Chapter Twenty One.
How our heroes fall out of the frying-pan into the fire.
Templeton opened its eyes as it saw David and Jonathan walking together across the fields that afternoon. The Den, with native quickness of perception, instantly snuffed a battle in the air, and dogged the heels of the champions with partisan shouts and cheers.
“Dick will finish him in a round and a half,” shouted Raggles.
“Don’t you be too cock-sure,” cried Gosse, “Georgie’s got a neat ‘square-fender’ on him, and I rather fancy him best myself.”
Gosse had not the ghost of a notion what a “square-fender” was; nor had anyone else. But the word carried weight, and there was a run on Georgie accordingly.
Raggles, however, was not to be snuffed out too easily.
“Bah!” shouted he, “what’s the use of a ‘square-fender,’ when Dick can get down his ‘postman’s knock’ over the top, and blink his man into fits.”
After that Georgie was nowhere. A fellow who can “blink” his man with a “postman’s knock,” no matter what it means, is worth half-a-dozen “square-fenders.” And so Dick became a favourite, and the event was considered as good as settled.
Which was just as well; for our heroes, as they walked in search of Coote, could not be so engrossed either in their newly-healed alliance, or in the affliction of their friend, as to be unaware of the commotion at their heels. And it was not till Dick had ordered the foremost of the procession to “hook it,” enforcing his precept by one or two impartially-distributed samples of his “postman’s knock,” that it dawned on the Den there was to be no fight after all.
Whereupon they yapped off in disgust, with their noses in the air, in search of some better sport.
Left to themselves, our heroes, with a strange mixture of joy and anxiety in their hearts, broke into a trot, and presently sighted Coote.
That unhappy youth, little dreaming of the revolution which his scrape was destined to effect in Templeton, was still sitting where Dick had left him, ruefully meditating on his near prospect of incarceration. The vision of Dick and Heathcote advancing upon him by no means tended to allay the tumult of his feelings.
“I’m in for it now,” groaned he to himself. “They’re both going to pitch into me for telling the other. What a mule I was ever to come to Templeton.”
But Dick’s first words dispelled these gloomy forebodings effectually.
“Keep your pecker up, old man, Georgie and I are both going to back you up. We’ll pull you through somehow.”
“I’ve got ten bob,” said Georgie. “That’s twenty-seven-and-six. Perhaps he’ll let you off the other half-crown.”
Considering he had not abstracted the pencil at all, Coote inwardly thought Mr Webster might forego this small balance, and be no loser. And he half-hinted as much.
“It’s an awful shame,” said he, “not to believe my word. I really don’t see why we ought to stump up at all.”
But this proposal by no means suited his ardent backers-up, who looked upon the whole affair as providential, and by no means to be burked.
“Bound to do it,” said Dick decisively. “Things look ugly against you, you know, and it would be a terrible business if you got locked up. It would cost less to square Webster then to bail you out; wouldn’t it, Georgie?”
“Rather!” said Georgie. “Besides, it looks awkward if it gets out that you’ve been to prison.—Our ‘Firm’ oughtn’t to get mixed up in that sort of mess.”
After this, Coote resigned all pretensions to the further direction of his own defence, and left his case unreservedly in the hands of his two honest partners.
They decided that very evening, with or without leave, to go down with the twenty-seven-and-six to Mr Webster.
Dick was the only one of the three who got leave; but his two friends considered the crisis one of such urgency that even without leave they should brave all consequences and accompany him.
Mr Webster was in the act of putting up his shutters when the small careworn procession halted before his door, and requested the favour of an interview.
The bookseller was in a good temper. He had rather enjoyed the day’s adventure, and reckoned that the moral effect of his action would be good. Besides, the looks of the culprit and his two friends fully justified his suspicions. They had doubtless come to restore the pencil, and plead for mercy. They should see that mercy was not kept in stock in his shop, and would want some little trouble before it was to be procured.
So he bade his visitors step inside, and state their business.
“We’ve come about the pencil, you know,” said Dick, adopting a conciliatory tone to begin with. “It’s really a mistake, Webster. Coote never took it.”
“No. We’ve known Coote for years, and never knew him do such a thing,” said Heathcote.
“And they’ve turned out every one of my pockets,” said Coote, “and there was no sign of it.”
Mr Webster smiled serenely.
“Very pretty, young gentlemen; very pretty. When you have done joking, perhaps, you’ll give me what belongs to me.”
“Hang it!” cried Dick, forgetting his suavity. “It’s no joke, Webster. I tell you, Coote never took the thing.”
“You were here in the shop, of course, and saw him?” said the tradesman.
