Chapter Two.
A Conspiracy of Silence.
As for me, I was very poor company for any one that afternoon of Hector’s funeral. Something was burning a hole in my pocket, and I felt myself in a most uncomfortable fix.
“It’s all up with old Dux,” said I to myself, “if it’s found out. But suppose it’s found on me? Still more precious awkward. I’d either have to lump it or let out. Don’t see much fun in either myself. Seems to me the sooner I get rid of the beastly thing the better. Fancy his letting it lie about in his locker! He’d give me a hiding for interfering, I know, if he only knew. But I wouldn’t for anything he got lagged. Old Dux is one of those chaps that has to be backed up against himself. Sha’n’t be my fault if he isn’t.”
The reader will have judged by this time that I belonged to the species prig in my youthful days. Let that pass; I was not a unique specimen.
Full of my noble resolve of saving the Dux from himself, I went out to take the air, and strolled aimlessly in the direction of the pond. A professional burglar could not have ordered his footsteps more circumspectly. I perambulated the pool, whistling a cheerful tune, and looking attentively at the rooks overhead. Not a soul was in sight. I began to throw stones into the water, small to begin with, then larger, then bits of stick about six inches long. Then I smuggled the unlucky pistol out of my pocket in my handkerchief, and whistled still more cheerfully. Although no one was looking, it seemed prudent to adopt an air of general boredom, as if I was tired of throwing sticks into the pond. I would only throw one more. Even that was a fag, but I would do it.
What a plump, noisy splash it made, sending out circles far and near, and gurgling in a sickening way as it sank in a very unsticklike fashion to the bottom.
My whistling ceased, my air of dejection increased. I must be unsociable no longer. Let me rejoin my dear schoolfellows, making a little détour in order to appear to reach them from the direction not of the pond but of the orchard.
I was sheering off by the lower end of the pond, when, to my horror, I perceived a boy groping on the grass on all fours, apparently digging up the ground with a trowel.
On closer inspection I found that it was Dicky.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said he, as I came upon him. “Have you done chucking things into the pond?”
“Why,” said I, taken aback; “why, Dicky, what on earth are you up to?”
“Never mind—an experiment, that’s all. I’m glad it’s only you. I was afraid it was some one else. You must be jolly hard up for a bit of fun to come and chuck things into the pond.”
“Oh!” said I, with tell-tale embarrassment, “I just strolled down for the walk. I didn’t know you’d taken to gardening.”
“There goes the bell,” said Dicky. “Cut up. I’ll be there as soon as you.”
I obeyed, mystified and uncomfortable. Suppose Dicky had seen the pistol! I found the fellows hanging about the school door waiting to go in.
“Been to the funeral, kid?” said the Dux, as I approached. I wished he would speak more quietly on such dangerous topics when Plummer was within earshot.
“No, I’ve been a stroll,” said I. “It’s rather hot walking.”
“I guess it will be hotter before long,” said some one. “Plummer looks as if he means to have it out this afternoon.”
“I hope he won’t go asking any awkward questions,” said Dicky, who had by this time joined us.
“What’s the odds, if you didn’t do it?” demanded the Dux.
“Look out,” said Faulkner; “here he comes. He’s beckoning us in.”
“Now we’re in for it!” thought we all.
Plummer evidently meant business this time. The melancholy ceremony at which he had just assisted had kindled the fires within him, and he sat at his desk glowering as each boy dropped into his place, with the air of a wolf selecting his victim.
As I encountered that awful eye, I found myself secretly wondering whether by any chance I might have shot the dog in a fit of absence of mind. Brown, I think, was troubled by a similar misgiving. Some of the seniors evidently resented the way in which the head master glared at them, and tried to glare back. Faulkner assumed an air of real affliction, presumably for the departed. Tempest, on the other hand, drummed his fingers indifferently on the desk, and looked more than usually bored by the whole business.
“Now, boys,” began Plummer, in the short sharp tones he used to affect when he was wont to administer justice; “about Hector.”
