At this moment he had come up to the door of Railsford’s, and before his soliloquy had been able to advance by another word he seemed to see sparks before his eyes, while at the same moment his feet went from under him, and something was drawn over his head. The bag, or whatever it was, was capacious; for the neck of it descended to his waist, and closed by the magic of a slip-knot round his mouth and elbows before he had the presence of mind to shout or throw out his arms. To complete his misfortune, as he tried to raise himself, another noose was snugly cast around his feet, and thus gagged and pinioned, silently, rapidly, and dexterously, Mr Bickers found himself in a situation in which, he could positively aver, he had never stood—or lain—before.
The thought did flash through his sack-enveloped head, that his assailants, whoever they were, must have rehearsed this little comedy carefully and diligently for a day or two, in order to arrive at the perfection displayed in the present performance. He also made a mental calculation that three, possibly four, fellow-beings were engaged on the job, of whom two were strong, and two were small; one of the latter possibly being the decoy whom he had so lately apostrophised.
Not a syllable was uttered during the ceremony; and the victim recognising his position, had the good sense to remain cool and not waste his time and dignity in a fruitless struggle.
The pinioning being complete, and a small hole being considerately opened in the sack in the region of the nose for purposes of respiration, he was hauled up one or two steps, dragged one or two feet, deposited on the board floor of the shoe-cupboard, and, after a few mild and irresolute kicks, left to his own meditations, the last sound which penetrated into the sack being the sharp turning of a key on the outside of his dungeon door.
“So,” soliloquised Mr Bickers, after discovering that he was unhurt, though uncomfortably cramped, “our friend Railsford is having one lodger more than the regulation number to-night. This will make another hypothetical case for the next session of masters!”
Chapter Eight.
The Doctor has a Word or Two with Railsford’s House.
Railsford’s house was not famous for early risers. The chapel-bell in winter began to ring at 7.30, and “call-over” was at 7.45. Between these two periods, but chiefly at the 7.45 end, most of the rising in the house was accomplished. Master Simson, the Shell-fish, was in for the hundred yards under fourteen at the sports; and being a shy youth who did not like to practise in public, he had determined to rise before the lark and take a furtive spin round the school track while his schoolfellows and enemies slept. It was a cold, raw morning, and before he was fully arrayed in his flannels he had had more than one serious idea of relapsing into bed. Be it said to his credit, he resisted the temptation, and gallantly finished his toilet, putting on an extra “sweater” and pea-jacket to boot—for he had seven pounds to run off between now and the sports. He peered out of the window; it was dark, but a patter on the panes showed him that a light sleet was falling outside. If so, being of a frugal mind, he would not run in his new shoes, but in his old boots.