“No, I wasn’t,” said Dick; “you know that as well as I do.”
“Coote,” said Heathcote, feeling it his turn to back up—“Coote’s a gentleman; not a thief.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Mr Webster. “He’s sure he’s not both?”
“I’m positive,” said Coote.
“And is that all you’ve come to say?” said the bookseller.
“No,” said Dick. “It’s an awful shame if you can’t believe us. But if you won’t—well, we’d sooner pay you for the pencil and have done with it.”
Mr Webster was charmed. He had always imagined himself a sharp man and he was sure of it now. For a minute or two the boys’ joint protestations of innocence had staggered his belief in Coote’s guilt; but this ingenuous offer convinced him he had been right after all.
“Oh, you didn’t steal it, but you’re going to pay for it, are you? Very pretty! What do you think it was worth?”
“Thirty shillings,” said Dick, “that was the price marked on it.”
“And yet you never saw it.”
“Of course I didn’t,” retorted Dick, beginning to feel hot. “I’ve told you so twice—Coote saw it.”
“Yes,” said Coote, “there was a tiny label on it.”
“We can’t make up quite thirty shillings,” said Heathcote; “but we’ve got twenty-seven shillings and sixpence. I suppose you’ll make that do?”
“Do you suppose I’ll make it do?” said Mr Webster, beginning to feel hot, too. “You think you can come to my shop, and pilfer my things like so many young pickpockets; and then you have the impudence to come and offer me part of the price to say nothing about it. No, thank you. That’s not my way of doing business.”
“There’s nothing else we can do,” said Dick.
“Oh, yes, there is. You can march off to the lockup—all three of you if you like; but one of you, anyhow. And so you will, as sure as I stand here.”
“Oh, Mr Webster, I say, please don’t say that. He never took it, really he didn’t.”
“Come, that’ll do. Twelve o’clock to-morrow, unless I get the pencil, you’ll get a call from the police. Off you go. I’ve had enough of you.”
And the bookseller, whose temper had gradually been evaporating during the visit, bustled our heroes out of the shop, and slammed the door behind them.
“It’s all up, old man,” said Heathcote, lugubriously. “I did think the cad would shut up for twenty-seven shillings and sixpence.”
“I’m afraid he wants me more than the money,” said Coote. “Whatever can I do?”
“You can’t prove you didn’t take it; that’s the worst,” said Dick.
“He can’t prove I did. He only thinks I did. How I wish I had that stupid pencil.”
With which original conclusion they returned to Templeton. Dick, under cover of his exeats marched ostentatiously in. The other two, in a far more modest and shy manner, entered by their hands and knees, on receipt of a signal from their leader that the coast was clear.
Heathcote deemed it prudent not to exhibit himself in the Den, and therefore retired to Pledge’s study as the place least likely to be dangerous.
Pledge was there working.
“Hullo, youngster,” said he, “what’s been your little game this evening? Been to a prayer meeting?”
“No,” said Heathcote laconically.
It was no part of Pledge’s manner to appear inquisitive. He saw there was a mystery, and knew better than to appear in the slightest degree anxious to solve it.
He had as yet heard nothing of the newly-formed alliance in low life, and attributed Heathcote’s uncommunicativeness either to shame for some discreditable proceeding, or else to passing ill-humour. In either case he reckoned on knowing all about it before long.
Heathcote was very uncomfortable. It had not occurred to him till just now that Pledge would resent the return of his allegiance to Dick as an act of insubordination. Not that that would keep him from Dick; but Heathcote, who had hitherto admired his old patron as a friend, by no means relished the idea of having him an enemy. He therefore felt that the best thing he could do was to hold his tongue, and if, after all, a row was to come, well—it would have to come.
He sat down to do his own preparation, and for half an hour neither student broke the silence.
Then Pledge, who had never known his protégé silent for so long together before, felt there must be something the matter which he ought to be aware of.
So he leaned back in his chair and stretched himself.
“You’re a nice boy, George!” said he, laughing; “you’ve been sitting half an hour with your pen in your hand and haven’t written a word.”
Georgie coloured up.
“It’s a stiff bit of prose,” said he.
“So it seems. Suppose I do it for you?”
“No, thanks, Pledge,” said the boy, who, without having any particular horror of having his lessons done for him, did not like just now, when he was conscious of having revolted against his senior, to accept favours from him.
“No? It’s true, then, Georgie is joining the elect and going to take holy orders?”
“No, I’m not,” said Georgie.
“Then Georgie is trying to be funny and not succeeding,” said the monitor, drily, returning to his own books.
Another silent quarter of an hour passed, and then the first bed bell rang.