Ah! that fatal name again! It administered a nervous shock all round, and the dead silence which ensued showed that every boy present was alive to the critical nature of the situation.
“I have already told you what has occurred, and have asked if any one here knows anything about the matter,” said the doctor. “I repeat the question. If any of you know anything, let there be no hesitation in speaking up.”
No reply. Boys looked straight in front of them and held their breaths.
“Very well,” said the doctor, his voice becoming harder and sterner, “I am to understand no boy here is able to throw any light on the mystery. Is that so?”
If silence gives consent, no question was ever more emphatically answered in the affirmative.
“I hoped it would be unnecessary to ask the question twice,” said Dr Plummer. “I decline to accept silence as an answer. Let the head boy come forward.”
Tempest left his place and advanced to the desk.
“Tempest, do you know anything of this matter?”
“No, sir,” said Tempest.
I felt the skin on the top of my head grow tight, and my breath catch in my throat. Never had I known the Dux to tell a lie to any one. What was I to do when my turn came?
“Go to your seat. The next boy come forward.”
Parkin obeyed, and answered the question with a clear negative.
“The next boy.”
The next boy was Faulkner, who I suspected would fain have been able to say he knew anything. But for once he was at fault, and had to reply with an apologetic “No.”
In due time it was Dicky’s turn.
“Do you know anything of the matter, Brown?”
“No, sir,” said Brown, almost noisily.
The doctor looked at him keenly, and then ordered him to his place.
“Jones, come forward.”
I felt the blood fly out of my cheeks and my heart jump to my mouth as I obeyed. As I passed up the room I glanced nervously at the Dux where he sat listlessly regarding the scene. But he took no notice of me.
“Jones,” said the doctor, “do you known anything of this matter?”
The words would not come; and I glanced around again for succour.
“Turn your face to me, sir,” thundered the doctor, “and answer my question.”
What could I say? Where could I look? The question was repeated once more.
“I only know I fancy I heard a shot in the night.” I stammered at last.
A flutter of interest went round the room. Failing all other clues it evidently seemed to be something to most of those present to elicit even this.
“Why did you not say so when you were asked this morning?”
No answer.
“Do you hear me, sir?”
“Please, sir, I couldn’t be sure I had not been dreaming.”
“When did you hear this sound?”
“I don’t know what time, sir; I had been asleep.”
“Was it light or dark?”
“Dark.”
“Is that all you heard?”
“I thought I heard a yell, too.”
“Did you get up or wake any of the others?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you do nothing at all?”
“I was frightened, sir, and hid under the clothes.”
“Is that all?”
Wasn’t it about enough? I thought.
“Yes, sir.”
I staggered back to my seat like a wounded man after a fray. I knew I had lost caste with the fellows; I had seriously compromised myself with the head master. At least, I told myself, I had escaped the desperate fate of saying anything against the Dux. For the sake of that, I could afford to put up with the other two consequences.
The grand inquest came to an end. One candid youth admitted that all he knew of the matter was that he was very glad Hector was dead, and for this impious irrelevance he was ordered to write an appalling imposition and forfeit several half-holidays. But that, for the time being, was the worst thunderbolt that fell from the doctor’s armoury.
The Dux was kindly waiting for me outside. If he was grateful to me he concealed his feelings wonderfully; for he seized me by the coat collar and invited me to step with him to a quiet retreat where he administered the soundest thrashing I had had that term without interruption.
Explanation, I knew, would be of no avail. Tempest made a point of always postponing an explanation till after the deed was done.
When at length I gathered myself together, and inquired as pleasantly as I could to what special circumstances I was indebted for this painful incident, he replied—
“For being an idiot and a sneak. Get away, or I’ll kick you.”
Brown, whom I presently encountered, put the matter rather more precisely.
“Well,” said he, “you told about as much as you could. How sorry you must have been not to tell more!”
“Don’t, Dicky;” said I; “I—I—”
“You’re almost as big an ass as you look,” said Dicky, “and that’s saying something. Come and see my experiment.”
I was not in a scientific mood, but anything was welcome to change the subject. So I took Dicky’s arm and went.
