RAFFLES OF ROTHERHITHE
Twice a week, on half-holidays, Acton and Bourne ran over to the farm, to find the Coon waiting for them in the stable, smoking an enormous cigar as usual, and reading sporting papers on the corn-chest. Young Hill, the farmer's son, generally put in an appearance when the boxing was about over, and to Jack's utter disgust, plainly showed that he would rather that Jack was anywhere else than with Acton when the gloves had been laid aside. He seemed to have some business with Acton concerning which he evidently did not want Jack to hear a single syllable.
Jack did not quite see at first that he was one too many after the boxing was over, and that Hill, at any rate, did not mean there should be a fourth to the deliberations of himself, Acton, and the Coon. Jack, however, soon tumbled that he was de trop, and the minute young Hill came in Jack would stalk solemnly and formally out of the stable and kick up his heels in the farmyard until such time as Acton should be ready for the run to school.
Jack certainly did not like this cavalier treatment, but found it rather a bore pottering about the yard, "looking at the beastly ducks;" but Acton was so profusely apologetic when he did come out that Jack generally smoothed his ruffled plumes and pedalled home at peace with himself and all the world.
"The fact is, Jack," said Acton, "young Hill has arranged for me to have the stable for our practice, for old Hill himself was rather against it, and as he has a prejudice against St. Amory fellows generally, but especially when they're of the Junior School—some of your tribe scuttled his punt for him on the moat, didn't you?—I thought you would not mind humouring the man's amiabilities. The Coon and he talk rot—sporting rot—and it would only bore you to listen to it."
Jack said, "It does not matter in the least. I'd as soon look at the ducks as listen to Hill. It's a bit infra dig., though, that he should object."
As a matter of fact, young Hill received letters for Acton which dealt with many things, the burden of most of them being "betting," and the other sweet things of the sporting shop. Acton was, as you will have seen, not the very green innocent who would come to much harm in this lovely form of diversion.
A Little Yellow, Ear-torn Dog Bustled Out Of Some Shed.
About a fortnight after the visits to the Lodestone had commenced, the Coon brought down with him a long-legged, thin-faced, horsey-looking individual, who introduced himself to Bourne as Raffles of Rotherhithe, and who laid himself out to be excessively friendly to Jack. He took, evidently, quite a professional interest in the sparring, and told Acton that "his left was quite a colourable imitation of the Coon's."
"Not colourable, anyhow," said Acton, with a wink at Jack.
"What do you think, sir, of Alabama's 'blind hook'?"
Jack, who had not the remotest idea what a "blind hook" was, said it "was simply stunning."
"Exactly my idea, sir. I see you know above a bit about the noble art."
Raffles, as he would have said in his own special slang, worked the "friendly lay" so well upon Jack, that that young gentleman was captured to the last gun; you can do an awful lot of execution by deferring to the opinion of a young man of sixteen, or thereabouts, as to the merit of relying exclusively on the left.
When the sparring was over, Raffles shuffled out with Jack into the yard and whistled. A little yellow, ear-torn dog bustled out of some shed and trotted demurely by Mr. Raffles' right boot.
"See that dog, Mr. Bourne?"
"By the way, Raffles, how did you know my name was Bourne?" asked Jack.
"Mr. Acting mentioned that it was so. No offence, I hope, sir?"
"Oh no!" said Jack.
"Mr. Acting mentioned to me as how Warmint might amuse you."
"Warmint! What the deuce is that?"
"Why, the dawg."
"Well, it's a pretty ugly brute anyhow, Raffles."
"It is so; it's the colour—yellow is a mean colour. But he's a terror to go."
"Where?" said Jack, uncivilly; for the man's manner, a mixture of familiarity and servility, had begun to pall on Jack's taste.
"Why, there ain't a better, quicker, neater dawg in all London after the rats than Warmint. He holds the record south the Thames."
"Is there a record then for rat killing? How is it done?"
"Turn a sack o' long tails on to the floor and let the dawg among them. He works against time, of course."
"Have the rats any chance of getting away?"
"No fear."
"Ugh!" said Jack, looking at the mongrel with intense disgust.
"Is time for twenty—but I say, Mr. Bourne, if you like I'll bring a bag o' rats down, and you can see for yourself. While the other gentleman, Mr. Acting, is with the Coon, we can bring it off in the barn."
"Man alive, no!" said Jack, with another spasm of disgust; "but if you've any other plans, Raffles, of killing an hour or so whilst Hill makes speeches, trot 'em out. I'm sick of pottering round his yard like an idiot. Are you coming with the Coon again?"
"Pretty well every time. What do you say to a little game of billiards?"
"Where?" said Jack.
"Nice little 'ouse near 'ere, I know."
"No fear! That's clean against the rules. Besides, who wants to knock balls about with a sticky cue on a torn billiard cloth, where the whole place reeks of beer and stale tobacco? No, thanks!"
"Young gents used not to set so much store by rules when I was a lad."
"We've changed since then, Raffles," said Jack, drily.
"A little shooting?"
"What?"
"Sparrers?" suggested Raffles, off-hand.
"Rot!"
"Bunnies?"
"That's better, Raffles. If you can get me half an hour with Hill's rabbits, I'd risk that. Of course, there'd be a row if it was known. Acton won't inquire, I fancy, who's shooting?"
"Mr. Acton won't, Mr. Bourne; he's a gentleman."
"He's a monitor, though, Raffles, which is a different sort of animal."
Raffles of Rotherhithe did not appear to think that Acton's being a monitor was a clinching argument barring young Bourne's sport. Perhaps he had private reasons for his opinions. Anyhow, he glibly promised to have a breech-loader and a ferret for young Bourne on the morrow.
"And old Hill? They're his rabbits, you know."
"That will be all right. Take Dan Raffles' word for it."
"Now look here, Raffles; I'll give you sixpence for every rabbit I shoot, and I'll pay you for the cartridges. You'll keep all the rabbits, but you will lend me the gun."
"Very good, sir," said Raffles, smartly.
"And, Raffles," said Jack, eyeing over that individual with a curious mixture of amusement and dislike, "you needn't be too beastly friendly and chummy. I'm going to pay you for what you do, and don't fancy I'm going an inch further than I feel inclined. I'm paying the piper, and I'm going to choose all the tunes."
"Orl right," said Raffles, considerably taken aback by the ultimatum. "I'll not be friendlier than I can 'elp."
"Don't," said Jack.