
Jack, had he thought about the matter, might have reasonably asked Acton how he could make Raffles useful and yet keep out of mischief, but the Coon appearing at the stable-door in all the glory of a fur-lined coat, with a foot of fur round the collar and half a foot round the sleeves, and a bigger cigar than ever in his mouth, drove Jack's thoughts in another direction.
Acton had really made marvellous progress under the Coon's coaching, and as Jack watched the usual concluding three rounds, he was puzzled in his own mind as to who could hold a candle up to his friend. This particular afternoon was to be the final appearance of the Coon, who was going to figure shortly as principal in some contest at Covent Garden, and Jack determined to miss no opportunity of catching the last wrinkles of the great professor's skill. Therefore, instead of sallying out as usual halfway through the performance in the stable, he sat on the corn-chest until Hill came in.
"Good-bye, Coon! Hope you come off all right in your turn-up."
"Good-bye, sir! Hope I'll train you when you start for the Heavy."
"I'll give you the chance if I do. Come along, Raffles."
When they were outside, Jack said, "By the way, Raffles, this will be your last appearance down here too, eh?"
"I suppose so," said Raffles, "unless you make it worth my while to come down entirely on your account."
"H'm, no," said Jack. "I'm deucedly short now, and when I've paid for the last fifty cartridges, and the last rabbits, I'll be still shorter."
"Let it stand over, sir."
"No," said Jack. "I've had the fun, and I'll pay, of course. Let's have a last dozen pigeons at the twenty-five yards' rise."
Secretly, Jack was rather glad that Raffles' rôle of entertainer was finished; for his stolen pleasures had lost a considerable part of their original sweetness, and their cost was heavy. It would be quite a change, too, to get back to Grim and the others, and be the ordinary common sort of fellow again.
Raffles went and wound up the throwing apparatus, and set the clay pigeon on the rest. Jack took his breech-loader, raised it to the shoulder, and said, "Ready!" Raffles pulled the string, the dummy bird rocketed up, and Jack pressed the trigger.
For one second afterwards Jack did not rightly know what had happened. There was a blinding flash before his eyes, a something tore off his cap, and something stung his cheeks like spirts of scalding water. His left hand felt numb and dead. This all happened in the fraction of a moment.
Jack looked at the gun in stupid wonder. The breech was clean blown out! With a groan of horror, he dropped the gun. He realized that he had escaped death by a miracle. He put up his right hand to his face, which felt on fire, and stared blankly at Raffles.
That worthy was scared out of his wits; but when he saw Jack was more or less alive, he managed to jerk out—
"That was a squeak, young shaver! Hurt any?"
"Don't know," said Jack, blankly.
Raffles anxiously examined him, and it was with no end of relief he said—
"Clean bill, sir—bar those flecks of powder on your cheek. Considering—well you're—we're—lucky."
"Rather," said Jack, dizzily. "That's my cap isn't it?"
Yards away was Jack's cap, and Raffles brought it. His face was white—white above a bit. There was a clean cut through the brim, and a neat, straightforward tear-out of an inch or so of the front just above the crest.
"Well," said Raffles, looking narrowly at that business-like damage. "All I can say is you're lucky."
"Lucky! Yes," said Jack. "I suppose I'd better go. Let's have the thing. An inch lower down, and I'd have had that piece of barrel in my head—or through it. It wants thinking over."
"I suppose, sir, you're going to——"
"Oh, the cash you mean! Eh?"
"Yes, that was my meaning."
"Your cash will be all right, man. Come down for it on Friday—can't you?"
"How if I can't, young shaver?" said Raffles of Rotherhithe.
"Then do without it! Anyhow, I'm going now—I'm too sick."
"All right," said Raffles, sulkily. "On Thursday."
Jack, without another word, stumbled across the fields into the farmyard, and luckily found Acton ready for home. He shakily dropped into his saddle; and, with a mind pretty busy, he tailed wearily after Acton to St. Amory's.