"Well, we're none the wiser. Come, Jack, take a hand at cards. We've been waiting this half-hour."
When Jack was alone in his bedroom, and thought of his meeting with De Fronsac, he felt vaguely uneasy. Why had the tutor been so anxious to explain his walk? Why had he talked on and on so glibly about such a dull subject as French poetry, with the evident desire to prevent Jack from talking? Why had he made no reference to his companion in the Hollow? His friends, his private business, were, of course, no concern of Jack's; but the position of De Fronsac in the Bastable household scarcely seemed consistent with stealthy meetings in retired spots, and Jack, without knowing why, did not like it. But he slept none the less soundly, and had almost forgotten it by the morning.
The third day of his visit Jack had pretty much to himself. The ladies drove early into Wynport to see a dressmaker, and would not return till late; Arthur was engaged with his tutor; and Mr. Bastable had to go to the county town on yeomanry business. Jack spent part of the day in roaming about the cliffs, and in the afternoon went down to the shore, to bathe and watch the fishing-boats go out. Dinner had been put back an hour, so that he delayed his return to the Grange somewhat later than usual.
As he made his way up the hill, turning off through a narrow lane to the left, he tripped over a cord that had suddenly been drawn tight in front of him. There had been rain during the morning, and the place had been carefully chosen by the practical jokers, who betrayed their presence by a subdued chuckle from an alley-way on Jack's right as he fell head forward into a pool of mud.
Jack had served an apprenticeship in the art of practical joking in the Ariadne. Not for nothing had he been for two years a "youngster" in a midshipman's mess. He knew that the best way to discourage the gentle sport in others was to take summary vengeance on the joker—if he could get at him. He picked himself up in a trice, dashed into the alley-way—so narrow that there was scarcely room for more than one to pass at a time—and saw before him the back of a hulking form disappearing into the dusk, and hiding, as Jack judged from the clumping of heavy boots, a number of his fellow conspirators in front.
The fugitive was tall, but his clumsy body seemed too heavy for his short legs, and he moved slowly. Jack was upon him just as he emerged from the narrow alley into the open square of the village. Catching sight, with the readiness of one accustomed to use his eyes, of a convenient muck-heap—there were always convenient muck-heaps in town or country a hundred years ago, when sanitary inspection was still undreamed of—Jack neatly tripped the burly figure into its soft and odorous embrace. There was a great yell from the other fugitives, who stopped their flight when they found that they were not in immediate danger; and as they closed in toward the spluttering victim, now slowly raising himself, Jack saw that they were some of the boys and youths of the village, whose eyes he had often noticed upon him as he passed through. And there was something strangely familiar in the attitude of the hobbledehoy struggling clumsily to his feet. He was not a fisher lad; where had Jack seen him before? The cries of the crowd enlightened him.
"Fight un, Bill Gudgeon!"
"Heave un into midden, Billy."
"Black his eyes!"
"Give un a nobbier!"