“Good-night,” said Heathcote, gathering together his books.
“Good-night, dear boy!” said Pledge, with the red spots coming out on his cheeks; “come down with me to the ‘Tub’ in the morning.”
“I’m going down with another fellow,” said Georgie, feeling his heart bumping in his chest.
“Oh!” said the monitor, indifferently; “with a very dear friend?—the saintly Dick, for instance?”
“Yes,” said Heathcote, and left the room.
Pledge sat motionless, watching the closed door for a full minute, and, as he did so, an ugly look crept over his face, which it was well for Heathcote he did not see. Then he turned mechanically to his books, and buried himself in them for the rest of the evening.
The “Tub” next morning was crowded as usual, and it needed very little penetration on Pledge’s part to see that the triple alliance between our three heroes was fast and serious.
They undressed on the same rock, they dived side by side from the spring-board, they came above water at the same moment, they challenged collectively any other three of the Den to meet them in mortal combat in mid-Tub, and they ended up their performance by swimming solemnly in from the open arm-in-arm, Coote, of course, being in the middle.
All this Pledge observed, and marked also their anxious looks and hurried consultations as they dressed. He guessed that there must be some matter of common interest which was just then acting as the pivot on which the alliance turned, and his taste for scientific research determined him, if possible, to discover it.
So when, after “Tub,” the three friends marched arm-in-arm down town, Pledge casually strolled the same way at a respectful distance.
It was clear the “Firm” was bound on a momentous and unpleasant errand.
Coote every other minute was convulsed by the brotherly claps which the backers-up on either side bestowed upon him; and the long faces of all three, as now and then they stopped and scrutinised the shop-window of some silversmith or pawnbroker, betokened anything but content or high spirits.
At length Pledge saw them enter very dejectedly at Mr Webster’s door, where, not being anxious to disturb them, he left them and took a short turn down the shady side of High Street, within view of the stationer’s shop.
Their business was not protracted, for in about three minutes he saw them emerge, with faces longer than ever, and turn their steps hurriedly and dismally towards Templeton.
When they were out of sight, Pledge crossed the road and casually turned in at Mr Webster’s door.
“Well, Webster, anything new?”
“No, sir; nothing in your line, I’m afraid,” said the shopman.
“By the way,” said Pledge, carelessly, “was that my fag I saw coming out here just now?”
“Mr Heathcote?” said Webster, frowning. “Yes, that was he, sir, and two friends of his. I’m afraid he’s getting into bad company, Mr Pledge.”
“Are you? What makes you think that?”
“It’s an unpleasant matter altogether,” said Mr Webster, “and likely to be more so. The fact is, sir, I’ve been robbed.”
And he proceeded to give Pledge an account of the loss of the pencil-case, and of the efforts of the boys to get the matter hushed up.
Pledge heard it with an amused smile.
“They’ve just been here to try and buy me off,” said the indignant shopkeeper, “but I’m going to make an example of them. I’m sorry to do it, Mr Pledge, but it’s only fair to myself, isn’t it, sir?”
“I don’t know,” said Pledge; “I don’t see that it will do you much good. You’d better leave it to me.”
“Leave it to you?”
“Well, I expect I can get back your pencil as easily as you can, if they’ve got it. You’re sure they have got it?”
“I’m certain Master Coote took it; certain as I stand here. What they’ve done with it among them I can’t say.”
“Well, don’t be in a hurry. I’m a monitor, you know, and it’s as much to my interest to follow the thing up as to yours. If you’ll take my advice, you won’t be in a hurry to prosecute. Wait a week.”
“Very good, sir,” said the bookseller, to whom it was really a relief to postpone final action for a day or two, at least. If Pledge, meanwhile, should succeed in bringing the culprit to book, it would still rest with Mr Webster to decide whether to make an example of him or not Pledge departed, and the bookseller turned to dust his shop out for the day. In this occupation he had not proceeded far, when his brush, penetrating into a crack in his counter, caused something within to rattle. Being a tidy man, and not favouring dust or dirt of any sort, even out of sight, he proceeded to probe the hole in order to clear away the obstruction, when, to his amazement and consternation, he discovered, snugly lying in the hollow, the lost pencil-case!
Mr Webster’s first thought was, “Artful young rogues! They’ve brought it back, and hidden it here to escape punishment!”
And yet, when he came to think of it, all the dust in that hole could not have settled there during the last half-hour; nor—and he was sure of this—had either of the boys, on their last two visits, been anywhere near that side of his shop.