Dicky was a queer boy. He was of an inventive turn of mind, and given up to science. His experiments rarely succeeded, and when they did they almost invariably landed him in disgrace. Still he persevered and hoped some day to make a hit.
He explained to me, as we walked down the garden, that he had lately been taking an interest in the pond.
It was all I could do to appear only moderately interested in this announcement. Had not I an interest in the pond too? What followed was even more uncomfortable.
“You know Lesseps and all those chaps?” said he.
“He left before I came, I think,” said I.
Dicky laughed unfeelingly.
“I mean the chap who cut the Suez Canal,” said he.
“Oh! I beg your pardon,” said I. “No, I don’t know him.”
“Well, I’ve been having a go in at the same kind of job,” continued Dicky. “You know what a drop there is at the end of the pond, where you saw me yesterday, in the shrubbery? Well, it struck me it wouldn’t take much engineering to empty it.”
“What!” I exclaimed, “empty the pond! You’ll get in an awful row, Dicky. Don’t think of it.”
“Think—it’s done, I tell you,” said the man of science. “That was what I was at when you saw me.”
“I thought you were digging up primroses.”
“Digging up grandmothers! I was letting in a pipe to drain it. It was a rare job to shove it in from the bottom corner of the pond through the bank into the shrubbery. But I managed it. It was coming through like one o’clock when I left. I expect the pond will be empty by this time.”
I quailed with horror. If so, I should be discovered. I was tempted to turn tail: but that would be even worse. The only thing was to stay and see it through.
I confronted myself with the reflection that Dicky’s experiments so rarely succeeded, that in all probability the pistol still lay safe under four feet of water. If not—
“Hooray!” exclaimed Dicky, as we came in sight of the place; “it’s done the trick this time. See, Tom!”
I did see. In place of the water I left there in the morning was a large empty basin of mud, with a few large puddles of water lying at the bottom, and a few hillocks of mud denoting the places which had once been shallows.
My quick eye hurriedly took in the dismal landscape. For a moment my spirits rose, for I could nowhere discern the compromising object I dreaded to see. It was no doubt buried in the mud, and as safe as if the pond were full to the brim.
“Isn’t it ripping?” said Dicky. “It wasn’t easy to do, but it only wanted a little management. I mean to go in for engineer— Hullo, what’s that rummy stone out there? or is it a stone, or a fish, or— I say, Tom,” he added, clutching my arm, “I’m bothered if that’s not a pistol!”
My white face and chattering teeth made reply unnecessary. There, snugly perched on a little heap of stones, as if set up for inspection, lay the unlucky pistol, gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Dicky looked first at the pistol, then at me; and began slowly to take in the state of affairs.
He took a cautious step out in the mud in the direction of the weapon, but came back.
“I thought you could hardly be chucking in all those things for fun,” said he presently.
I stood gaping in an imbecile way, and said nothing.
“I know whose it is. He had it up here once before.”
“I say,” gulped I, “can’t you let the water in again?” Dick had not considered this. His triumph had been letting the water out. However, he would see what could be done.
We went down into the shrubbery. About a foot of water lay on the ground, promising great fertility some day, but decidedly muddy-looking to-day.
“The thing will be to bung up the hole first,” said Dicky.
So we set to work to hammer up the end of the zinc pipe and stuff the aperture round with sods and stones. I even sacrificed my cap to the good cause.
The bell began to ring before we had well completed the task. “That ought to keep any more from running out,” said Dicky. “If we’re lucky, the water will come in on its own hook at the other end.”
The theory was not exactly scientific, for scientific men do not believe in luck. Still, it was the best we could think of as we turned to go.
“Stop a bit,” said I, as we were leaving. “May as well tidy up a bit in there before we go, eh?”
“In there” was the bed of the pond.
“It might look better,” said Dick, turning up his trousers. We decently interred the pistol in the mud, and raised a small heap of stones to keep it down; and then cautiously obliterating our footsteps in the mud, we made for terra firma, and scuttled back to school as fast as our legs would carry us.
