Mr Western rose slowly from his chair, and, opening a large glass door, stepped on to a verandah which surrounded his house and formed a most charming spot in which to sit during the heat of a summer’s day. Joe followed him, still chuckling at the memory of the mayor’s discomfiture, and together they stood looking out across the well-kept garden, with its beds of bright-coloured flowers, its splashing fountain, and its walls lined by rows of carefully-pruned trees. It was a scene which differed greatly from the monotony and lack of joyousness which marked Phil Western’s daily life at home.
Within the house all was dull and sombre. Scarcely a laugh or a smile brightened his existence. Stern and full of earnestness, his adoptive parents gave themselves up to their work, the religious education of the parishioners and the careful bringing-up of their son. Outside there was a landscape teeming with life and movement; a town of some size in the hollow below, its streets filled with country folk who had come in to attend the market, and across the haze caused by the smoke rising lazily from the chimneys, a huge vista of green trees and fields, broken here and there by a wide silvery streak which marked the course of the river, twisting and twining, now hidden by the foliage, and again running through the open fields, flashing in the brilliant sun, and bearing upon its smooth surface a host of tiny boats filled with townspeople out for an afternoon’s enjoyment.
A hundred yards or more beyond the outskirts of Riddington was a large, red-brick building, almost smothered in creeper, and bearing in its centre a tall tower from the four sides of which the face of a clock looked out. It was Riddington High School, and the hands of the clock were pointing close to the hour of four. A moment later there was a loud “whirr”, and then the first stroke of the hour, followed almost instantly by a hubbub in the building below. Hundreds of shrill voices seemed to have been let loose, and after them the owners; for from all sides of the school lads appeared, rushing out in mad haste, some hatless, others jamming their hats upon their heads, and all in the same condition of desperate hurry. A minute later they had streamed across the playground and were racing towards the river, to a spot where an old waterman stood guard over some dozen boats. Charging down the hill the mob of excited lads swept the old man aside, laughed merrily at his expostulations, and in a twinkling were aboard and shoving off from the river-bank.
But not all the scholars of Riddington High School had joined in the excited rush. A tall, big-boned lad of some fifteen years, with hair which was almost red in colour, and a boyish, open face, strode from one of the doors accompanied by two others. Flinging his hat jauntily upon his head, Phil Western, for it was none other than he, walked across the asphalt which formed the playground of the school, and, putting his two forefingers in his mouth, produced a loud and prolonged whistle. Twice he repeated it, and after a minute’s silence shouted “Rags! Rags! where are you?”
In the distance a series of short barks answered, and very soon a fox-terrier dog came racing across the grass.
“Ah, he’s waiting all right for his master!” exclaimed Phil, with a short grunt of satisfaction. “Good dog!—the best in the whole of Riddington. Now, you fellows,” he went on, after having greeted his canine friend with a pat, “what’s the order for to-day? We’re all agreed to give that old concern an airing. The last time the good people of this town had a chance of looking at it was in the year of the queen’s coronation; and that was thirteen years ago. It’s getting musty, and must certainly have an airing.”
“That’s exactly what we think, Phil,” chimed in one of the other lads, a merry-looking youngster of fifteen. “Riddington started a state barge a hundred years ago, to take the mayor and councillors across the river to the church on great occasions. On other days they rowed over in ordinary boats or went by the bridge—when it wasn’t washed away by the floods. Then a new stone bridge was built, and for a few years they kept up the old custom. But for a long while now it has fallen through—sunk into oblivion, as ‘old Tommy’ would say. It is clearly our duty to revive this extremely interesting—I may say this unique—old custom.”
“Bah! Stop it!” exclaimed Phil, with a laugh, snatching his comrade’s hat from his head and throwing it at his face. “Tell me what arrangements you have made.”
“Simple. Simple as daylight, Phil. We saunter down to the river-side, and as soon as Peter looks the other way we enter the boat-house. Here’s the key. It hangs over the pater’s mantel-piece, where it has been for the last two years. He’s keeper of the state barge and the bargemen’s costumes.”
“Splendid, Tommy! Splendid! We’ll be off at once. Come on, you fellows. Here, Rags!”