After all, he had “run his head against a stone wall,” and narrowly escaped ruining himself as far as Templeton was concerned. For he knew the young gentlemen of that school well enough to be sure, after a blunder like this, that the place would soon have become too hot to hold him.
Mr Webster positively gasped at the thought of his narrow escape, and forgot all about Pledge, and the culprit, and the culprit’s friends, in his self congratulation.
About mid-day, however, he was suddenly reminded of them all, by the vision of Dick darting into the shop.
“Webster,” said that youth, in tones of breathless entreaty, “do let us off this once! Coote really never took the pencil, and if you have him taken up, it will be ruination! I shall get in a row for coming down now, but I couldn’t help. We’ll do anything if you don’t take Coote up. I’ll get my father to pay you what you like. Will you, please, Webster?”
The boy delivered this appeal so rapidly and earnestly that Webster had no time to stop him; but when Dick paused, he said:—
“Make yourself comfortable, Mr Richardson, I’ve found the pencil.”
Dick literally shouted, as he sprang forward and seized the bookseller’s hand:—
“Found it! Oh, what a brick you are!”
“Yes; it had fallen into that hole, and I just turned it out. Lucky for you and your friend it did. And I’m not sorry, either, for I’d no fancy for putting any of you to trouble; but I was bound to protect myself, you see.”
“Of course, of course. You’re a regular trump, Webster,” cried Dick, too delighted to feel at all critical of the way in which the bookseller was extricating himself from his dilemma. “I’m so glad; so will they be. Thanks, awfully, Webster. I say, I must get a Templeton Observer for the good of the shop.”
And he flung down a sixpence in the bigness of his heart, and taking the newspaper, darted back to Templeton in a state of jubilation and happiness, which made passers-by, as he rushed down the street, turn round and look after him.
In ten minutes Coote and Heathcote were as radiant as he; and that afternoon the Templeton “Tub” echoed with the boisterous glee of the three heroes, as they played leap-frog with one another in the water, and set the rocks almost aglow with the sunshine of their countenances.
But Nemesis is proverbially a cruel old lady. She sports with her victims like a cat with a mouse. And just when the poor scared things, having escaped one terrible swoop of her hand, take breath, she comes down remorselessly with the other hand, and dashes away hope and breath at a blow.
And so it fared with our unlucky heroes. No sooner had they escaped the fangs of Mr Webster, than they found themselves writhing in the clutches of a new terror, twice as bad and twice as awkward.
In the first flush of escape, Dick had crammed the Templeton Observer, which he had paid sixpence for in celebration of the finding of the pencil, into his pocket, and never given it another thought. During the evening, however, having occasion to search the pocket for another of its numerous contents, he came upon it, and drew it out.
“What’s that—the Templeton Observer?” asked Heathcote, becoming suddenly serious. “Anything in it?”
“I haven’t looked,” said Dick, becoming serious, too, and inwardly anathematising the public press.
“May as well,” said Heathcote.
“Perhaps there’ll be something about the All England Tennis Cup in it,” said Coote.
Dick opened the paper, and his jaw dropped at the first paragraph which met his eye.
“Well,” said Heathcote, reflecting his friend’s consternation in his own looks, “whatever is it?”
“Has Lawshaw won it, or Renford?” inquired Coote.
Dick passed the paper to Georgie, who read as follows:—
The mysterious disappearance of a Templeton boat.—The boatman Thomas White was arrested yesterday at Glistow, and
will be charged before the magistrates on Saturday with fraudulently pawning the boat Martha, knowing the same to be only partially his own property. The case is attracting much interest in the town. No news has yet reached us of the missing boat, but we hear on good authority that circumstances have come to light pointing to White himself as the thief, and we believe evidence to this effect will be offered at Saturday’s examination. The police are reticent on the subject.
“What was the score of sets?” asked Coote, as Heathcote put down the paper.
The latter replied by handing the paper to the questioner and pointing to the fatal paragraph.
Coote read it in great bewilderment. Of course he knew all about Tom White’s row and the missing Martha. Every Templeton fellow, from Mansfield down to Gosse, knew it. But why should Dick and Heathcote look so precious solemn about it?
“By Jove!” said he, “I wish they’d catch the fellow. What’s the use of the police being reticent?”
“Coote, old man,” said Dick, in a tone which made the youth addressed open his eyes, “do you know how the Martha got lost?”
“Stolen,” said Coote, “by a fellow who was skulking about on the sands.”
“Wrong. She was turned adrift; someone loosed the anchor rope when the tide was coming in.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I was the fellow.”
“And I helped,” said Heathcote.
“My eye! what a regular row!” said Coote.
Whereupon the “Firm” swore eternal friendship, and resolved to sink or swim together.