But Mr. Watson was in a state of speechless wrath. The heat of the summer sun combined with the internal burning of his indignation would have produced apoplexy in a less cadaverous person. Some minutes passed before he could quite explain the situation. When at length he could tell it, it appeared that he had collected his flock at the school in proper order and supplied them all with full instructions. Then he delivered a flag to each boy and a maple branch to each girl, to be waved as they entered the woods singing. Mr. Watson had an eye for the artistic, and had at first decreed that each flag should march beside a maple bough; but the proposition was received with such hysterical squeals and giggles from beneath the Canadian emblems and such dark looks of terrible rebellion from the red banners that the schoolmaster was compelled to change the order of their going. So the boys led the procession, going two and two, with the girls tripping demurely behind, as was compatible with the masculine idea of the fitness of things. The procession marched along quietly enough. Only one digression occurred, when Neil Neil and Patsy Regan halted long enough to hold a muscular dispute as to who should lead the van, a contest in which both the Flag that Braved a Thousand Years and the Maple Leaf Forever were trampled in the dust of the highway. The matter was settled by their teacher setting the two belligerents, with sundry cuffs and jerks, to march side by side, which they did in perfect peace until they reached the grove.
And then it occurred—the great disaster! Just how it was managed, or whether it was impromptu or with malice aforethought, the schoolmaster did not know. But just as they entered the leafy path and he was clearing his throat to give the keynote of "Upon the Heights of Queenston," without warning or disturbance, the flags of their country were flung to the ground and the disloyal young Britons were scurrying off through the woods in twenty different directions, leaping over fallen logs, crashing through underbrush and whooping like a pack of wild Indians. The crucial moment had proved too much for schoolboy modesty. Mr. Watson glared around to find himself left with only a handful of embarrassed and giggling girls. Just one boy remained, little Tommy Basketful, who was too small to run away and who held to his sister's hand. There was no use trying to have the procession now; the master dismissed the girls in a choking voice and went raging through the woods to find Mr. Egerton, his progress and his wrath accelerated by snatches of the interrupted song coming in high falsetto voice or deep bass growl, from tree-top or hollow stump.
"I'll wager my next year's salary it's that young Turk, Neil, who's at the bottom of it all!" he cried when he had finished the dismal recital and wiped the perspiration from his face. "By Jove, if it isn't a fix! There's Splinterin' Andra over by the platform; he'll never get over it! Yes sir, it's young Neil Neil's done it all, with Patsy Regan's help. They think they're safe because it's holidays, but I'll lay my rawhide on to them next term or my name's not George Watson!"
"Never mind," said the minister, with his usual kindly cheerfulness, "we shall have the programme at any rate."
"Programme! That's just what we won't have! Those young reprobates are gone for good. I know them! The girls can't do the drills alone and there won't be one piece fit to be given!"
The case was certainly more serious than the minister had at first thought. They had advertised their entertainment far and wide and the people were expecting something unique. If Neil Neil would not bring back his rebel band the whole affair would be a complete failure; he and Mr. Watson would be the laughing stock of the community and Splinterin' Andra would be grimly pleased. The young man's face darkened when he reflected that it was Donald Neil's brother who had wrought all this mischief. Was that whole family in league against him? The two looked at each other in dismay.
"Those Neil boys are a bad lot!" Mr. Watson burst forth again. "They've been the plague of Glenoro school ever since Donald started—— By Jove!" He started up suddenly, his face aglow, "I have it! Don can make young Neil do anything. We'll get him to order the young rascal back and to bring the others with him! Let's hunt him up!"
John Egerton drew back; he knew his relations with Donald Neil had not improved since Jessie had begun to help with the picnic programme and he did not at all relish the idea of asking his assistance in his dilemma. But Mr. Watson was already tearing off impetuously and, as there seemed no other way out of the difficulty and he could not leave his friend to bear the burden alone, he reluctantly followed.
A rapid survey of the grove showed that Donald was not at the sports, nor at the swings. Mr. Egerton noted with satisfaction that he was not with Jessie. She had put aside her apron and was on one of the big swings with a youth from the Tenth, her muslin dress swaying in the breeze, her brown curls flying. But Mr. Watson would not suffer him to stop one moment to admire the picture.
"He'll be down at the water," he cried, plunging headlong into a little path which led to the river. "Come along, we've no time to lose—if I only had my rawhide on that young Turk's back!"