Fortunately we entered unobserved, and disencumbered ourselves of our muddy boots without attracting attention to their condition. Ten minutes later we were deep in our work in the big schoolroom.
Preparation that night was a solemn and gloomy ceremony. Dicky and I kept catching one another’s eyes, and then glancing on to where the Dux, cool as a cucumber, sat turning over the leaves of his lexicon.
“He’s got a cheek of his own, has Dux,” said I to myself.
“If I didn’t know it was him,” signalled the ungrammatical Dicky across the room, “I should never have believed it.”
“You may make as many faces as you like at young Brown,” glared Tempest at me, “but if I catch you making any more at me, your mother will need some extra pocket-handkerchiefs.”
“Jones,” observed Dr Plummer aloud, “a double poena for aggravated inattention.”
All right. I was getting pretty full up with engagements for one day, and began to think bed-time would be rather a relief.
It came at last. In the dormitory Ramsbottom successfully interfered with conversation by patrolling the chamber until the boys were asleep. No one doubted that he had been set to the task by the head master, and it augured rather badly for the resumption of the inquest next day.
However, even patrols go to sleep sometimes, and when I woke early next morning the usher had vanished to his own chamber. My first thought was not Hector, or the doctor, or my poenas, or the Dux, but the pond.
How, I wondered, was it getting on?
I routed up Dicky, and very quietly we dressed and slipped out. I knew that my early rising, if it were discovered, would probably be set down to my zeal for discharging impositions. But even they must wait now till we were sure about the pond.
For Dicky and I stood liable to as big a row as the assassin of Hector himself if anything went wrong with our experiment in engineering. Luckily very few fellows haunted this particularly muddy corner of the grounds, and now that Hector was above a daily bath, there was little chance of Plummer himself discovering the remarkably low tide on his premises—still less of his poking about among the stones in the bed of the pool.
To our great relief we found that our dam at the foot was holding out bravely, and that comparatively little water was trickling through the bank into the shrubbery. The flow at the upper end, however, was distressingly small, and though a whole night had passed we could still see the heap of stones under which the pistol was buried rising up from the shallow puddles around it, inviting investigation.
With astounding industry we worked away that morning, widening and deepening the little channel along which the rivulet made its way to the pond. And before we had done we had the satisfaction of seeing a fairly brisk inflow. We would fain have waited to see the fatal little island disappear below the surface. But the first bell was already an sounding when the water completed the circle, leaving it standing up more prominent than ever.
To our horror, at this precise moment Tempest strolled down.
“Hullo! what are you two after? Fishing? One way to catch them, letting all the water out.”
“It was an experiment,” said Dicky, who, like myself, was very pale as he looked first at the Dux, then at the guilty hillock in the pond.
“So it seems. In other words, you’re making a jolly mess, and are enjoying yourselves. I hope you’ll enjoy it equally, both of you, when Plummer sees what you’ve done.”
“Shall you tell him?” I asked, somewhat breathlessly. The Dux laughed scornfully.
“You deserve a hiding for asking such a thing. Come here! Jump out on to that little island there, and stay there till I tell you.”
“Oh, Dux, please not,” said I, in a tone of terror, which was quite out of proportion to the penalty. The pistol was only two inches below the surface!
“Do you hear? Look sharp, or I’ll chuck you there.”
That might be worse. It might hurt me and cut up the soil. So I jumped gingerly out, and stood poised with a foot in the water on either side, dreading at any moment to see the stones slip and the tell-tale gleam of the buried weapon.
“If you don’t stand properly,” said the Dux, “I’ll make you sit down. Come along, young Brown, it’s time we went up to school.”
“How long am I to stay, please?” I inquired.
“Till you’re in water up to the knees,” said the Dux, as he turned away, with the faithless Dicky beside him.
Up to the knees! I stood loyally for five minutes, during which the water gained about an eighth of an inch up my ankles. Then the second bell rang, and things became desperate.
Accordingly I knelt in the water until I could confidently assert that I was wet, very wet indeed, up to the knees; which done, I posted as fast as my ill-used legs would carry me to morning school.